Portending Concrete Reality

[tectak]

Indefatigably I fret.
Inexorably I agonize.

I crawl and curl up,
worrying that one day my skin will grow too large for my bones and organs,
and that I will lie there.
Someone will mistake my epidermal catastrophe for a used bandage:
padding the scrapes they earned after discarding tricycles
with gauze covered in my adolescent acne.
For this I bleed my wrists of anxiety.


Desperately, I attempt to flee chronological progress,
trying to climb back into the womb.
I climb up the blue cord like a rope ladder,
and in exhaustion slip down into my periwinkle noose.

I create these tribulations,
and let them tread over my unwrinkled knuckles.

I wax my skull and use the hair to weave a crown covering my now bare scalp.
I am Macbeth’s portent, becoming grievous royalty, playing my own fool.

It was hard to read for me, though I'm not sure what type of poetry this was (so it may just be me not finding the line-play very easy to read), but there was a lot of too long, too short lines that didn't have much of a rhythm at all. I found it a bit hard to focus on. I'd suggest rephrasing to get the lines more in synch with each other and get a steady flow.

"
I crawl and curl up,
worrying that one day my skin will grow too large for my bones and organs,
and that I will lie there.
Someone will mistake my epidermal catastrophe for a used bandage:
padding the scrapes they earned after discarding tricycles
with gauze covered in my adolescent acne.
For this I bleed my wrists of anxiety.
"

It just seemed too uneven to me, I would, at the very least, consider rephrasing the first four lines to get them to fit in with each other better.

Though I am a fan of a particular type of poetry so that could just be what I'm basing this off of.

Hi fromc,
If  you could play piano well, playing badly for effect results in humour. The same applies to poetry. Here, I am unconvinced that you can write poetry well and so the piece brings no joy.
You could expect a line by line in Serious but there is so much wrong with this that it would appear a churlish crit. The real problem is imbalance. Gratuitous and pretentious word use makes the overall gentle banality lumpily out of character for the character. Complete lack of meter is acceptable in poetry circles but you will  be seen as a dilettante if you cannot use rhythm as a "control" device.
Lacking rhyme makes little difference to good (whatever that is, but you know it when you read it) poetry but there is such inconsistency  in word density in this piece that it is impossible to make even imagined off-rhymes ring.
Concept seems to be an uncertainty to boot. There is an uncomfortable feeling that you are leading but lost. I wish I could see where we are heading but then again, I constantly wish I had stayed at home.
The title says it all. It means nothing to me.
You are uninfluenced by dogma and/or convention and that can be to the good. Still, though, I would like to hear you play Chopin before you become Les Dawson.
This is not poetic, though you may like to call it poetry...and who could argue with that. For this crit, just give me something that I can hold on to. Lyrically speaking.
Best,
tectak