Wednesday, June 8, 2011

little angry poem

I'm tired of carrying around heavy shit
all the time.

I'm so tired of my arms hurting and
knowing that I am doing this to myself.

I'm tired of packing all my shit and bringing it
in various bags to my boyfriend's;
everything I've ever owned in grocery
bags and cotton bags whose straps frequently
break, my laptop and clothes and shoes
my healthy food my workout
shorts and sneakers and
all of my notebooks, everything
I've ever read and liked and thought I might
think about later.
Dump you in my car.

And my arms are rings of red and purple,
these pain bracelets I wear.

I'm tired of promising myself
that the more I bear the more I will
keep.

And I'm so sick and fucking tired
of having to prove my worth by
barreling through this massive world,
because the only way to make
progress is by breaking what
I myself have built.

I want to lay back and
be caught by the sun.

I'm so sick of trying
to be good.

So sick of trying to be
all that there is.

And I'm even more bitter about
knowing my limits and reaching them
and then saying
I want more
I want to keep going until
all of it recedes
and I can no longer keep track
of the distance between us.
I am so bitter about
always being this close to the button
that gives up the world
and collides me with its pain
as if I alone were capable of
understanding.

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