Sh*t

I'm kind of angry, so I wrote a poem.

Why am I Always the one to be made to feel like s**t?

Am I actually the one who's the b***h?

 

All I ever do is bite my tongue until I gain a collapsed lung, that swells

Bigger

Bigger

Bigger

Until,  my loved ones become a trigger

And like a match to a sparkler I am set ablaze

Everything in a blood-red haze

 

Each time I am more amazed at the size of the hate that consumes my numb brain.

 

Am I a piece of s**t?

I seem to get stepped on constantly like I am one.

Is it because that is the color of my skin? Or is that reaching to far on a limb that’s already breaking…

 

Broke

 

Like the soul that chokes itself inside me.

Should I care? Do I care to much? But I'm told I don't care enough

But when the going gets tough,

 

I'm just made to feel like s**t.

S**t that can't speak for itself.

S**t that can't stand for itself.

 

A literal t**d that can't function in a place that has been her home for more than a year

 

What gave you the right to say I am wrong? When I haven't even spoken yet?

Author's Note

Any constructive criticism is welcome. Mostly, I'm just venting

Reviews

[mattavelli]

Hello, Melonin! :)
I'm not sure that constructive criticism applies to venting like this. Haha
I see frustration and insecurity here. I think if you follow the rules, follow your heart, and be kind, you'll always be in the right, and you can be confident that anyone who attacks you is s**t.