Pencil shavings.
That smell stays with you,
from the days of your youth.
Thinks the editor, as he scribbles
out whole portions of my life.
Crossing out
the bits that made me,
all the interesting stories,
the late-night parties,
the loves that could have been true.
He rubs out the smiles, the laughter,
the happiness in certain views.
Leaves me in solitude,
written into a four walled room,
like the scratches
that seem hungry to consume the walls.
Just me and my thoughts,
which flow like angry waterfalls.
It's like whole portions of my life have
gone under the surgeon’s knife,
cut from my past,
and into a bin have been cast.
Dead weight, dead-end stories
with no beginning, middle or end,
but they all meant something to me.
At least, I think they did.
Is it too late to undo the damage they did?
The scent of pencil shavings,
memories of school gates.
I was so far from cool,
was barely visible at all,
except when the bullies
needed a target of hate
to aim their barbed arrows at.
Unaware was I then, that
my mind was away elsewhere.
I followed the path. I did what I was told
but I never felt I belonged in this world,
like I was born into a place so cold.
As life's river trickles by
I find pages, torn reminders,
lives blown away like dust.
I couldn’t trust, myself, anybody else,
I aimed to please, to make peace
with whatever beast was feasting
on my hopes and dreams
but this was just setting myself up to fall,
because the one person
I wasn't pleasing was the one
that needed it most of all.
Myself.
Now I'm left with a tattered notebook,
my memories all twisted and mixed up.
My brain a jigsaw of pieces
that once fit before,
but now seem to only make sense
when I throw them out
in random shapes on the floor.
Thanks for reading
Endless Nightmares out now
300 pages of horror themed poetic storytelling
Please take a look at my previous collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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