Carboard Tears

one of my more angst-ridden poems ever

I just keep holding my head in my hands

It seems like she doesn’t understand

My words just don’t seem to matter

They bounce off of her armor and fly back at me

Like daggers

Sharp and poised

Ready for the kill

But no

She’ll keep me around

Just a little longer still

Only for the thrills

Dangling me on a string

Tied around neck

Bell ringing

 

I am nothing to her

Nothing but a cut-out in the background

Fun to look at when nothing else is around

But when something else catches her eye

Once again I fade grey unto grey

Pasty eyes

The cracks she tore just wear with age

I keep on trying to turn this page and land

In some other story

But I can’t seem to find the strength

The fear of paper cuts is too deep

Or maybe it’s something more

I just can’t seem to tell

Stuck in this prisoner’s cell

Chains rattling

 

One day the sun will rise

And the man behind the pasty eyes of the cut out

Will no longer be here

Once made of flesh and bone

Bound into wood and glue

Now does my soul

Truly reflect the horror

Of the things you do

Yet you don’t seem to care

You take the scissors and just start to tear

Till I’m left beyond repair

Did you get some satisfaction from ripping me

In two?

Because, honey, let me tell you

Living with you is being ripped in two

Not knowing what way to go

Whether the path of satisfaction

Or the path of unity

This is my impunity

I can’t hide it with my cardboard tears

My glue-filled tears

These endless years

Living as the scenery

To your life’s play

With no major role

Or even a line

I just lie there

Pieces sitting

 

Do you even want to put me back together?

 

No

That would require you to care.

 

Reviews

[Dream Weaver]

A sensational write. I had to read it twice.
I've seen this behavior in many, sadness and
grief will soon follow. Heartfelt and believable.
great job.

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

how well you describe the emotional/mental human vampyre~ here you give her a fine balance of a sensual mystique as well as the raw pulse of the self centered drive which moves her~ while there is an underlayer of very subtle masochistic adoration~it is clear the male's eyes are wide open to the reality~and the hook is deep in his craw~
the analogies between inanimate and flesh and blood are well drawn~