PoemsBrowse PoemsSlamsFresh DropEchoes
LearnWriting TipsPoetry TermsPoets & ArtistsBooksFor Teachers
ExplorePoetry GenomePoem MapEchoesTake ActionGroups
AboutWrite a PoemDonateSign UpLog In

It's More Than Survival


It's not darkness; there's no lightswitch

It's blackness; there's nothing left.

It's not sinking; it's flying in a cloud

With no roadmap or direction

People are ants from this secluded dimention

Small and insignifanct, and so very far away

Those clones who threaten in a crowd

They wrong and backstab and betray

But to hell with the living.

Mourn for the dead

A mother and son

Mourn for nonsense

The shots of a gun

I'm fading away

Behind a mask of smiles

Temptation for self mutilation

It's a very becoming feeling.

As sweet as surrender

Yet I'm a survivor

Of sleepless nights

Of crying and scratching.

Defined by these lines on my wrist

as one of the chosen ones.

All the same.

All waking up to picked up, ripped up scabs inside

And wondering why

When did it start and why won't it stop?

Stop the shame of secrets

Stop the pain of silent pleas

(To cotton filled ears)

I open my mouth

But I'm silent

Wondering for an explanation for this damnation

When did I lose it all?

My dancing glass slippers, my red heels for travel

Was it peers who razed my dreams

Or was it me and God's gravel?

Mom, Dad, I knew you meant well

And I'm torn to know your blaming thoughts

There was no warning when I fell

When I jumped

And you think you didn't catch me, and you put yourselves at fault

As if I slipped through your fingers

I'll beg that I'm sorry

For your worry that lingers

And my dear friends:

Invisible A, B, and C

The reasons that the only voice I could trust was in my head.

And it could espy my guilts and doubts when the light shuts out

And I'm all alone, that voice and I

Disgusted.

Until the morning when I rub my sleep-depraved eyes and see myself

My blood in blue viens, pores

A real person, living and breathing an unused priviledge

Repulsed.

Weighed down by lonliness

Wrenched by the skythe around my neck

And that whispery voice in my ear

"It's for the best. The best I deserve and the best chance I'll get."

The past is my present, and there's no reset.

No more days of strained smiles and nights of weep

I'll sever the ties to my priviledge

Pillage a life

Or fight for a clean sweep?

So I open my mouth

And words come out

I can't survive on my own,

I need help.

©All Rights Reserved

Something wrong with this poem?

Share

Replies are closed for this poem.

If you or someone you know is struggling, you are not alone.

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988, 24/7. Crisis Text Line — text HELLO to 741741.

TheRumBook

Hi all! I'm Sophie, but my favorite person/creative writing teacher says that I MUST go by the name "Soflow" when I do spoken word... Yes, "flow," not "flo," as in South Florida, though I do abide there. Anyway, I've written some awful junk (I can tell you that!) all my life, but now that I'm a high school senior, it's pretty good, in my opinion. I'll explain myself the same way I do on Wattpad (username iMunsterCookiez because I made it eons ago): The Rum Book is a real thing in my life, and as a journal it's beautiful. It literally stands for something I can put anything and everything into, yet the beauty of it is that it is welcome to others and their sentiments. If anything I write offends you, you're more than welcome to lecture me. Argue me. Standing up is one thing that keeps us all alive, so by all means show me a piece of yourself. Unless you're telling me that you're righter than I am. In that case, go screw yourself.

View all poems →

Your Poem's Voice

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

Comments are closed for this poem.