Best Poems Written by Sydney Newell

Better Daya

I know you’re happy,

Guess I’m stuck bein’ me,

Guess I stay missin’ out on chances that I couldn’t see.

But in the meantime,

Keep your head,

And know I’m doin’ just fine.

You know, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch you around sometime.

I don’t mean to cry.

Guess catchin’ up was a bad idea anyways,

Just know if you catch me in the hall, I’m lookin out for those better days,

Better ways to be a better person. 

Maybe it’s high time I stop lurkin’ your profile,

Reminiscin’ on the days when I used to make you smile.

So, don’t be too upset when you hear this.

I’m only trying to salvage what’s left of my spirits.

But I guess if you cared,

It’d be more apparent.

Nowadays you can’t trust your friends, your teachers, or your parents.

You’ve got high expectations kid,

Well people disappoint.

And it’s kinda sad seeing how I have to make that point.

Oh and it shakes my joints to know,

Nothing is for real these days,

No one means what they say,

It’s just all part of the show.

So, why even bother to get to know me?

When you throw stones,

And you perceive,

You make judgements,

And believe

There could be nothing more to this reality than exactly what you see in front of you.

I am nobody,

An object of translucency,

But in my dreams,

I could paint you a galaxy of words,

Speaking in tongues, writing in verses you’ve never heard.

I am cured,

From a  dehydration of self worth.

A place where no one’s jealous grip could rip me back down to earth,

Where I stare at the dirt on the ground,

And think maybe to be underneath wouldn’t be half as bad as it sounds these days.

So as this sphere makes its rounds and stays spinnin’,

The sun will continue to look down and keep grinnin’,

But perhaps I’ve grown to comfortable drowning in linen,

Chained in place to my bed,

With nothing to play with but the soft grey matter in the space in my head,

In the hopes that I’ll weave and thread it back together,

My mother she asks me,

But this time how do I tell her,

I’m way past the point of feeling under the weather.

And the thing is I know better,

But who can really say they take their own advice?

When it’s so easy to put a price on something invaluable,

Too afraid to work too hard,

To reach what’s potential.

See, it’s that kind of detrimental thinking,

That keeps us up on weeknights drinking,

Way past curfew,

Because if your parents only knew,

The sense of doom that grew inside your room,

Patiently waiting for those creeping, solitary thoughts to consume you,

Without a place to hide,

If they only knew,

That’s what kept you up at night,

I’m sure they’d understand,

What it’s like to be held by that ever pressing hand,

With its thumb against your throat,

Wishing with the highest hopes that you’d sooner choke,

Than to be just another kid stoked,

On being the butt of everyone's joke,

Just another drop out reeking of marijuana smoke,

Another baby doll,

A habit of adderall withdrawal,

And while I listen to the girl posted up in the stall next to me,

Throwing up her last meal,

I ponder all the things people would do just to feel something, 

To find meaning,

To know they were more than a lifeless puppet,

God manipulating their strings,

So her up chuck and bad luck,

They burn and they sting,

The sloshes and dry heaves,

They only ring out and sing,

JUST ANOTHER TEENAGE DREAM COMIN’ APART AT THE SEAMS

Copyright © Sydney Newell | Year Posted 2016