Morning
ello, I’m mar. I like to write about poetry & I'm wishing I could share some of my poems to you. :)
"Morning" written by mar???
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Tonight,
I feel alone.
In my own world
Where it never felt home,
Behind the firewall
Is a prison I pass by
Down the hall is the door
That will pull me towards,
A ceiling where I placed
My thoughts about.
A place where I hide my thoughts
That is mimicking my memories
That are being loud
Fighting the stars above
For a spot in the sky
To look so high
And when I look at it,
I could smile.
This morning I rose to my head thumping, back achingly sore, and brain misty. I remember the night before, I said goodnight, and I stared at the ceiling, sorting my feelings outafter a late conversation. I stare and stare and stare hoping and wishing that these emotions would go away. That please I want to stop hurting. I was thinking how do I banish my nightmares, maybe thinking I deserved them after all, I did something wrong, whatever that could be, I did it and now I have to payfor it.
Then suddenly, the ceiling comes closer and closer. Breathing down my neck, trying to tie me up with my chase of breath. Its white cracks, paint chipping, lights flickering, all become accustomed to my face that it is just like it. It's a mockery of the secrets I trusted it with. Mocking me because I'm broken, decaying, soft, weak, and because I'm tired. The cobwebs now accompanies me in my sleep, though the spiders don't ever visit me. Perhaps, the ceiling is too thick and to nearly touching the floor, only me parting it so it won't crash and myself will roar in contentment if that means I'am free from this prison, or maybe it is because I'am meant to be here left alone.
That morning,
I woke to an empty bed
In a limped body
With cold hands and feet
And with very vague memories
Of yersterday
Or the day before
Three minutes from before
Four hours gone from that day
Five days missing
Sixth days since
Or the Seventh,
Still missing.
On the twenty-four hour period, I gave up crawling out under the ceiling. I stopped thinking the times I was sad, the ones where I looked helpless, and the ones I hurt myself more. I'm squashed between my thoughts and my nightmares, letting them push me to the ground on my knees, begging, to take me out of my misery. From pain and frustration and anger.That day after, the grip on my neck tightens, suffocating me to sleep.
I'am missing.
Since I fell asleep,
I missed my chance of happiness
My chance to finally rest
I'm missing from the days I chose to forget
Even the memory that only exists
In my own head.
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-mar???
x
© 2022 mar