Nice Try

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
If only you weren't so stubborn.

Submitted: April 23, 2012

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Submitted: April 23, 2012



I look at you and laugh at the smoke you blow in the eyes of those you truly despise. I look at you and laugh as you try to hurt the soul that does not exist within. When will you get it? When will you learn? I am the conscious you refuse to give into for the fear of losing yourself to the monster you regret had been born, you.

Yes you sweet lover with the sour mouth.

At first the strike you gave me was a surprise of grief coated with ecstasy and sin, but then you came to know that your pain that you continue to deny is what you feed the Naive, flicking the hurt straight into their system so they break down and die, but I, no not I. The pain you try to give is the very fuel I eat every day and every night.

You think you can hurt me simpleton?

You must be inept with my acquaintance.

Your sin is our unwanted birth and I refuse to get an abortion.

So now what?

I laugh at the anxiety you try to drive me through. Juvenile, do you not understand that I am a masochist? Or are you seeing how far the rabbit hole goes? Do you dare find out or is it too late?

Have you gone so far in you've seem to not get yourself out? Hmm. How cute.

You think you're the only one.

You look at me with bitter jealousy as I smile and dance and play so you try to break me as if I've never been broken before. Sorry, but I admit to my capacity of Dandelions. I fly into a million pieces breaking so quickly no one can piece me together, can catch me, but as soon as you throw me away, there I am again.

Then you realize that I am now your surroundings, hope you're not allergic.

You imbecile, do you not realize that I am full of bliss when you sting me on my bottom with your emasculate skeleton hand?

Hurt me more, please, try harder because we both know that I'm getting closer. I see through the layers of skin you present with in glamorous scent. That same scent is the same foulness no one notices, but I do. That scent is not you but a Brute filled with demons haunting your head with confusion of what's right and wrong, but I see.

So you see, this hurt you give is your cry for help. This hurt you give me is to draw me in, and I'm drawn.

This Brute hurts me thinking I'll wonder away, fade into the distance.

This Brute wants me away in protection of staying alive, but this Brute has chose the wrong victim.

So hurt me. Tear me limb from limb as I kill the monster inside, because the real you lying skin within is a pot full of gold and even if I can't reach the end of that rainbow to achieve it....

I'll die trying.

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