What's wrong?

It hurts, sure, it hurts some more,

but that won't stop me, won't hinder or block me.

The scratch scratch scratch, the plaster a patch,

still there, the scabbed over, ever there, covered over.

What's my problem? Not like yours.

There's a problem. Why complain? Love cures.

It cures and harms, just look at my arms,

hold on tight, don't let go, get away, don't ever show.

All a show, I wear a mask. All for show, my crumpled mask.

More than ever my mask slips.

More than ever words fall from lips.

Secrets locked up. I should be locked up.

What's wrong in my head? I'm what's wrong with my head.

A total blank, that's what I feel. The vault of a bank, what's in is real.

So many secrets and so many pains, but what's the point? Nobody gains.

The End

18 comments about this poem Feed