It was a 12:03 on a Monday morning
I was in Geometry class when I got the call
I normally have my phone turned off but not today
My phone rang the chorus to Merchant Ship's "Sleep Patterns"
Mr. Geroue asked for my phone
I quickly answered it, immediately my heart sank
My eyes dropped and faintly whispered in a desperate voice
"Excuse me...but it's important"
I went from feeling sixteen to feeling eighty-three
My bones ached, I was dizzy
I lost most of myself
I slouched out of my seat, dragged my feet to the door
And coldly pushed it open
The door creaked as it shut behind me
My eyes began to well with tears
I became angry, at what I don't know
Probably myself just thinking what I could have done
Though she hung up long ago my phone was still on
I threw it at a locker
Smashing it into a thousand tiny brittle pieces
I punched a locker, breaking two knuckles in the process
At this point I was crying,
Feeling the deepest a sense of defeat and confusion
I sat down and continued to cry
My teacher came out and asked me what was wrong
I told him to just give me a minute
I composed myself as best as I could
And left school
It was only 4th hour
It would be an hour walk to home
It was the last day of school
A great ending to the year
My sister had called me
She said that she'd overdosed on pills
That at this point anything else would be metabolized into cyanide
I noticed as she talked there was a longer and longer pause
A deeper and deeper, shallower and shallower breath between each word
Each syllable becoming more and more difficult then the last
There's no point in calling an ambulance
She and I both knew she'd be dead the second she hung up
So she did
All he dreams about now is pale bodies wrapped in fake silk
Piled on the floor of his small apartment in the place he escaped to find his real dreams
He carries out symphonies with a single broken guitar string and a pen with barely any ink
He traced the words Help Me into his forehead until blood was dry and cracking in the wound
He says the funny thing about that is no one even noticed the scar afterward or the mess in the bathroom sink
His fingers are cloaked with Nicotine and his good friend Jack
All he wants is a little extra cash to get through the wasted nights
His mouth is always cranking into harsh smiles to show his perfect teeth
On occasion, which happens to be more than that, he spills truth from his eyes
and he lets girls stay the night
He is just wishing of features to be caught up in
He is just tired of giving up his dream to cure a thing people think they are required to never feel
His loneliness drives him to do horrific things
I found your Smith and Wesson box hiding behind the spare room door
And I'm not quite sure how I never noticed it
Or maybe I didn't want to
It's sitting on the burn pile now
3 inches of snow beneath
I hope you didn't want it
But I really hope you do
I wish I knew what it was about you
That I loved
So I could capture it in a broken jar.
The jagged edges
I have never been able to shake
Your voice from my ears
Like droplets of water after a nighttime swim.
I have never wanted to.
If I could
I would write you letters
Every day, before swallowing them whole
the next time our lips met
you would taste the ink
trickling down your throat.
I sometimes pretend
I will never see you again
And hold you a little tighter
Kiss you a little harder
If you noticed
And chose not to ask.
I wish we had a garden
Where we could walk
In the soil
Our mouths full of yesterday’s tomatoes.
Come with me
The next time I climb a tree
We can build a city between the leaves
And wait for it to rain.
Of milkshakes and muppets.
And tragedy puppets.
Of flowers and showers.
And wiled away hours.
Of words of cruel tongues.
Obscuring our sons.
Of beer and fear.
And crazy rein deer.
Of Christmas gifts.
And crazy rifts.
Usually start at Christmas time.
Christmas spirits or maybe wine.
Of kings and queens.
And stupid scenes.
In Shakespear to endear.
The knight's kitted out.
Of nightmares and scares.
And one who cares.
But noticed never not!
Of fears and tears.
And dogs and cats.
Wearing floppy hats.
And maturities kisses.
We hope no-one misses our words.
We pen another scatty ditty.
Because we live in fantasy.
A world of Walter Mitty!
That's a poet 's point of view.
Penned on here.
Just for you!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Do you want to know what I’m fucking sick of…
Probably not… It’s not like you’d give a fuck anyways.
Because the moment you give a fuck…you fuck up your life.
It’s better to not feel anything than to feel and have it be ripped away from you.
The moment you trust in some…ha they're a fake.They don’t give a fucking damn about you or your problems…
Maybe it seems like they do…but they don’t care. They NEVER do.
I thought maybe he might have cared. After all he noticed.
Fuck it. It was a fucking lie.
Sure he noticed but that was all. He didn’t care…
He makes you feel again and then takes it all away… I forgot “the higher you go, the harder you fall” and that’s just what I did.
I was being stupid, naive, and idiot, to think for just a second he would understand or even care what I was going through.
Ha now I’m back to square one. Back to being just me.
