The exception
a poem
I’m sick of my pity-self, my god complex.
the engine that goads me to stride when I cannot walk,
that whispers I will never be enough,
feeding the voices in my head
until they splinter into chorus:
you must be the best.
you must still be the best.
I rush to quiet my twitching eyes
my soul a hostage to the past,
a fugitive from the future,
dragged between twin guards
who both wear my face.
I will be the exception. Won't I?
I had to grow a fire just to carry on,
to harvest some desperate warmth
but it burst, wild, and out of control,
vast beyond my capacity to hold.
It is close now. It is breathless.
It does not feed on wood.
It feeds on the things I have not done,
on who I almost was,
on the airless distance between the god I claimed
and the jagged ground I couldn't cross.
Oh God, how I loathe the pity-self, the god complex.
But I still want to be the exception.
Can't I?
oh wow this one really struck a chord with me, as it usually happens with your poems. exceptional work as always, but i must say you have been crushing it recently!!
reading this genuinely felt like looking at a mirror