I am marked,
By something dark,
It follows me,
Wherever I go,
Making sure high points,
Are followed by lows.
It’s not as bad,
As the Mark Of The Beast,
Or the Wicked Witch,
Of The East,
But still it’s shades of dark,
And they leave a mark.
I see it daily at work,
When the old jerks,
Who are running their yappers,
Think that I don’t know,
They’re talking about beaus,
And making it out,
Like I’m some cheap hoe.
It’s like there’s some slight horror,
Around even the brightest corner,
Right there in front of my face,
Like an ugly tear,
In a pretty piece of lace.
I see it each weekend out,
At some local haunt,
It’s not too bad,
Until I overhear the taunts,
Apparently I’m ugly,
And just not normal,
Though I know it’s fact I’m more pretty,
Than most in my city.
It surrounds me for always,
A dark, dark haze,
Is prevalent through,
Otherwise bright rays,
And so being paranoid,
Darkens my days.
I see it most everywhere,
And I really try,
Not to care,
But I’m so sick,
Of all the stares,
I know tons of folks,
Who need a shove,
Down a long steep flight of stairs.
A speck of thundercloud,
In a seemingly spotless sky,
It seems dead set,
On making me cry,
And so presently,
Here I am,
Just trying not to die,
While I’m alive.
Original Poems And Short Stories 