The ship that sailed away

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

The ship that sailed away

I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I witnessed the sailing away of my potential and I stared after that ship in pensive bitterness. Those whom boarded did so on their own merit and therefore are worthy of respect... but I regard them only with cold envy and perverse jealousy.
In gloomy silence I fantasise about what could have been, if only I boarded that ship. In pathetic attempts of pursuit I've ceaselessly made futile efforts. I've even succeeded in communicating somewhat, but in vain.
I can put on a show, pretend all this isn't so, and temporarily transfigure all my inner ugliness into a demeanour somewhat jolly. But inevitably the drugs wear off, there is a caprice, and the spite peers through.
In frustration and despair I'm forced to recall my abysmal hearing ability, my lack of social experience and my unwillingness to try. Like an ignominious coward I crawl away in defeat at the sight of the smallest pebble, perceiving it to be blocking my way. If ever there were a benevolent person calling to me, from the other side of the pebble-'just come, it's ok!'-I wouldn't hear them and retreat regardless. Perhaps I did hear them-well, I retreat out of spite.
Off from the precarious platform of hope and into the comfortable void of despair.
My soul was branded with an insidious curse.
I require enough drugs to keep away the hearse.
Time and time again organic happiness was false.
Keep up the act or they'll be repulsed.

The ship that sailed away

I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I witnessed the sailing away of my potential and I stared after that ship in pensive bitterness. Those whom boarded did so on their own merit and therefore are worthy of respect... but I regard them only with cold envy and perverse jealousy.

In gloomy silence I fantasise about what could have been, if only I boarded that ship. In pathetic attempts of pursuit I've ceaselessly made futile efforts. I've even succeeded in communicating somewhat, but in vain.

I can put on a show, pretend all this isn't so, and temporarily transfigure all my inner ugliness into a demeanour somewhat jolly. But inevitably the drugs wear off, there is a caprice, and the spite peers through.

In frustration and despair I'm forced to recall my abysmal hearing ability, my lack of social experience and my unwillingness to try. Like an ignominious coward I crawl away in defeat at the sight of the smallest pebble, perceiving it to be blocking my way. If ever there were a benevolent person calling to me, from the other side of the pebble-'just come, it's ok!'-I wouldn't hear them and retreat regardless. Perhaps I did hear them-well, I retreat out of spite.

Off from the precarious platform of hope and into the comfortable void of despair.

My soul was branded with an insidious curse.

I require enough drugs to keep away the hearse.

Time and time again organic happiness was false.

Keep up the act or they'll be repulsed.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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