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Stifled
February 15, 2013
I cry and you become
a pressing cloth,
dipped in poison,
soaked in lies.
My sobs become strangled,
robbed of sound,
while you construct my thorn-felt,
wretched guise.
You want them to see me
not as I am,
you treat me as your
reflection.
But I’m not opposed to
wonton destruction,
as long as I can escape the
dissection.
You think you know me,
you think I care,
but all I really feel
is this fear.
I fear what I cannot change,
and that is you,
a thorn in my side
that’s always here.
© Lindsay S., Billings, MT
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This article has 5 comments.
StarlitSunrise DIAMOND said...
on Apr. 1 2013 at 8:09 pm
This has to be a favorite of mine. Great rhythm, very well said, blunt and emotional—overall a wonderful poem!
tellastory BRONZE said...
on Mar. 11 2013 at 11:31 pm
Good title! I was attracted by it. :) Excellent verbs. Instead of using pressing cloth, maybe use something like...kitchen sponge...idk. Pressing cloth doesn't quite evoke the imagery I know you mean it to bring. It's constrict, not construct. Construct is to build. :) Change the phrase "not as I am". Bit of awkward wording there, as your English teacher would say. :) I like the final stanza. Maybe use "forever here" instead of "that's always here", just for poetic wording. Take these comments with a grain of salt. I loved the poem. Could you look at mine soon? It's called "Someday".
