Cold Tile

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  • Bulimia

    Cold Tile
    Revulsion coursed through her,
    she hated feeling this way.
    Gross. Crammed. Disgusting.
    Oh-so-fucking deliberately.
    This vile thought,
    state of mind,
    hanging over her mind like a mushroom over Hiroshima.
    Out with it. Now.
    Not in here, you don't.
    Cold tile. Bathroom. White lines
    and empty spaces.
    Porcelain and metal,
    hands and knees.
    Acidic. Sharp. Ow.
    I guess it's back to life now, huh?
    Back to that world.
    Much too big,
    yet never big enough to encompass this.
    Water off, door unlocked,
    teeth brushed.
    Here we go again. 

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    DeepEclipse commented on Cold Tile

    01-26-2011

    Like a preperation. Before a great battle. This proves that so much can puslate through a person and some could never even know it. So much more lies beyond the physical explanation. Lightyears of shit. Who truly can see the tormented soul. Enjoyed this.
    Reply to Comment

    brokenhearted11

    01/26/2011

    thanks. i imagine it as taking a minute in reality, but ages in the mind.

    DeepEclipse

    01/26/2011

    Nice! The same passing moment in different time frames...

    bubba commented on Cold Tile

    01-23-2011

    Hmm, makes you really think, to me it paints a picture of everything just hitting ya in the bathroom, thinking of everything ya can do to make it go away then turning around forcing yourself to walk out instead, but thats just me kudos
    Reply to Comment

    brokenhearted11

    01/23/2011

    beautiful interpretation, absolutely great. thank you!

    sk8erpoet commented on Cold Tile

    01-21-2011

    i like it......its cool to read....keeps you reading..great write..sk8
    Reply to Comment

    brokenhearted11

    01/21/2011

    heh thanksss xD

    Musicmynded1 commented on Cold Tile

    01-19-2011

    good words and i love the framework of it.. i was singing it all hardcore like. ♫
    Reply to Comment

    brokenhearted11

    01/19/2011

    haha i bet that was just wonderful, huh??? haha well thankyou. the jotty, staccato form is my older thing, just brought it back a bit ;)

    Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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