Graves: A Poem Type Thing

I don’t know what to write
or maybe I do but I’m too scared to write it.

There’s so much in my head and

I don’t know If I want to sort through the mess.

I’ve never liked to clean

but maybe I’ve been cleaning my room so much lately

because I’m trying to tell myself to sort through the mess it my head.

I’m afraid to get close to people;

I tie myself tight to them

and they cut me off –

or is it me that cuts them off?

Who is holding the scissors?

I don’t know –

all I know is that now

when someone tries getting close

I’m a deer in the headlights and

sometimes I can’t move out of the way so

I get scared and run right into them:

sometimes they live

and sometimes they don’t.

Did I really cause that damage?

I didn’t mean to hurt you,

I promise –

but promises don’t help when you’re already in the grave

so I dig into my flesh –

the razor is my shovel.

I dig a grave and

as it scars over,

my troubles are buried

until they surface again:

and then

my body turns into a cemetery –

a graveyard filled with figurative bones

but the graves are real and

they stick out.

People notice them and

they don’t want to notice them

and I don’t want to notice them

so I try to cover them up but

clothes are only on for so long until

someone else comes along

and like a deer in the headlights

I either run off the road,

get hit,

or hit them.

It’s fight or flight

and I want to fly but

my wings aren’t always strong enough

you see they’ve been clipped so

sometimes I have no choice but

to run into you

in head on collision;

one dead

one injured but

not too bad –

just bad enough to leave a mark

but the marks pile up and soon

I’ll be a walking scar

a blemish

an accident

a mistake


and no longer able to be fixed.




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