All I Do and All I See Turns to Nightmare Poetry.
by brooke rust

yet a third joint ReadMe and Rebecca's Rants effort


I line up treasures one by one
and smash them well before I'm done.

Like finding diamonds in the sand
and watching them fall through my hand.

And if it's asked of me to bruise
I nod and take it with no ruse

Then when the next day i am sore
it's my own fault and nothing more.

I follow patterns time again.
I know it's wrong, i have no yen

I walk on mines and bombs and pits
I face a mouth that only spits.

And when i think I've had enough
I call myself on my own bluff.

WHEN will I learn, when won't I cry?
I fear it's only when I die.


the other woman, evil whore ...
her bitter sick, her fingers sore.

and when she feels a drop of hope,
the image fades with daydream scope

to think that maybe it could be
that regret is not her destiny.

She savors thoughts of nights of haste
and feels herself being erased.

but what's the crime, what is not true
of loving her an hour or two?

sure it's a joke, it's infantile
but laugh it with her for a while.

and save her from the sharpest tick
of a scab that she won't pick.


I wrote a poem about the lie.
It barely took a day.
But it sucks and I did not try
to finish it, anyway.

And i know that I should hate him
but i don't, or hate me too.
Hate is trite, and I did not sin
for his wanting me to do.

I am SICK of being flamed
for breaking my own rules
and I am SICK of being blamed
and cast among the fools.

It is too much for one to bear
the burden-blame of two.
I refuse! and I will dare
to do what I should do.

I'll sleep, I'll wake, I'll live alone,
bury myself, and hide.
And TRY to make me leave my home!
Try to make me go outside!

For I have still one outdoors sight
that consoles me still to see ...
Everyone in sunshine bright
looks as miserable as me.

And he may think that he is well,
but I say I know better
I see the notes carved in his skull
his bloody scarlet letter.

And while he seeks what I can't find,
his comfort, appreciation,
he recreates me in his mind
as soulless temptress abomination.

and if he swears that I despise
and his choice knows him well,
he runs, he sprints, he fears and lies
... but leaves my tale to tell.


If he does not know the wound he tore,
I cannot say he knows me.
And if he won't gaze upon the sore
he may as well abhor me.

I should have kicked him out that night
but my failures I repeat
As if to prove me somehow right
a goal that is defeat.

The vicious cycles, bleed and fall
of blame and run, be free!
But still, like me, I think we all
are our own worst enemy.


Winners none, and losers neither
I need a spell; I need a breather.

Where I leave off, I then restart
The sadness cycle of depart.

There is no stop, there is no cure.
I am the fish. I am the lure.

I write it up and curse the letter.
How is it, then, that I feel better?

Back to August 6, 1996, Read Me


Back to Rebecca's Revenge

Copyright 1996 Rebecca Eisenberg All rights reserved.