I’m not one for writing poetry, simply because I’m not really that good at it. Although, while searching through my writing today to compile things for my autobiography, I found my WIP of collecting all of my retained journal entries in chronological order. As I scrolled through the entries, I found this line of text that stood out from the others, and while it isn’t a work of art or the best poem out there, I thought it had a lot of meaning to it. I remember when I wrote it. I was homeless then and at my wits’ end, ready to take that final step off the precipice.
But I am here today, still reading these entries and feeling the emotion that I poured into them at the time of their creation. Here is the poem I wrote while at one of my lowest points in life with just a little bit of grammar correction to read better.
Your footsteps beat within my ears like hearts,
their thunderous soles shaking the ground beneath me.
So dark yet so bright;
the illness inside me is retching.
Unkempt hair clings to my scalp –
nausea graces my insides.
I need you caffeine,
but your drug is sickening.
The sky is black and bright,
the rain is wet and cold.
It soothes my burning skin.
My energy cannot escape
Explosions beneath my nerves;
anger in its molten form.
All is not as it seems.
Everything is too much.
I am sick.
©2018 Shane Blackheart
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