Monday, December 23, 2013

The Tragic Progression of a Teenage Insomniac



The tragic progression of a teenage insomniac

I've been awake for 18 hours now
The physical pain that clouds my skull and stomach
Will never grace the statuesque planes of my face
Matted in layers of oil and sweat
Brandishing a permanent two-thirds grimace
Hiding pale yellow teeth
Two vacant eyes rimmed with light gray shadows
Bits of smudged mascara

No one's waiting for me at home
Just the decision to either throw myself on my bed
Stare at the ceiling fan's constant churning of dust and dead air
Or ingest an ungodly combination of overly salted potato chips
And the biggest ice cream sundae you've ever seen

Poetic, aren't I?
Who am I to brand myself a poet
A lost soul
An old soul
My own mediocrity permeates
From every word I type
On my computer
While listening to my parents argue in the kitchen
And a playlist intentionally filled with moody songs

Me, a poet?
I can't imagine a laugh more bitter
Than the one my mind conjures
At thought of my own bandaged and bitten down fingers
Creating anything within a football field's reach of beauty

What fool dares to dream of birthing beauty
While constantly sinking deeper
An amalgam of self-loathing, selfishness, self-pity
Spite, sullenness, suffering
There is no beauty to behold
Just a shriveled snotty mess of a person
Trying to squeeze an ounce of purpose

A sad little girl screaming out to the world
Words so recycled
So reused
So repulsive
Whorish, whorish words
No matter how she picks and pulls them apart
She can't seem to find a single shimmering glint of originality or worth
Among the pounding torrential sea of mediocrity
That smashes her already crumbling body
Down against the sharp and blackened rocks
Jutting out just below the water's grey antagonistic surface
Day after day after day
She takes another step closer to the edge

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