You know,
sometimes
i think
you want to hurt,
you want to feel the little splinters of wood
entering so gracefully into your
skin.
Because you know that feeling
pain
is feeling
something,
it's not this goddamned
apathy
that aches so much more
than the pain ever
really could.

Sometimes
i think
that when you punch
the panels of wood
piled in the back to be burned,
you aren't doing it in frustration,
but boredom,
because frustration is so much simpler
than emptiness.
But sweetheart,
violence just won't cut it.
Because even though your skin
peels
back from your knuckles,
showing the innocent pink
flesh underneath, grinding right to the
bone,
and even though splinters
fly
everywhere
and
the crack echoes in your ears,
blocking out everything
(and by everything I mean nothing)
nothing comes of it.

And in the
end
you're just standing in the middle
of a pile of destruction,
that you wrought,
but didn't cause,
staring at the orderly mess
that you barely comprehend,
trying to make sense
of something senseless.

AN: This is a poem I wrote for Writer's Craft but then decided not to use it. Crit would be loved. And, of course, all reviews will be returned.