I got black out drunk at a party and woke up in a room with my pants off and my ex-boyfriend's friend standing over me. I deny ever having recollection of that night to everyone who has confronted me about it. Even to my ex-boyfriend.
I steal pills from my mother who actually needs them. These pills were usually sleeping pills or Xanax. I would take large amounts of them and even chase them with alcohol in hopes of numbing all feelings from my body and hoping I never wake up.
I lie so much to strangers, friends, and family, that my I have convinced myself that my lies are the truth and that these lies will make me a better person in their eyes. In reality, I have no one but myself. And I hate myself.
I stalk my ex-boyfriend on a daily basis. I check his Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter religiously. I also drive 30 minutes to his house just to drive by it and see if his car is parked on the drive way.
I promised my mother that I would never commit suicide. I think about killing myself on a daily basis and secretly hope that someone will just do it for me so I can keep that promise to her.
It takes me an hour to put on makeup because I find myself so repulsive to look at in the mirror that I have to take breaks so I don’t have an anxiety attack and start crying uncontrollably. However, I never leave my room without pounds of make up on my face.
I am failing pretty much all of my college classes and when my father asks me how my grades are, I lie and say that they are fine. He thinks that I am actually trying in the classes, when in reality, I am just trying to survive.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel like I can take on the world. I can go the whole day and convince myself that I am as happy as the people around me. But then I go home to my room at night and fall into a deep depression where I feel like my heart is decaying inside of my chest. I then proceed to hit myself or scratch myself until the pain stops. It does not stop.
I leave my room for long periods of time so my roommate thinks I actually have a life and friends. But I really just take my sisters car and drive it to a mountain and sit there and cry.
One day a random boy who followed me on Instagram and then messaged me on Facebook and we started talking. I did not know him and he lived 45 minutes from me. One day I drove on the highway for my first time ever and went to his house to meet him. We had sex the same day. This continued for about 9 months. I came up with so many excuses of why I was not home so I could see him. We then became boyfriend and girlfriend. I fell in love with this boy. But no one knew about him except a couple of my close friends and sister. We were together for a year and a half. He left me. But I have to hide the fact that I’m broken from my parents because if they know why, I will lose all of their trust since I lied to them and kept him from them for so long. I wish he met them. He was the once secret I never should have kept.
Can I pull you back? Again? Once more.
Can I have you again? Can I?
Can I have you back here in my life?
Can I ask you to stay and never say good bye?
Can I hold your hand like I always do?
Can you hug me from behind, like what you always do?
Can you kiss my forehead again as I sleep?
Can you ask me to eat again and tell me not to skip.
Can we go to church like each Sundays that passed by?
Can we drive crazy in highways, as if we'll never die?
Can we laugh again, and again as if we're insane.
Can I be your girl again?
Can I wipe these tears with your hands babe?
Can I borrow your arms and wrap the to mine?
Can I wear your shirt again so I can feel you
Can you be the one that I would say, I do.
Can you be my forever bestfriend indeed.
Can you be my enemy, but will choose to defeat.
Can you mine again like the old times.
Can I have you once more and forever be mine...
But I know, that will never to come again... :(
I am in the wild
a world not of nature
but the nurturing of ambitious men
and blood thirsty predators
where you can walk
desperate mile after desperate mile
without seeing another human face
only the twisted visage
of a wounded, snarling beast
In the distance I hear the
pounding of drums as
black smoke sails across the sky
declaring war on anything
which looks like it might belong
I am in the wild
and am not yet ready to return
My blood runs hot
Flows easily through my veins
The heat is love
But where there is heat
There is always cold
That cold is hate
My body is made of hate
My blood is made of love
They fight for control
When I talk to her
Love is winning
When I talk to them
Hate is winning
I have no control over them
My heart pumps the love
The world scars the hate
It cuts deep like blade
My hate has endored
so much pain
My love has seeped from my hate
To get to the love
You must cut through the hate
But she reached in the hate
And pulled out the source of the love
She tends to it
From her my hate loses
The love is taking controle
But there will always be a fight
But I'm not worried anymore
I have her
That's the secret weapon
He was tired of the ordinary and he wanted something new.
