This never really goes away.
There is so much that makes me want to scream.
To desolate my surroundings and pierce the chokehold of silence with my pain,
insight chaos,
anarchy,
let my blade and my seething teardrops,
bullets of burning ice
sear through this maddening, sickening, laughable reality and rip the needle from the broken record player.
But I cannot move,
I cannot rage,
I cannot speak.
My voice is on mute and my bruised fists pound pointlessly against the fourth wall,
but no one stops to look.
Something wrong with this poem?
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kermitthefrog
Hiiii, my writing name is E.A Garner, cause why not, and I am a gifted kid burnout who’s failing english class but never stopped thinking in poetic internal monologues. Most of my poems are really just vents that ended up being really metaphorical. I spend my days either reading or watching cartoons, photographing my cats, and contemplating the inevitability of death and stuff. I’m 18, I get overly invested in fictional characters and I’m a leo. My pronouns are they/he and my favorite food is pasta.
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