What Does It Really Mean To Be Dead?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Finished 16/01/2017
Written during English and Physics (first verse during Irish) if anyone was interested.

Submitted: January 16, 2017

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Submitted: January 16, 2017

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The loneliness inside itches

It festers under my skin

Begging to be free.

Sometimes I relent and

Rip at myself

Freeing the pain,

The hatred, the weakness.

 

The loneliness inside grows,

The seeds wriggle down

And plant themselves

In my brain.

People’s words swim

Through my veins and

Water the vegetation.

 

The loneliness inside feeds;

It eats away at

My self-worth,

My esteem, my identity.

It nibbles and munches

And swallows

Me whole.

 

The loneliness inside weighs

Me down like

A boulder.

It drags me to the earth

And further.

It ties me to itself

Until I drown.

 

The loneliness inside dies then.

The plant withers and rots,

But it’s still there.

I can still see it,

Remember its beauty

And then I water it,

Craving the roots’ grip once more.

 

That’s how it wins,

By making me long for it again.

So much that I nurture

The seeds to perfection.

Only this time it’s worse

Because I fight for it

Not against it.

 

The loneliness inside itches

And grows

And feeds

And weighs me down

And dies.

It’s quicksand, dragging me with it

Until I die too.

 

That’s how I lose –

By being human enough

To get addicted.

I can’t let go until I’m gone,

Just my body left empty.

Finally that goes too,

Then you mourn for the person who went long ago.

 

Just because I breathe

And move about

Doesn’t mean I’m alive.

Sometimes my heartbeat

Reminds me

Just how dead I am

Inside.


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