|
Poem Details
|
| Title: | The Kid |
| Date Submitted: | 5/11/2013 |
| Poem: |
Secretly somber, fear getting stronger A warmonger wreaking havoc on confidence, he can’t stand it much longer. They call him a washed up writer, last published piece The result of an all-nighter with bottles and lighters It was garbage, Give up you’re a bitch, not a fighter He listens to that voice, traps himself under covers Counts the blades of the ceiling fan. one, Smile, two, Breath, three, Jaw, four, Death, five, Cry, six, Women, seven, Beast, eight, Me, nine, Goodbye It wasn’t him, blame it on the brain between his skin A soldier in a chemical war that he cannot win So he checked himself into the doctor Diagnosis bipolar Now maybe you think this kid didn’t need medication Depression in the head, a misanthropic fascination Manic as faking panic or a mind-made mutation You’re wrong When he’s down, he’s dead When he’s manic, he’s a man in tights When he’s drunk, he’s a porpoise Doc insists that he take pills till he dies At least now, when his eyes Get heavy from the spins He’ll make it past nine.... |