Dead Hummingbird

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Not really sure....

Submitted: November 11, 2015

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Submitted: November 11, 2015

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I ran to the beat of a drum,

Like a psychotic humming bird;

I was lost, I bit my tongue.

I let the world talk as I bled; a salty taste and a headache.

I am a lonely soldier, marching to the tune of defeat;

A scared little boy running home with blood on my teeth.

They turned me into a cannibal.

I ran to the beat of a drum, my chest pounding.

I acted like the world was something I could handle,

Something I could grasp; like I could change it

As if I even had the chance.

I thought I was strong now, I thought I won.

I thought I was happy but I was only comfortably numb.

I was in denial; my fears were locked in a box.

That made them angry, who knew fear could talk?

Whenever it tried to break out, I’d start to get anxious.

I’d take off the mask of denial,

And underneath was my self conscience;

I cried and wandered through a lonely forest.

Did anyone else here it;

My fears, all my thoughts chasing me into the middle of nowhere-

Until I was lost?

Did they honestly not know how to find me?

I ran to the beat of a drum with a bullet in my chest,

My brain in knots.

My stomach swallowed itself; the acid burned all the butterflies. 

My heart would slowly deteriorate;

Pieces here and there but nothing was safe,

Nothing was real, everything was vague.

Did I really lose my mind; no, I think I found it.

All that time searching and it was always right here with me.

All the answers right in my face.

Happy was numb, like every other emotion

And every thought, just words thrown together.

Who am I? A broken boy? A man? A murderer?

Depends on who you ask.

Depends on which mask.

Did they see me or the other me?

I took off all the masks and laid them out in front me.

I curled up next to a tree and let the rain soak me.

I was the definition of vulnerable.

I was laying it all out on the table.

Now everyone could see the real me.

What they thought of me resembled a superficial fable; a short story.

I was a novel, just look at me.

I’m letting them see everything, they’re really missing out.

Can they not see me?

Or is no one looking? Here I am world.

Take it or leave it (No answer)

 I can’t stand people,

They give me cancer.

Maybe I could go home but-

I want them to find me first, I want them to really know

I want to look pathetic; it’s my last idea, my last method.

If this doesn’t work,

If they never come,

I’ll know I’m dead for good,

When I can't see the sun.

And they might die also, once they see what I've done…. 


© Copyright 2020 unmasked delusions. All rights reserved.

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