Shitty Poetry

How can I not feel like a parasite

I don't have pretty wings

I don't know how to fly

I suck the life out of everything

And then they're bone dry

My closest loved ones lose all their colour

Only after I seem to be around them

And at some point

One must ask

Am I the problem?

I can feel myself melting

Some might say

it's the lack of food

for me, it's the weight sloshing off in droves

It's a strange feeling

Suddenly safe foods aren't so safe.

Delicious food now has an ashen taste

Crumbling to dust in my mouth

This food is poisonous

Something is wrong

I'll get sick if I eat it

What's wrong with this bread?

Can I taste the mold?

It's not expired yet.

There shouldn't be mold.

Oh darling, there is mold.

Did I leave the burger out to long?

Why does it taste like this??

Why is this piece softer than the rest?

This texture is all wrong

WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE THAT?

Open my mouth and chew

Now

Its a demand, a command

Consume the food

I need the sustenance

I can't, I can't

I can't

I can't

I CAN'T

SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE FOOD

I'll compose myself instead, put a bit of a lilt to these lips.

A small smile to reassure everyone.

"Oh dont worry, Im not hungry."

Liar. Liar. So hungry you can feel it deep in your bones.

In the end, I eat nothing.

It's better that way.

At least it keeps the weight away.

We the survivors

Descendants of fighters

We claw and scrape

Every single step of the way

Let us rise

Let us fight

We have come far

And we will fight our way

Into the 'morrow

We the survivors

Purveyors of all we stand for

We will not stand down.

We will never die.

bring out the noose

Let the rope circle my neck

A crowd of thoughts

Oh how they laugh and jeer

Snicker and sneer

The frenzy far too eager

There is a meager snap

A croak and thrash

Let the crows laugh

As I dance my last

Let the death be anything but fast

Let me love you

Soft and neat

Sticky and oh so sweet

A love like molasses

Stuck between your teeth

Try as you might

You'll never forget me

September 4th, 2024 Draft 3

Did you know, dogs are pack animals? They need one another to survive. Illnesses can ravage their body, their mind. Yet, you would not, no, will not, ever know.

The dog will never show signs, nor symptoms. For to allow the illness, the deep pain to show, is to be weak. Weak dogs are left behind.

This dog is not yet broken. Though it grows harder with each and every halting step to continue, the near zombie carries on.

Through the heavy haze clouding his gaze, it observes the blurring landscape. This gaunt mind fights so very hard to keep going. Should the pack begin to suspect something is amiss, they may leave him. It's not a risk the dog is willing take. It has happened before, and it will not happen again.

For a dog can only get so sick, so ill, have so many bad days, before the others can no longer shoulder the weight. They should not have to shoulder that near dead weight.

A lone dog is a dead dog.

The dog would rather wither beside them then risk sharing the pains, and being left to die. "Perhaps they will not leave," the dog ponders, considering crying out.

"But they will leave." The voice inside whispers, muzzling the dog's tired maw. Instead, the dog forces his threadbare heart to beat a bit harder, and his weary tail to wag.

The mask must be composed, a perfect copy of a healthy dog. Of course, even the most invisible masks have their cracks. What the dog would consider to be near perfect paint has smudged, lines missed or crooked. Everything is just a little bit off.

The pack does not notice any difference, and that is for the best. The dog musters himself, and keeps the act going.

"There is no weakness here," The dog states to the pack, looking wearily upon his comrades. "All is well my friends. Rest easy, for I have your back. You can always rely upon me." For what is a pack member, if not useful?

As his will to live slowly sours, he cannot help but wonder, "Perhaps, I am simply better off gone. I draw too much energy from the pack. I wish for too much. I am too much." That last thought nearly makes him choke on his grief, but he swallows it. Useless, weak creatures don't deserve to whimper. "Perhaps," the dog pauses hesitantly, "Perhaps... it is time."

For many nights, the dog creeps out after the pack has gone to bed, careful not to disturb them. It has taken far too much from them already. The dog contemplates finally resting his weary head, and comes close several times.

The dog wonders, if a call should be made out to the pack. Tell them that something is wrong, to let them know it's not their fault, that he loves them. There is so much he might say. In the end, the dog knows his absence will not be felt, or noticed. He's useless, a replaceable background character, part of the scenery. He has ceased serving any purpose months ago. What a burden the dog has become.

Finally, a decision has been reached. The dog has hidden his rot as long as he can, and he will be a burden no longer.

It is this quiet night the reaper comes to claim his life, and the dog breathes his last sigh. It is a sigh of grief, regret, and beautiful peace. Blood has been spilled, froth foams from it's mouth, and death throes possess his twitching limbs. There is a finality to the silence that ensues after.

Did you know, dogs are pack animals. Illnesses can ravage their body and their mind, and yet, you will never know. The dog will never show signs or symptoms, for to allow the illness, the deep pain to show, is to be weak. Weak dogs are left behind.

This dog is not yet broken. Though it grows harder with each and every halting step to carry himself, the boy wanders on. Through the haze, it observes the surrounding landscaping, fighting hard to keep on going. Should the pack begin to suspect something is amiss, they may leave him. It's not a risk the dog is willing take. You can only get so sick, so ill, have so many bad days, before the others can no longer shoulder the weight.

A lone dog is a dead dog.

The dog would rather wither beside them than risk sharing the pains, and being left to die. "Perhaps they will not leave," the dog ponders, considering crying out.

"But they might leave." The voice inside responds. Instead the dog speaks, forcing his threadbare heart to beat a bit harder, his weary tail to wag.

"There is no weakness here," The dog says, looking wearily upon his comrades. "All is well my friends. Rest easy, for I have your back. You can always rely upon me."

But, the dog has hidden his rot as long as he can.

For in the night, when dog watches for a fight, the reaper comes to claim his life. As the dog breathes his last sigh, he regrets not saying anything. But it is too late, blood has been spilled and froth foams from his mouth. It is over.

In the end, the pack suffers, the pack howls its mourning song. All because the stupid dog hid it's preventable plight.

I added more!!! Draft 2

Just something random I wrote last month

The pack suffers a loss because of one stupid dog.

August 14th, 2024

Remember me, for the abyss has come to claim me. The end of self draws near, and I am full of fear. Perhaps this is goodbye, but god let it be a 'until we meet again'.

I've been sober for almost 5 months. I've mentally already relapsed and I'm scared. I feel like I'm screaming, trying and doing everything in my power to not take a hit.

It's over, and I don't even know why I'm trying.

Anyways, here's this shitty poetry.