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Weightless Cloud

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier
Poetry



I'm not proud of myself, or what I did last night. So, I thought I'd convey it into literary whatever you want to classify this as. Coming up with a title will be difficult, since I'm weary to just title it as the person I'm depicting in this poem. It's not Will surprisingly. Which is refreshing in it's own sense. But whatever, enjoy yourselves in basking in my teenage stupidity.


Submitted:May 3, 2012    Reads: 53    Comments: 2    Likes: 2   


I stand in the darkness, not sure what will become of me.

I take flight on the imaginary cloud that has somehow illustrated itself inside my head.

I soar through the sky looking down at all the little specks people call houses.

Suddenly my fluffy comfort that is my cloud has dissipated into the air, gravity my only companion.

As I'm falling I think to myself, 'How did I get here?'

What brought me plummeting, falling so helplessly onto the ground?

The school children will all gather around, flaying pieces of my corpse, using what's left of me as a funny mask to attach to their faces, scaring all the other people, shameless.

That's what people are, not worthy for love, not capable to give it.

I still feel, though I'm dead, I don't need a body, I no longer need to shed tears.

But I do fear that I can still feel.

The anger that arose in me that night, the steam that left my head.

You used me, and I wanted you to.

This really all shouldn't be said aloud, but I can't contain it anymore.

I must be heard.

I'm not a mockery, I'm not a jester, I just want you to look at me.

See me for what I am.

I know you can love me, if you'd just try.

But trying is too difficult for you.

The walls have all been perfectly sculpted to restrain you from any type of emotion, let alone love.

Passion has fled from you, and I just want to spark up that match, set your body into flames inside you, because that brain, it needs to come out, it needs to reveal itself.

I know you're beautiful.

If you'd just come down.

Like me.

Radiating from the sky, you can only imagine what I'm thinking.

Nothing cunning, nothing colorful.

Just what I so desperately want to see in you, which I know I can't.

It's a pity.

Truly Shakespeare.

Though I'm far from anyone's Juliet.

I'll take the knife put it into my heart anyway.

You've drank plenty of poison but nothing fatal to that stick thin body of yours.

None of it inspired by me.

What would protect your mind, your emotions, if you didn't have that expressionless face to hide behind?

I love it so.

Maybe love is too strong of a word.

Longing shall suffice.

I long for you to erupt inside me.

The purity of you I can withstand, feel shameless, not some bland cardboard stance of a person.

I can indulge in it without guilt.

You are new, you are spotless, but you are also boarded up, kept secret.

Whomever has you, I hope she's worth it. I clearly am not.

Then I think to myself, because you're so cold, because you're so callous, is that the appeal?

Yes, I think it is.

It truly is.

You are what's unattainable, but what's also been left untouched by another.

You are my dream, what I've always wanted in a man.

No wandering eye, no expectations, besides the womanly duties I find so grotesque.

The little various hues of pills bring me great comfort, great light. Seeing me sparkle, I know it's not right. It's not legal, it's not moral. But what you did last night can only be the cherry on top of the sundae of guilt. Yet, it still can't make me stop ramming my head into the walls you've built up so high, so high that even if I could reach you, I'd of worked so hard to find you that the effort would be meaningless. Though you've taken me back to a place I hold such disgrace within my past. I can't hate you, because the thought of loathing you wouldn't last. We can share companionship, not as lovers but as mates. I can't keep waiting, I can't keep giving to something that won't take. The thought of kissing me disgusts you, and why wouldn't it, I've been to each garbage can, disposal, dump in town. Whores are distasteful, the acts they partake in are ritual, a day to day thing. Nothing changes, so why would you open up to something so pitiful and needy, so easily greedy. When all you need is what you have, and what you'll always have, you and your drug. I just wish you could of pushed me aside, told me not to do it, because if I didn't do it, this poem wouldn't exist, these thoughts would cease to reminisce inside my skull. My perception of myself is ugly, but adding on just another wart of pain is typical, predictable, and worthy I suppose. You cannot change unless you're given the chance to want to. Nothing has passed by that I'm willing to catch. I thought it was you, but you're just one of those catches you must throw back into the sea, to hope to never reel in again.





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