Time

It is just a shallow time when my eyes stare straight
With nothing near me to hold dear.
Time is only a measure of death.
No record kept, no history written... My life is nothing.
My existence is plain, and our simplified minds
Wonder, contorted and ugly, only matching
Gnarled limbs and scarred flesh... Only this do people see.
Why can they not see me for who I am?
I do not want, I only bleed.
The care of hope and hope in care fills my need to
Sacrifice all that is mine for nothing but self-enjoyment
Of seeing another succeed or return from the hellish
Pit of despair that their mind puts them, where
I am always at... In my own mind.
Death becomes a savior, life is my Anti-Christ,
And I can not help but bleed as my pen screams
Across paper so white and clean, reminds me of how I used to be.
A time when I could see that everything was fine.
My family was one and I didn't need anyone,
But now what was one has become three
And I am left with that need for someone, yet no one
Is willing or wanting to be there... I am forever alone.
Drowning in my own self-pity, but what a feeling when
The only one that cares is yourself. It just reminds me that
I am lost in a place of stone walls and brick floors
With only a television to fill the void. Even Barbie
Had a better life than this. How I wish I was Ken or the every-day people that fit his description.
Beautiful, tall, and strong, but my only gift was that
I am trapped within and ugly throughout with a slow watch,
A watch that will one day serve my death sentence.

by Robert L. Bixler III

Other poems of BIXLER III (69)

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