Best Spitting Image Poems
Okay I saw your spitting image today!
Tried to give her a real big hug
She was your utter and absolute clone my love
Came so close to getting slugged
Thought there was really only one of you
With your bubbly personality
Will check a lot more closely next time
Could have ended up horizontally
Never thought two could look so alike
To run into her it was surely fate
One of those spooky occurrences in life
But her boyfriend set me straight
Uncanny is a very good word to describe it
Weird is another word that fits
She even had a luscious body like yours
And your gorgeous 34B... uh... eyes!
© Jack Ellison 2013
The Spitting Image of Me
I look like a perfect girl
But once you look under the clothes
All you see are scars
I have my imperfections
I have my flaws
Stretch marks
Scars
But underneath all of that…
I’m the same as you
That is as a physical form
When you enter my mind
You enter a place that no one should be
You enter a mind of an insane person
A person who constantly thinks of killing
Who can see things others can’t
You enter a place so dark…
Not even God’s light can touch
You enter a place of madness
A place of…
Death
A place where it's kill or be killed
A mind that is constantly fighting itself to stay alive
A mind that wants nothing more than to die
But as well as dies to live
You see certain things no one should
A victim of rape
A victim of abuse
A victim of attempted suicide
A victim to her own mind
You see how messed up the mind of this person is
You now understand what it's like to be insane
To sit there and want to disappear
You know that the more you think
The worse it gets
The depression
So dark
So painful
All you see is black because that's all they want to see
When you see the mind of someone truly depressed…
You see them standing
Just standing there
Looking up
Wanting to leave
To be gone
They see you breathe
While they struggle to even move
They can barely breathe under the pressure of the hurt
Under the pain
Then the bipolar comes in
One minute they could smile for day
Laugh
Fun to be around
Then…
They snap
They get mean
They threaten you
They look at you like you are the prey
Then the sadness comes
Bipolar sadness is bad
But add depression into the mix…
You created a person who just wants to let go
Seeing things that aren't there
It makes you panic
Hearing things others can't hear…
Makes you go insane
Knowing that one day you may snap
It may happen tomorrow
Or in a few years
Or never
But the minute you snap…
There is no going back
All you want is blood
To do to others…
What they have done to you
Hurt them
In every way possible
To show them true fear
Fear
That will never leave them
Fear…
Of insanity
Fear…
That they too will snap
And when they do snap
Run!
Something really grossed me out
While walking down the street;
A stranger cleared his throat and spat,
Just inches from my feet.
I think it is illegal
To just cough up phlegm and spit.
In society, it’s something
We should really not permit.
There once were signs in subway cars
Announcing prohibitions:
Loud radios and spitting
Both had fines for inhibitions.
Some people, though, do what they want
No matter who’s around.
I guess I should be grateful
That that spit stayed on the ground.
I wonder why my parent said
She’s the spitting image of grandma dead
For in death, grandma did not look her best ~
though she still aced the saliva test
My firmly planted foot always remains as the bottom one; certainly stable support sustains
a tool rotting under a soon to be sinking sun.
Without mind being in first of my character,
Proof hands a signature towards what it tries, yet in wasted efforts; Laboring for inventions that only time may gift and deliver;
False lives imitating within burning eyes,
stealing that lone light hued from the mirroring witnesses to a life;
Is it the reflection on the pairing souls glass that decays my fight
or is it stalled with the bait of the lie fairing into what is true; choices and fates that are mine?
From whose perspective may I speak?
The witness of my life
Or the material thing that is I?
Yours?
The image representing my perception of you?
Or the echoed reflection back, from the time you noticed from me and then again onto you?
If it is you, staring at what shine depicts among my glossed eyes, is it possible for you to see me, past the view of my attention liaised between reality and truth?
And if I'm not directly seen, nor remain able to be labeled as a private witness to anything, I feel the need to ask for whom do I perform and of what reason is my seeing seen?
Dear alleged watcher, may I be but a type of clock meant for the times that have meant a lot to you?
With hands ticking in twitches that ache to become beyond the notice of processing?
Or are we simply two sets of eyes searching for authority that comes ever before identity?
If my individualities struggle can become corrupted by the world it has been cast to form within, is effort of any kind lost to be misapplied to what cannot be forced?
Only time may gift and deliver.