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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about those who suffer in silence.

Submitted: May 08, 2017

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Submitted: May 08, 2017



I am falling into oblivion with nothing to lessen the impact of the moment when I will hit the lowest point of my downfall.

I am falling further and further, faster and faster with nothing to grab onto, no one to help me.

My face is slick with wet salty tears, my mouth is dry from boundless screaming,

 “Please someone help me,”

I am a wreck; I fall faster and faster as each second goes by.

As I close my eyes painful images flash across the darkness of my thoughts, I have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I open my eyes to what once was the only place I could seek refuge, as I search for those feelings of safeness I am met with an overwhelming wave of loss.

My fingernails pierce the soft skin of my arms as I sink lower into the earth; I choke down a sob as I stare at the polished wooden floor in silence.

A warm wetness seeps from my torn flesh pulling me further into the trance of darkness.

Loud bangs protrude from the locked door and dance around the thin walls, they wanted me out, they wanted me to stop.

Roots, they were roots, as I grab onto them in attempt to save my self from falling, they give out under the pressure and abandon me as I fall further into nothingness. They give me hope, only to take it away and leave me to my demise.

I don't like roots.

So as the banging continues and my fingernails cut deeper into my flesh all I can think about is why, why must I be the one to experience plastic towns and plastic people. Plastic hope, plastic promises and plastic love. I guess in the end I am plastic, but as I fall further down I am thinning away into paper. Paper, fragile pieces of trees, one tear can lead to a rip, one match can lead to a forest fire. I am becoming more like paper and less like plastic.

Perhaps I want to be paper,

Anything but plastic.



© Copyright 2018 tara andrew. All rights reserved.

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