Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for mature content.
*This is a poem that I'm debating to enter into my CRW 205 class for my portfolio. Any critiques are appreciated*. Where they will bury me Will be for the likes of a Queen. Flowers will line my grave, And onlookers will believe The story of the troubled girl, who didn’t know her left From her right, the poor girl With a chaotic mind. Eventually they’ll all leave, until All that’s left are the groundskeepers And their shovels, Piling their dirt atop of me Like it is their second Nature—I can feel each gravel plummet, Hitting my bones, causing me to rattle Beneath my grave of flowers, scents Of decay from those beside me Surrounding me within that bubble Of despair I know all too well —Though nobody seems to notice. I am nothing but a rickety, Haunted house That nobody wants to visit, But when they do It only feels like the neighbourhood Kids daring the others to ring The doorbell. My Brain is at war And I’m not really sure who’s winning, And I’m sure I’ll be notified Once it’s convenient, But for now they’ll say that Mel was such a beauty, As if to say that beauty is not just A societal concept, generalised With Snapchat selfies and Instagram posts, And their Facebook walls and Twitter feeds— They never mattered anyway. I am an anomaly, That scarred myself With swords To see if the pain Of life was worth it, Just to die in a hole In the ground 8 decades From now. Maybe it was not the swords That really scarred me, But rather my own mind. Nobody really knows Its capabilities (that is, until It goes too far), insanity Determined by the society That will bury us all, 10 feet Deep, And The truth is, I will Be buried alive In a grave that is cool, Dark, and damp. The newly placed dirt, Seeping through The sides of my jet- black coffin, just like The other night When I couldn’t get Everything out of my head. Maybe, this way, it’s for the best. Nevertheless, I will be pounding at the coffin’s Walls, hoping, screaming—begging for you to listen, But everyone has earplugs in To block us out, So I die gradually, Slowly, as my pleas are drowned Out by the groundskeepers That keep piling that dirt atop my Grave. I reconcile, laying motionless, Like a resigned man on Death Row, Waiting for his heart to finally Stop.