My perception of myself, I wonder if it's true,

It makes me want to hurt myself until I'm black and blue.

I hate the way I look so much I'd like to gouge my eyes,

Then leave my aching, rotting heart and feed it to the flies.

Anxious, aching insecure. Jesus, I'm a mess,

Wondering how much longer I can take this stress.

Always on the highest alert, waiting to drop dead,

My middle name I think I'll change to panic, fear, or dread.

Just like a death row inmate-though I don't need a cell,

A prisoner in my mind-making my own hell.

Isolated from everyone, trembling and alone,

Even in a crowded room, it chills me to the bone.

Putting up a 'decent' front to hide all my despair,

Fearing that my spirit's broke-way beyond repair.

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To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

Walt Whitman, American Poet (1819-1892)

Qsangel’s Poems (47)

Title Comments
Title Comments
spaceman 0
either way.... 1
ReStLeSs 0
Rubble 0
Weeping Soul 0
Can't... 0
Voiceless.... 2
Nothing More 0
The Bleeder 3
My Heart 0
Desecration 0
So I do Nothing... 1
whispers 0
the candle 1
death of a soul 0
unwritten 0
Dammit! 0
closed 0
building 0
my demons 0
waiting for it to happen 0
to the point 0
love is like 2
damaged 0
sometimes... 0
true self 0
Shouldn't 0
without--i wrote this when i was 16 2
hmmmmmmmmmmm 0
I will 1
Ominous me 2
the naive cynic 1
the 'un' me 2
praise hurts her... 1
Inquiry 0
My War... 3
My.... 0
mind........ 1
Image.. 0
Boo Hoo... 3
PANIC... 0
I wonder... 0
53 truths about me 1
Novacaine 0