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You Do It To Yourself

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier

I always do it to myself, I always cause my own demise, and when I do I find it hard to move on from the mistake, writing only subsides this pain I'm enduring immensely currently.

Submitted:May 27, 2012    Reads: 30    Comments: 3    Likes: 2   

Engrossed in the lies, and all the sunsets your elaborations fictionally provide.

Simplistic happiness was never an option for me.

I can't even fathom what contentment for myself would be like.

Waking up in a bra and underwear suffocated in covers that I've slept in since I was young.

I can't imagine what it'd be like to be done with all this.

Eating when I'm not hungry, sleeping when I'm not a wink tired.

Everything around me feels like a collision that's bound to smash me in two.

I'm not the girl I wanted to be, I'm not the person that was set out on the bed for me to wear.

The oceans take rhythmic breaths, the sky empties out it's tears onto the Earth.

I should of stayed far, farther than I kept myself from you.

I wanted to make it out alive, but I only got a skeleton costume and a monotone voice's air.

Montages of purer times are the only things that keep me typing, rhyming of the darkness, to eliminate it from my being fully, but it knows where I live, so the thought of that becomes dead along with it.

Cool and callous, I wish I would of never gotten into your car.

Young and unaware of the hurt you cause, I should of never accepted the inviation into your bed.

Gone in your own intoxicated demise, I should of never caressed your face that day.

You cannot take back what's been done, but you can try to run from all that reminds you of it.

Whichever route I take, I know it leads back to you.

Tragic, really, but it's something I need to come to terms with, find structural and progressive mentality with.

Though I throb, I must not sob, it will only show that I care.

I'll find those pills someday, the drink that can wash you away.

It won't be long until another has found it's way to my skin.

Then this poetic substitute for gin can alas come to it's end.


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