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Literature Text
Atelophobia
The word sticks to my tongue like cotton candy
The sweet, fluffy combination of letters
struggling to embody a correct connotation
And even the dictionary definition seems sugarcoated:
"Fear of imperfection."
Is that what they say when I'm up until 3am,
editing my English paper for the umpteenth time
The tick-tock tick-tock of the clock
promptly proliferating the room
And I just sit there changing good to great,
and peaceful to quiescent,
hoping that my teacher will be drunk in his bungalow
while he grades my chicken-scratch calligraphy
And he’ll see stars instead of how horrid it is
Or is that the word they use,
when I struggle to consume a 25-calorie chunk of chocolate
because I just know it will go straight to my hips,
or when I step on the scale
and watch the black dashes zoom by
like a carousel spinning,
And as the twirling and whirling makes me sick,
I know throwing up still won’t make me thin
And is that the term they mutter
when I'm sobbing in the bathroom stall,
as salty pools collocate on my sweat sodden jersey,
because I came in second in my race
And even though I ran 10 seconds faster than last time,
the silver medal bangs and bounces on my chest
to the melancholy mantra: second is the first to lose
But it’s not even the dulcet scent emitted by
the cotton candy word and definition
that makes me sick, that makes the word stick
Because even a cracked sidewalk
has flowers growing from its imperfections:
It's the fear that I'll never be good enough.
The word sticks to my tongue like cotton candy
The sweet, fluffy combination of letters
struggling to embody a correct connotation
And even the dictionary definition seems sugarcoated:
"Fear of imperfection."
Is that what they say when I'm up until 3am,
editing my English paper for the umpteenth time
The tick-tock tick-tock of the clock
promptly proliferating the room
And I just sit there changing good to great,
and peaceful to quiescent,
hoping that my teacher will be drunk in his bungalow
while he grades my chicken-scratch calligraphy
And he’ll see stars instead of how horrid it is
Or is that the word they use,
when I struggle to consume a 25-calorie chunk of chocolate
because I just know it will go straight to my hips,
or when I step on the scale
and watch the black dashes zoom by
like a carousel spinning,
And as the twirling and whirling makes me sick,
I know throwing up still won’t make me thin
And is that the term they mutter
when I'm sobbing in the bathroom stall,
as salty pools collocate on my sweat sodden jersey,
because I came in second in my race
And even though I ran 10 seconds faster than last time,
the silver medal bangs and bounces on my chest
to the melancholy mantra: second is the first to lose
But it’s not even the dulcet scent emitted by
the cotton candy word and definition
that makes me sick, that makes the word stick
Because even a cracked sidewalk
has flowers growing from its imperfections:
It's the fear that I'll never be good enough.
Literature
This is love
In this empty room
We stand together
In silence
In the darkness
Our shattered hearts
Bleeding together as one
While the blood runs
Through our cold skin
This is what love is like
Two broken people
Sharing their pain
Merging their empty souls
We forget about the world
Because we live in a world of our own
United as one
In an illusion of happiness
Literature
three ways to fall apart
i.
we were seventeen
when you promised me that
this tiny dustbowl of
a southern town was not going to be
everything my life was made of.
it wasn't hard to believe
because the maps you'd spread across
your ceiling never lied (since you claimed
it was easier to dream when they
were stuck above you
in the night).
i remember the lines you'd drawn
in a felt pen, red because it seemed important,
seemed louder than the rest, and
i remember how you
would trace the roads with your eyes until you
fell asleep. you had a knack for
memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why
you answered that it was because one day you
would have to run
Literature
When they say something's wrong with you
I’m going to be shamelessly honest
and say the more I see of life
the less I think it’s worth living,
because let’s face it,
it doesn’t truly get better
it just changes;
suffering and loss
are hurdles on a never-ending
obstacle course
that you’re expected to run
for the rest of your life.
And God help you
if you don’t want to run it
because that means something's wrong with you.
That means you’re crazy.
I’m going to be fearless
and say something that no one wants
to hear, or is likely to believe:
the “right to life” is a myth,
because to have a right
is to have a choice
and life
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Atelophobia, I knew I would write a poem about it when I read that word. So this is my second poem written in two days, what what. Guess I have a bit of extra time on my hands. ;D I hope you enjoy this, as I think it is one of my favorites thus far.
© 2014 - 2024 Tangled-Tales
Comments115
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Made.
Me.
Cry.
Me.
Cry.