the good poems
are constructed from fragments
of painful experiences
times when i felt numb and nothing
or lack of anything entirely
the good poems
remind me of a time
that i can't really remember
i'm going back to this pain
because it's familiar
i remember what desolation looks like
i remember what silent screams ripped air in two and
my skin apart
the good poems tell of a time
where i was mentally so far gone
when i had a concrete concept of the darkness enfolding me but no concept of what scary was
the good poems aren't really good poems
there's just emotion there
i felt so much
and it hurt to touch
if i can somehow make sense of it all
rewrite my scars into fresh cuts again
remember the nullity i fell into
maybe i'll learn how to feel again
leave the past in the past and bury it with a hatchet
no need to dig up all the skeletons you once hid in your closet
you let chaos rest, why disturb it?
it never escapes you
i talk about past pains
like it's something i crave
what a foolish thing to want, to need
to thirst for to feel whole again
i think they call it growing pain
like the pain of physically shaking off an old skin that no longer fits
the skin i felt comfortable in and the skin i abused
so a new skin can grow
i miss the familiarity
and my limits
the good poems
weren't good at all
but in my head
they're good because
if i can fathom images of what trembling nights felt like
out of shaky breaths
that's better than when i can't
and if the only thing i ever write about for as long as i live is pain
then so be it
they say that you spend your whole life
rewriting the first poem you ever loved
my definition of love
is synonymous with pain
is synonymous with life
if that's true
then the good poems remind me of a time
when i was so so alive that i was on the brink
Still remember my best friend from high school
she was the coolest friend i ever had
yet, for some reason this other girl didn't like her
not sure why, or what happened between them
anyway so one day in between classes
my friend was all hyped up about something
and she, my friend went into the girl's restroom
and i follow, when i go in she was freaking out
then she tells me what's going to happen
and i was like okay, i'm going to have her back
probably i could've talked her out of it..
and now i wish i would've
i could've stopped something bad, but i didn't
does this make me a horrible person, idk..
so anyway those brass knuckles weren't a joke
cause when vicky punched her just one time
the girl who was a lot bigger than my friend
like two times bigger, a size plus
she was down for the count and not moving
i know that must've hurt like hell
and all the students were standing around gawking
and screaming...was a mad house in the cafeteria
no one ever messed with vicky again...i miss vicky
she moved back to texas, her boyfriend was name ricky
moral of this fascinating story is,
don't start nothing and there won't be nothing,
cause you never know what surprises await for you
Is a experience the same in other views or same in ours and yours mine any ones.
You are eight teen, you love music and dance you have many friends yet you feel bitter towards some.
Why is your soul damp and pinched with salt.
Flew from common cloudys of gray with the hope to change your ways.
For family and friends pray for the day.
i've been breathing deeper,
caring more, loving harder,
smiling for the sake of smiling.
i've been losing sleep,
crying when you're not around,
getting high to block it all out.
i've been realizing this isn't easy.
exhausted after eight hours of sleep
spent in nightmares of lone times,
days spent fighting fatigue brought
on by the thought of your skin on
if i could tell you i would
From the darkness came the red,
Dancing on the Devils head.
Burning fires like the sun,
The Devils deeds yet to be done.
And when the worst brings forth the fall,
You yourself consumed by all.
As terror writes the rotting skull,
The fires of hell become too tall.
And at the end the dark remains,
The Devils joy, unending pain.
She’s hurting. No one can tell.
She hides it very naturally.
Makeup, hair, and clothes all in place.
Clothes that catches people’s eyes, puts a thought in heads.
“She's happy, she has everything or she must live a pretty great life”
She walks with her high, ready to greet people when needed.
Never a long conversation, just a short and sweet one to leave a good impression.
Walks down the street confidently; someone hollers at her… no turn of her.
Helps the old lady across the street.
Grabs a cup of coffee before going home.
But when the door shuts, she shuts down.
Everything you saw of her is now put away ready for the next day.
The real her is behind the door.
Real pain, sorrow digging deep inside of her.
Sinking deep into her bath soaking in the day.
No ordinary day; just a repeat like a skip in an old record player.
Feels as if nothing will ever change.
Something is growing inside of her… anger.
Anger that is coming to the surface telling her something.
She turns off the water and cries.
The level of the water goes up from all the tears running down her face.
“Whats a girl like her crying for, she has everything”
Sooner or later she’s floating with all her tears, pain and sorrow.
Sooner or later no one will see that girl who walks confidently down the streets.
Smile plastered on her face with a welcoming hand.
Soon you’ll see head lines of who you always thought was happy.
But was dying inside.
Almost two years ago I wrote about how he told me
that we always had to question ourselves,
Almost two years later I read about the works of
Descartes, Aristotle, and other influential philosophers,
I begin to question all I know,
from whether the finger I write with writes what I or what it wants,
I’m skeptical of whether I am;
If I am, why? Why me?
I also realise how irrelevant it is
for me to worry about feelings and love and pain,
Almost two years ago I wrote daily
about myself as an object with experience
Now I write with skepticism
What’s the point anyways?
tearing shreds into my tiny heart like a ravenous wolf, how could you?
you have no love or compassion for the atrocity that you have endowed onto me
you have no soul, no concern to turn yourself around instead standing there like a smug hoodlum proud of your obscene work
having no care in the world that you have shattered the last ounce of hope and dream that i once had