Haha life is a cruel fucking game.
My demons know how to swim, they know everything about me. They aren’t under my bed they are in my head.
Now I’m back to the way it was before he came in. Before he tried to fix me. If anything he broke me even more…
Nobody gives a fuck.
They can’t see the tears through the smile I’m faking. They can’t hear me scream through the laughter I’m faking.
I want nothing more than to stand in a room and scream my fucking lungs out and cry a fucking river and watch as you all fucking walk by like nothing is fucking happening.
Because your all to fucking blind to see anything. You know what?
Open your fucking eyes for once in your damn life!!
Look around you and notice the broken people. And for ONCE!! Stop thinking about yourself!!
Think about the people around you and the fact that they aren’t as whole as you think they are!!
In fact they are screaming, kicking, crying at you for you to notice TO CARE TO DO SOMETHING!!
Ha but you never notice!
Nobody ever does!
And when you think that maybe just maybe they might have noticed it all comes crashing down on you when you realize they were just FAKING IT!
God I hate people I hate lifeI hate EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU!!!
I’m just gonna go now…it’s not like anyone’s gonna notice anyway…
I have become so lost in the loneliness,
so wrapped up in the relevant routines of solitude,
that I would give anything to go back
to what was familiar
even if that includes being by your side once more.
Maybe next week I'll feel different,
but it doesn't matter.
This sense of wanting to find love will repeat itself
over and over and over.
When I was your man,
things actually made sense.
I noticed the trees changing the colors of their leaves,
and how the coffee today tasted differently than yesterday,
only because you did.
Now I never take pride in noticing the little things
because I have no one to share them with.
I have no one to lay out on the grass with in silence
no one to hold my arm in theirs on a long lonely drive.
Now empty pages and empty bottles clutter around my bed
I'm hoping one of them will keep me from waking up someday.
Because I don't want to brace myself for the impact of a life lived in solitude.
I don't want to miss your warm hands or the light breeze of your breath
or my fingers slowly tracing through your hair.
I don't want to live a life without knowing
what it feels like to lay next to someone for an entire night
more closely and more intimately than I've ever known.
I don't want to miss being able to carry you up the stairs
when you're too tired to do so on your own.
At least I knew some of that with you.
But now you're gone
and my heart sinks lower into my chest.
I fear that one day it will disappear completely.
Something's been missing in me since you left
and I fear that I will never get it back.
I don't love you. you said.
And my heart dropped down to hell.
The word played over again in my head,
and my tears began to spill.
Why are you yelling?
WHY ARE YOU YELLING?
YOU PROMISED YOU'D LOVE ME TOO.
I'm not yelling, you said; Just telling you the truth.
So is this what you meant,
when you promised with your arms?
When you laid down on my chest and swore you'd never go too far?
Do you find joy in seeing the eyes you once claimed to have loved,
spill tears of broken glass and the secrets you promised of?
YOU'RE STILL YELLING.
EVERYTHING IS SO GOD DAMN LOUD.
Why would you ever say those things when you were just planning to let me down?
Have you noticed this is all questions,
cause you've made me question myself.
Every time I speak or move,
my head is filled with doubts.
Will I lose her, will she come home?
Will she be safe with me again?
I doubt it, it's quiet now.
They must have killed each other,
the voices in my head.
My castigation was decided long before my backslide. And that is inexcusable, the righteous might declare "unfair". But I don't want any belligerent accusations against this 'unjust watchfulness' from above. Some entity must have understood that I didn't need guidance; I needed walls: some forcing to reach my destiny. Without my jailer, I'd have chosen one of three and let them lead me into a darkness that the pitiful call 'demons'. Claws and teeth? No, each monster was irreplaceable and I loved them. If possible, if they could comprehend a 'love', I vow they would have loved me. But the Warden took them: my punishment before my crime. Perhaps the disposal of these beasts seems considerate, but toss aside those foolish illusions because the burden has not lessened rather, it is unfamiliar. Omitting strength, for I lost my foundation, I stand in fear with this hole. The Three aren't returning; I'm left with loose bindings - the knots are the songs of my memories. Beautiful Terrors, do I need you? Let me tell you their stories.
I remember his voice calling for me. "Daisy! Flowers for you." It was our little game, and I'm sure he made girls jealous when he handed me a bouquet of roses.
My name was Petunia, but I hated that name, and I loved all that's yellow.
So when we were little he took my hand, and we went into a treefort, and he dubbed me Lady Daisy.
He was 7 and I was 4, and there began my adoration.
Then I was older and heartbroken, and I was calling him. "Waldon! It's hurting me."
He arrived so soon, I was still in hysteria - that of a 14 year old gone through breakup.
