your squinted eyes disapprove of me

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


Your squinted eyes disapprove of me. The pupils, they say I'm pathetic, 
 irises pin me a coward.
Unanimously pass their sentence,
tacitly condemning me. 
Without commotion I accept. 
It's no different to struggle. 
I hopelessly surrender to disorientating intoxication. 
Gripped forever by that icy gaze, 
 always watching. 
My attempts at escape met no support. 
Smiles dreamy and distant are always just out of reach, 
 fuzzy fantasies. 
Here there are only cold, unfeeling glares, 
marginalising me, diminishing me. 

I look up at those looming spectres and silently plead. 
"But don't you know? This is not the way I was meant to be!"
Their answer is calm, deliberately unforgiving. 
"Not again." I put out wanly. 
And I'm clutched once more by despair. 
My mouth bitters, my throat chokes, my shoulders stiffen.
Bearing the weight of intense scrutinity, it's unthinkable to turn my head 
lest it creaks on its rickety axis. 
A ghastly figure with harsh saucer eyes commands relaxation. 
The Scream's voice seems to boom
though it makes no noise at all. 

Now I'm on my own, amid a carnival of glittering lights. 
A parade of cartoonish robots passes by, animated by comical sounds.
But I feel no joy. 
An image flits by 
of that chilling banshee. 
Icy cold but not shivering, 
I'm plagued by dread and despair. 
Unsteadily rising to my feet I'm at unease, 
as if I'd prefer to be trampled underfoot, 
should I only be able to lay on the ground. 
Loitering starry over mechanical scraps of dacadence,
my only sympathisers, 
my mental faculties are slipping. 
I begin to sway and droop into stupor. 

From the blackness sprouts a sun-gilded meadow,
seems to torment me with its verdant greens and whistling birds.
I breath a short wistful sigh, 
reach down and cusp the incurable wound festering my pit. 
The butterflies have begun to rot. 
No matter my route yet I'm here
and not afraid.
Bitter turned mournful. 
I look forward dreamily to the promise of peace. 

Shaking myself from my lull,
An ever-present dull ache sprawls out from my neck's posterior,
a manifestation of defeat
ensuring in life I will never be content,
except for in those fleeting glimpses of divine light
and the prospect of nothing.


Submitted: March 08, 2021

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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