Inspiration: the poem found within the pages of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a most necessary book.
[She wrote these words over and over again.]
Once she wrote them in smudgy gray pencil
in the margins of her notes for school,
in swirly smoky despairing lines
with little hearts over the i's
[and little x's through the hearts]
and her teacher gave her a strange look
while handing back the assignment
but didn't say anything, and neither did she.
Another time she left them under an overpass
spraypainted in poisonous blue and green
big puffy letters writhing around each other like snakes
[a most venomous work of art]
and she signed it "morbid butterfly"
and the hobos who slept there were still cold in winter
but at least they knew they were happier than someone.
But most times, she carved them into her own skin
old scars white and faded with time
more recent words etched in dull crusted crimson
the newest slices blazing red against pale flesh
[the flesh of a girl who was already dead]
but then she ran out of room to write more words
so there was not much point to pretend any more
and her autopsy proved that she died of overdose.
[She wasn't able to tell them it was heartbreak.]
ihatemylifeihatemylifeihatemylife.
Words by WildGoose
Read 747 times
Written on 2008-08-18 at 04:45
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meaningless letters.
ihatemylifeihatemylifeihatemylife.[She wrote these words over and over again.]
Once she wrote them in smudgy gray pencil
in the margins of her notes for school,
in swirly smoky despairing lines
with little hearts over the i's
[and little x's through the hearts]
and her teacher gave her a strange look
while handing back the assignment
but didn't say anything, and neither did she.
Another time she left them under an overpass
spraypainted in poisonous blue and green
big puffy letters writhing around each other like snakes
[a most venomous work of art]
and she signed it "morbid butterfly"
and the hobos who slept there were still cold in winter
but at least they knew they were happier than someone.
But most times, she carved them into her own skin
old scars white and faded with time
more recent words etched in dull crusted crimson
the newest slices blazing red against pale flesh
[the flesh of a girl who was already dead]
but then she ran out of room to write more words
so there was not much point to pretend any more
and her autopsy proved that she died of overdose.
[She wasn't able to tell them it was heartbreak.]
ihatemylifeihatemylifeihatemylife.
Words by WildGoose
Read 747 times
Written on 2008-08-18 at 04:45
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Kathy Lockhart |
|
Nick Matherne |
| Texts |
 by WildGoose Latest textsLISTEN TO MERadio one-fifteen a.m. Summerspell wanting |
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