poetry

Itchy Sweater

By Amy Thomson

Rub,

scratch.

Poor material:

chemical,

arterial.

Take it off,

this itchy sweater.

Trend setter.

Out of my skin,

onto the floor,

rotten core

exposed.

Suppose,

I buy a net set of skin,

one akin

to models

and stars?

Behind bars,

one’s self,

one’s shield,

peeled,

revealed:

Amy.

 

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poetry

Lost at Sea

By Amy Thomson 
I think my mind is lost at sea,
and slowly floats away from me.

I write it letters everyday,
and slip the bottles in the bay.

My head is hollow, filled with air,
the passing time begins to wear.

I do not know what I did wrong,
to make it choose the Siren’s song.

I cannot cope without my mind,
since madness is not treated kind.

Perhaps I’ll join Ms. Woolf and Plath,
I cannot take depression’s wrath.

I wish that I could turn back time,
I’d give my little, lonely dime.

To go back when my mind was here,
and moments weren’t filled with fear.

I’d promise not to get too sad
to keep my mind from going mad.

I want to join it in the sea
so I can start to feel like me.