witheredpoet

a bored teen

[withered-poet]

Why is it so hard to hear?

I'm here.

Right here.

I like to talk and talk and talk,

Words flying through the air.

There you sit,

But why don't you hear?

I thought people listened,

To the ones they held dear,

That's what I've heard, no?

But why,

Why is it different here.

Am I...

Am I not dear enough to hear?

Yet when you speak,

When it is your turn,

I hear.

Every story,

Every word.

Even when my thoughts wander and steer,

I bring them back here,

Every little thing, loud and clear.

But when it's me,

My turn to speak,

You're near yet you don't hear.

I see your eyes fly elsewhere.

You hum, you nod to make your point,

But I see it.

I see my words bounce off you,

As they disappear.

Alas.

I'm a fool too clear,

I say my words, repeat I do,

Again,

And again,

Again and

Once again!

Each time loud and sheer,

Yet...

You don't hear.

Strange are these words of mine,

For you to hear?

Do they play, these words?

Or do they vanish and steer

Right before they reach your ear?

I'm here no?

Right here.

Then why is it so hard,

To just hear.

- withered-poet

[withered-poet]

Feelings.

What is this I feel?

Is it sorrow? Pain? Longing?

No wait— yearning?

No-

Gosh, I don't know, I don't–

I see people, you know?

They just speak.

Whatever it is, they do it—

by talking, spilling, venting— ranting,

However they want to, any way there is.

Like it's easy, obvious.

As if the feeling just sits there, patient, just waiting to be let free and—

But how—

How do they do that?

How do they just know,

And why?

Why is it that I don't?

I just, I see it rather than feeling,

There are these lines? Swirly lines with these loops-

Gosh what am I saying, I don't—

I just don't know.

I feel them surround me,

These lines, they're around me, they go through me—

Wait. What— huh?

Damn it, why can't I be?

Why don't I know?

What is this I feel?

What about them?

Do they see these words?

Is that how this is?

Do these 'feelings' come to shaped and made ready-

For them to let out, for them to speak?

Yet for me, that is not it.

I see, I feel–

These lines, they don't just swirl around me.

They twist into loops, twist and turn—

Oh for god's sake,

What is this?

What is this I feel?

I feel it. Like it's waiting.

A void, i feel it watching.

Will it swallow me, am I it's prey?

Maybe, maybe it already has,

Maybe I'm already in it, just with eyes too blind to see.

Pfsh. That sounds funny.

Wait no— this isn't funny, is it?

No wait-

I don't-

I can't-

Gosh can someone just please,

What is this I see?

These damn swirls-

That damn void that looks at me like prey-

What is this-

What is this damn thing-

What is this I feel.

- withered-poet

[withered-poet]

No one.

I feel unseen, I don't really know why.

Everytime a word is uttered, silence fills the sky.

There's so much within I don't know what to do

And whom do I blubber all this to?

My friends, shoulders heavy with baggage of their own,

Yet I always text them, "I'm there when you feel alone."

My family, oh what can I say?

They're the reason I keep everything at bay.

My sister, if she doesn't get a say, her ears start to bleed,

And my mother, immediately her focus starts to flee.

And dad? Don't even ask.

My legs shudder merely at his stoic mask.

So whom do I go to?

On whose shoulder shall I lie,

Without being baggage, without bringing out a fed up sigh.

-withered-poet. (needed to get it out ig.)

[withered-poet]

Mother is mad,

I hear the bitterness in her tone,

Ever since I spoke to that boy who works in Father's mine,

Mother's been rageful and sharp.

I wonder, maybe the fault is of my own.

When we walk down the street,

To the neighbours, mother smiles

Her lips tightly pursed, carefully controlled,

But i see her eyes, the way her hands clench

When skin darker than ours walks too close.

I grew up on whispered rules

Warnings of a man, simply because his skin was not porcelain, but the colour of branches and the soil that holds the trees.

I grew up, hate flowing through my veins,

First them, then others similar, then me.

Then came the day, i pushed a man into his cell.

A black man- a dog, a slave as the higher ups would tell.

He was arrested, not for his crime

But the merely refusing to give away his freedom, for a dime.

He looked at me, his eyes weren't of rage,

No, he was calm, a wise sage.

His lips uttered a line that kindled within me, a storm-

"You are no different from me,

You are bound by the chains of hatred and venom,

While me? Oh I'm only bounded by steel"

It struck me,

As a child, I would reach for any hand,

For i saw no crime in colour,

Didn't matter if one was as pale as the winter snow,

Or dark as the soil that would cool our soles

As for me, a man, was just a man.

If I, as a child could learn to divide,

To hate, to harm, to strip a man bare,

If I could learn hate,

Then to learn love, why can't I try?

- withered-poet (something i scribbled down during english class lol)

[withered-poet]

Another year.

The clock ticks, the echo's loud,

Everyone's face shines, while mine wrinkles in doubt

Tick-tock, the seconds bleed away,

Dragging me closer to another day.

I cling to the past, to faces and smiles,

To fleeting joys that stretched for miles

The world surges forward, a roaring tide,

Yet I stand frozen, time at my side.

The tick of the clock grows louder, near,

Each second whispering what I fear.

It’s not just the year that slips away,

But pieces of me, lost in the fray.

Now sixteen looms—a milestone, they say,

But I feel like a child in a storm’s disarray.

How did I make it? How did I last?

When the years feel like moments, how did they pass by, so fast?

Once an empty void, bright colours cover the sky,

My scream, it echoes out loud in the midst of a cheering crowd, "Tell me why!?

Why does my chest feel tight? Why do I feel so small, so lost!?

Is this it!? Is this all!?"

Ten, nine, the voices shout with cheer,

But I'm lost in the past, consumed by fear.

2020's weight still clings to me tight,

A shadow that haunts me through the night.

Will I make it? I mean it's just a year,

But no, my mind continues to cloud up with fear.

2025, here I come,

I hope you're well, for the past year, was an absolute piece of scum.

-withered-poet

[withered-poet]

A Lesson to Learn

Anger, the petulant child, with his trembling flame,

Tears burning his eyes, his fury, a blaze

"Why won't the world bend to my will?

Why does it wound, it burns, it stings!"

Peace, the serene old soul,

His voice, in the dark brings a soothing glow

Takes anger into his arms, a warm embrace

Slowing down the storm, slowing it's pace

"Hush darling, don't you cry,

The angry blaze, let it subside.

Your fire burns, the flame so bright

However my child, not all battles are won with might"

With time, anger begins to tire,

His flames, now a mere spark of fire

He looks at the old soul, with tired eyes

"I'm scared to let the fury die"

Peace smiles at him, wisdom etched in his lines

"Well my child, the storm must subside-"

"But why?!" Anger cried

"Well of course, to let the sun shine", said the old soul with a serene smile

With a tired sigh, Anger finds his sleep,

In Peace's embrace, his love, a calming breeze

Every now and then, even the fiercest must yield,

In Peace's tender shield

Together they sit, the young and the old,

One fierce and bold, the other, a calm soul.

Surely to end this poem, a lesson must be told

"Remember, even the most ablaze of souls can heal and grow"

-withered-poet