Restless, a poem

the inability to let death embrace you

Author’s note: firstly, i have only been writing poetry since i was around seventeen, and i am now twenty. What i mean by that, and why i start by evoking this, is because i do not consider myself a sort of poetry genius or the Sylvia Plath of the 21st century — i just let the words, the ones stuck in my throat, bleed onto the paper.

It feels incredibly vulnerable and intimidating for me to publish a poem of mine, here, on my substack, and especially this one. I would barely even share them with my family. However, i like to believe that this one poem and its evocative metaphors embodies perfectly the style of poetry that i would call mine. Not the one i invented, but the one my soul feels closest to.

Thus, feel free to comment anything you enjoyed (or not) about the piece, or even your own interpretations. There’s always a place for improvement in art, and my poetry should be your own (figuratively speaking). But above all, thank you for taking the time to read my poetry!

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Restless.

Turning around in my tomb, scarily naked,
Against the wood, glass and regrets 
Afraid to throw up what I would never say 
Afraid to never walk away. 

With the knife still clutched in my hand,
My mind and heart already slowly rotting, 
I shift to stop sinking, in vain,
Too late to ever stop the blood dripping. 

Taking a field trip out of my grave, 
Clutching my pearls and trying to be brave.
Leaves and bones crunching under my feet, 
A ghostly presence reaching to touch my lips.

I turn to catch you, you were gone,
My saviour who was not set in stone,
Therefore, I walk back to mine,
Digging my own tomb deeper this time.