Echoes,
Of once extravagantly,
Beautifully,
Crafted words,
That once gave a spark,
That then falsely ignited,
Spilling from your copied and pasted lips,
Now,
Are non-functioning,
Scatter frantically,
Much like I,
When we met our end.
Now,
These words give me a daily dose of hell,
And make me realize there was never any hope,
For either you or me,
I feel like if I were to,
I would need someone who doesn’t need me,
So there’d be no difference,
So can you see?,
See?,
These tears go with the flow,
Of my overly built-up emotions,
That serve me no good,
Please,
Don’t,
Bother…,
I know you never mean it,
Don’t talk to me…,
I don’t need to be trapped in our solidified conversations,
That are already on repeat,
Dancing along,
With my current currency of hell.
I’m trapped,
In these talks,
As if I’m in a small and solid cube,
I should just stick myself into a cubicle,
Draw myself as the small and useless stick-figure you view me as,
There was never any difference between that and my self-esteem,
I can’t wriggle away,
While I continue to be a drawn stick-figure,
With your once beautiful words,
That were etched carefully to give me your false hope,
That was created by a fake god that I looked up to,
To destroyed what he’d created.
©katie
K