What is it about the night
That makes me feel more lonely than the day?

How can I miss the sun
When it still hangs in the sky
Only hidden behind the moon

Maybe it's because at night
Everyone is hidden behind their moon
And I am behind
Waiting for my time in the sun

- p.d.e

Breath in.
Breath out.
You're fine.
For now.
But how long can I stay hidden?
Soon they will find me.
I don't know how much longer I can bare this pain.
Its more than just emotional,
Its physical too.
But I have to hide it.
The bruises on my arms,
"I just fell."
The scratches and cuts on me,
"It was my cat."
Lies.
It was them.
My parents.

It was creepy, eerie, so tangible.

You knocked on my bedroom door.
You walked in so slowly.

As you approached me, my heartbeat hastened.
You sat down right in front of me and our eyes met.

Your hand reached out to me and we hugged.
I held you so close.

I dreamt of you last night.
I remember reassuring myself it was real.

When people read my poetry
they all have the same question
"Why does your poetry have to be so sad?"
The question used to offend me
I used to think that question deserved an answer
I even started changing the kind of poems I wrote to please the people who read them
I was satisfied with my work
but it wasn't really me
I began to feel guilty
I began to feel like a fraud
Charles Bukowski once wrote
"a good writer must simply let it all go, regardless"
I'm sure he meant for those words to mean something else but for me
it was as if I was being reminded to stop allowing other people to have control over my writing
It's not every day I gain advice from someone who has passed on years before I was ever born
I no longer feel the need to answer everybody's question
Hell I even ask myself from time to time
"Mandie, why must your poetry be so sad?"
Depression is another language to me
I speak it well
I write it well
I know it well
Bottom line
if my poetry is too sad for you
then don't read it

you said you loved me,
a single lilac among others.
prettier, you said.
sweeter, softer.
you loved my delicacy,
sense of solitude,
my endearing growth.
however,
sprouts whither,
and I find
myself asking
why must you
always turn back
to smell
the roses.

I always make people happy

I make laughs
And smiles

No one makes me happy
Or laugh , smile

I've lived in so
Many houses
I've never had a home

I swam in a swimming pool
So much water in my head
I drowned

I was deep down
I can't breathe air anymore


All i see from underwater is
Smiles
And the laughs

The blue waves
On the surface