this is not a poem #2

I kick harder
and harder
desperate
to move faster
and faster

Away from
this miniature town
the prison that
gladly watched
me suffocate
and placed bets
on how long
it would take
to end me

Not long
one glimpse
into the past
enough
to make me
shake inside
and crumble

I push through
the laboured breaths
and the heartache
rising in my chest
hoping that soon
I can melt
into the evening fog
like I was never here

I was
never even here

I worked
so hard
the entire year
to become
the person that
could make me proud
but look how
easily she disappears

Away from
the hungry streets
I used to call
home
now they
swallow me whole

One glimpse
into the past
enough
to make the walls
I’ve built to keep me
safe
close in on me

As if I
no longer have
the right to breathe
the same air
as if
the streets I walked
half of my life
will no longer
carry my feet

Reject
Outcast

One glimpse
into the past
enough
to make every
bit of confidence
I thought I regained
collapse


I really have no idea what I’m doing and I’m not going to pretend like I do. I’m not going to apologise, either. This is a pile of words. As stated in my tagline, I’m allowing myself to write poorly.
Ugh. Explaining myself again. Making excuses. Will I ever learn?
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16 thoughts on “this is not a poem #2

  1. I liked it. It gave the sense that the person was suffocating in their home. Like the town was sucking the life out of them. I wasn’t sure if the person was now away from the home town, but the memories and past were threatening to pull her aback down?

    1. This is precisely what I was trying to say. She goes back to her hometown thinking she’s stronger and more confident, but it takes just one memory for her to turn back into the shell of a person she once was. Thank you for reading and commenting!

  2. What should I call you, Mrs or Reckless? I remember a punk band on the first Stiff Records’ tour called Wreckless Eric. What’s happening in this world, Reckless has lost the ‘W’? We all grow out of small towns and the small minded people cramped within their scrunched up borders. Don’t let the bastards get you down.

      1. Haha, I just had to look up ‘wreckless’ to see if it really was a word. Things are a bit tricky when you’re not a native speaker, but I’m not allowed to use that as an excuse anymore. My professors would kill me. I really do appreciate your comments!

      2. So, you found ‘wreckless’, that good old fashioned English spelling. I’m Irish, so who’s the native? I say they occupied our country, we occupied their language – Swift, Goldsmith, Hopkins, Berkeley, Wilde, Joyce, Shaw, Beckett

      3. Ha, so they’re not all bad, those teachers. The Gaelic language has a far wider range of expression than English. They killed our language so Irish writers found a way to make theirs better and more expressive. Do you find poetry a release? When I write poetry, it surprises, even shocks me. I think, who’s, where did that come from?

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