I own these things


I own these things;
these things I bore,
yet left me for dead
I own these things.
No ones name but mine engraved.
No one to blame, but me to blame.
Everlasting, unforgiven, unchanging.
Call 'em ugly, Beat 'em up.
Call 'em hideous, Throw em in the trash.
Yet they'll always keep coming back
because I own these things.
When will I be ready to accept that?


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741