Then I cried harder because somehow my brother presented me with a tulip and declared, "It's an early present from the only boy who's going to love you more than I do."
17, and I understood fascination. And Willow (for though it's girly, I liked it more than Waldon, and he let it be) was entranced by a wild girl. She was a shockbomb - a warm sungirl that rocked stilettos and never littered nor waited past a minute.
He fell for her so hard from so high.
One day that girl kissed him straight on the lips, then jetted off to England.
Said he could follow her in spirit.
I couldn't hate her because she left his body, but it was hard to appreciate his body when the government took even that away, insisting he be laid beneath cold dirt. Then too many questions: "Why did you hold his hand for three days? Were you thinking of following? Petunia, why won't you buy flowers for the gravestone?" Then there were horrified eyes when I asked who Petunia was, because I had forgotten. Or, truthfully, there was no Petunia, only Daisy. And Daisy had Willow. The Flower and the Tree: that was supposed to be the story. So I refused to buy flowers, and without any sort of ceremony I stopped being 'Lady' and became 'Crazy Daisy', who talked to her demons. Now you see why I never wanted to part with Number One, because although he was a monster (you can't deny the terror of a body with no spirit), he knew me best.
Dear Warden, I've no suicide in me, and there's none left could lead me there, and it may be that I've grown taller, but I'm practically blind.
She was weak since I can remember. I'd say her vulnerability was pneumonia, which I can only presume led to my hatred of 'Petunia': two words incredibly similar when reason encounters a child.
And I liked her name "Maribel" because it sounded like a flower.
I mimicked my brother, but he was persistent that I must call her mother.
Again, this made no sense until 8, when I had a revelation that all this time I'd had no family. At least not in the heart of a girl, because Maribel wasn't a vibrancy to look up to., though she was my one relation.
There was just her in a bed. Sometimes a man visited but I never knew why Willow grew tense; all I saw was my mother acquire spots of brown. How I loved brown, because it seemed as though she was genuinely Mother, like all those other moms that the sun tans, or that could be given filthy hugs that left patches of dirt. In turn, I always welcomed that man, and he was a 'saviour'.
And Willow's father.
Death found both Willow and that man (I know, now, the difference) before I understood 'abuse', and try not to blame me because she never complained and I thought abuse meant people were unhappy, but I saw both of them smile. I laid her beside him, but with space inbetween: a ground for my casket. Because I'd gone slightly crazy and I was telling Number Two that if I awakened as a zombie, I'd need to be able to find his hand first.
That was nuts. But Warden, I don't fully understand. You stopped her bleeding, but I'm left with nothing. I hear their voices in my head, telling me I'm healthy, but I know I'm barely breathing.
I dealt Three tragedy. And in doing so, I guilted myself into worthlessness. Classic to the moral law is: it is not acceptable to introduce a roommate to a shady character. But I ignored the concept of shady - applauded my nonjudgmental attitude, because with my twisted past I would have also been a shadowy figure. With a sweet, sweet smile, I handed that bright girl over to a Peacock who promised to give her 'a good feeling.' And I ignored her tears, because he said he'd please her.
Maybe if I hadn't been loopy, the only way I could "be" with One, I might have noticed that me and he weren't the same, and I could have judged him like the others.
Annie, I'm sorry, please just shine once more.
Even if you're afraid of me and my wickedness, don't be sucked into the gloom, because I can't offer advice to resurface, when I think there's none.
Now, there's Zero for me to turn to, because that's what I am. I am empty. I suppose that's what happens when I trust a boy who leaves, yearn for one who's weak, and think I've the durability to rely on myself (but I've equaled a pitch black crater for a while now).
You're more clear now, Warden. I can understand why you've taken everything. Since nothing I had would give me my fairyland ending. But where's my reward? I need my gift first, because these feet don't know which direction to head, and it's more like I was holding onto rocks that cut me while they warmed me. My feet kick against the waves, but in this half-in half-out position I can't get a good momentum, so a hand now would be nice.
My stories, did they surprise? I hear all this chatter about monsters, but I think we've got them wrong. Monsters simply have a hold one you, and there's no release before you've no choice but to part. They are strong, and it's true that I saw nothing stronger than the Willow. Only my jailer saw my potential, and he directed me to Zero. He asked for recognition so that I knew my task was not optional and he raised my walls until I stood there, lonely - pushed into belief in myself. But now I am the strongest I know, and I am walking on wind, and from up here I cannot see a single barrier. But Warden, don't you ever leave because if those walls break for a second and I see my demons, I know I'll lose flight and beg them to come back. And that would be the end, because there's no chance Number Four.