He wanted to hear the sound of the moon.
He wanted to taste the tides.
The sound of the cacti growing in the desert was like music to his ears,
but he could not remember anymore exactly just what it sounded like.
He wanted to go back to when he did not have to remember
because he could hear it always,
but he could not go back.
Time had put him where he was
and he could not turn back time, but it was not just a matter of that.
He knew that somewhere he had lost his understanding of himself, and with it
his conception of the world
He did not properly understand
the instrument with which he experienced the world
so he was not appropriately situated to judge what he experienced.
Once he understands what he is
he sees his flaws
and learns to work with them so they are no longer flaws.
The rays of the sun fell in a multitude of rays through the trees,
the canopies acting as a colander; taking up most of the rays
but allowing some to slip through
where small trees and shrubs seemed to congregate.
One of the rays fell on the boy
and as it did he opened his eyes
and as he did he was no longer a boy.
i feel through anger
sometimes i want to love
i want to hold you close to me so that your breath
warms me up so much that i forget
i forget where i am
forget who i am
forget why i am angry
but i don't work like this
my heart doesn't pump blood
whiskey runs through my veins
and my cold hands
white like milk
could never hold you
as you are meant to be held
I came and then I came to
And all those things I said about you
Maybe that's why I'm here
He thought, while the darkness around him swallowed him both physically and spiritually.
Tonight didn't end quite like I thought they would
Endings taking the form of sea men being shanghaied into the nearest boat
No alcohol this time
Just pure ambition, or the lack thereof
Writing is the only thing keeping me up
That and spiritual distress brought on by the royal we, man
[insert pop-culture reference]
Unsure if you'll read something that was truly meant or me
And the hypocrisy that I find when lambasting someone for using the Internet as their diary, when I do the same, but cleverly disguise it as poetry
This is block text with no form.
There is no rhyme scheme nor is there timing.
1) you know you left your favorite pair of underwear at my house, do you want to come and get them?
2) I miss you more than I miss my home
3) you're like a part of me that left and I really want that part of me back
4) you use to call me beautiful, I looked at myself in the mirror, said those words and cried because it wasn't your voice
5) I miss your voice running through my skin
6) remember all those times you would call me and tell me you miss me? How come you don't do that anymore?
7) I hugged this tall boy that reminded me of how you would slouch to hug me and I smiled so widely I was as happy as how I was when I was with you
8) the boy next to me smells like you
9) my brother came home and your name slipped out of his mouth or it sure seemed like
10) I miss you.
11) I saw you staring at me and when I went to smile you turned away
12) it got me sad like how when you told me you didn't like me
13) remember that time you kissed me? And you said you hope it doesn't change anything? You lied
14) it's been almost 4 months and my lips still ache your touch
15) I wish you were here
16) we were never in love but oh boy, how we could have been
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin near transparent covering.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths of years of toil,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.
Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.
Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s used out Oklahoma way.
And he would know, he'd cowboyed there.
His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocket knife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Could pick silver coins right out of my ears.
His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged life traveled.
Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.
But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touch of tenderness.
I shall never forget my Grandfather’s hands.
He is not vile.
He shoved her carelessly out of his space.
Buried her under a pile of rubble.
Some kind of punishment for bursting his bubble.
Does she care.
No, not her .
Has desire to come to him.
To scratch her way through soiled skin.
So she can spit toxins his unjustly vile eyes.
Just like the ones he spat in hers.
Toxins like the ones he poisoned her with.
Her brother, her fellow man.
She's glad to be free.
Such an atrocity in fair English city.
He held tight the rose of England.
Nicked his finger on her thorns.
It bled red love away.
She wishes like his kisses that she were dead.
He thinks he wants that too!
But he knows his bleeding finger lingers.
Hidden somewhere in his heart of memories so tender!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)