Wednesday, September 21, 2016

The Pit

Everyone is a closet poet in my opinion. A couple months ago I published a poem in an anthology on my college campus and I forgot I haven't shared it yet... So with much embarrassment I am sharing my poem that I wrote:




The Pit


     Distortion.
             Docile.
                      Dank.  
                             Dark.

I have fallen again into the pit.  
The dark pit. The deep dark pit. 
I scream inside. 
Nobody hears, nobody even tries.
Why don't they understand? 
Because nobody likes to see
loved ones' cry,
Because it is easier
to turn the blind eye.  

But while I'm blind 
to happiness, euphoria
and serendipity. 
They are blind to
my emptiness, 
my horror, my nothing...

      Nothing...
                Nothing...  

Feeling nothing is terrifying in the pit.
But feeling darkness is worse. 
Numbness is a pleasure
compared to the stabbing,
strenuous tears that rip my body
caused by the darkness. 
It starts in my chest. 
Darkness prefers the rib cage
because it can attack the heart.  

It builds and tears me apart
from the inside out. I scream inward. 
I've learned to scream inward
to save everyone else from myself.
I'm not a hero, 
I'm the victim with no hero. 

 I will subcome or struggle,
die or survive alone. 
What kind of darkness is this?
It is the darkness of anguish.  
The darkness of nothing...

      Nothing... 
              Nothing.... 

 At first the nothing is a relief. 
But then it is so numbing
it's painful. It stings and burns. 
I can't move. I can't fight. 
The darkness swirls around me
in the pit. I feel nothing.  

"The greater the struggle the greater the triumph."  
So they say. 
But the harder I struggle the deeper I fall.

  Down...
       Down...  
             Down...  

Into the crushing that is the abyss;
 Excruciating. Exhausting. Exquisite.
 How can I feel everything,
 yet feel nothing?  

Crazy. I hear that word. But more so;
feel that word. 
It slips like a knife 
between the rib cage 
of my already formed self doubts. 
Society holds the murder weapon, 
as I gush the blood 
that is the Crazy.  
I am that word.  

Attention Seeker. Over Dramatic. 
Ostentatious. Crazy. 
Each a reason for society
 to quietly slice me open.
And the thing is:
I let them because, 
I believe them.   

This pit of darkness. 
Of hopelessness. Of deep anguish. 
This pit of pain; 
yet pit of absolute nothingness; 
it can't be real. 
How can someone feel everything 
and nothing? 

 I've got to get over myself. 
Suck it up. 
Pull it together. 
Stop being weak. 
I'm acting crazy. 
Stop seeking attention. 
Stop being dramatic.    

I sink deeper. 
The harder I try to "stop" 
the deeper I fall.  

   Down...
         Down... 
                 Down....  

  Distortion. 
         Docile. 
              Dank. 
                      Dark...

 I am the pit. 


-The Lyme Warrior