I Seriously Need to Stop with the Poetry; I Am NOT a Poet

It's called a Lonely Red Herring

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                It’s because you’ve been thoroughly overthrown with disabandonment

                And search to make no amends of an empty carousel ride’s lonely conversation.

                You’re stuck on the floor

                A pillow keeping you fixated on the ceiling

                As you search for a wishing well to throw all your loose change in.

                Unbeknownst to you,

                I’m trapped, drowning in the next room.

                An endless cycle of screams, aimed at the most cynical of the two of us.

                Broken jewelry showers on the ground, the endless amount of Christmas tinsel pulled from a rotted tree.

                Attempting to pick them up only scatters them more.

                The current’s rising and bearing wind with it.

                My body’s floating on an endless tide.

                The vacancy can’t be fulfilled with you by my side

                Because you’ve created the vacancy just by being there.

                December’s failing; the life support’s been pulled away.

                 I’m waiting for the rushing waters to turn into snow

                So maybe that way I finally won’t drown.

                Your disabandonment has hit a heavy chord

                Because you’re never actually alone;

                Rather, you make those around you alone.

                So I’ll buy you some roses,

                Or maybe even more,

                And let you stain the sheets with endless dreams

                Of what everybody else but me wants in this life.

                Sorry if I’m being selfish,

                Sorry if I’m being prude,

                Sorry for all the negatory things that swim around and clog my thoughts

                Preventing me from saying all the bitter things that should be said.

                I’ll float back down

                Down, down, down, down

                Falling to the ground.

                An underwater escapade,

                Oh, if only I could fly.

                Because you’re still asleep, your pillow fixating you on the ceiling, the floor your newly made bed

                And I’m still in the next room

                Overwhelmed and drowning at the harsh reality

                That no good comes out of nothing

                But nothing only comes out of good things.

                So, I’ll feed you more words

                Give you more ammo for your smoking barrel

                And let you fire your full arsenal.

                Aim it,

                Aim it please,

                At my throat.

                So all these words can spill out instead of my blood

                And all my questions will finally be empty

                And my vented questions I shout at the world’s edge,

                Where the carefully crafted sky and painted landscape have reached their brink,

                Will finally be useless

                And I won’t get the same bitter answers in response.

                So, now I’ll go change the direction of the stairs

                And let you find another room.

                I’ll just sit here in this room,

                Overwhelmed and drowning the ocean of events I never thought through.

                I’ll stare out the window and wait for the sky to turn

                And think

                Because they’ve parachuted down into my mind,

                Escaped the brink,

                And filled me with weights so that I will sink

                Down, down, down, down,

                I’ve fallen to the bottom of this endless pit.