she used to smoke imaginary cigarettes
in an imaginary cafe
his imaginary arms
she was folding in imaginary
and feel really
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 7:34 AM UTC
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
Thick and sweet
Stream
Memories wash me
And take me away
In the sea of infinities
They release me
And I'm the half alive star
And float and float and float I do
Like a wandered bird in a hurricane
Some of the memories give me shoes of lead
And some hand me helium balloons
And every second water goes underneath my feathers
It's coldness tears apart my existence like thousands of blades
Maybe for one time
For one time I should open my hands
And like a piece of wood
Still
Float and with the infinite measurements
Get away from humanity beach
#beautiful_scar
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
She was standing invisible
By the noisy stage
Fleeing from the blinding light
From poisoning people
Suddenly her song has played
She danced and danced and danced
Climbed the night up
Slid the notes down
Each curve formed into a masterpiece
Each beat brought her up and up and up
Each tune leaded her to the farthest zenith
And suddenly
Her song finished...
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
I'm the wounded swallow
With a needle in my arm and multiple doses of thoughts
I'm god of the world
That doesn't belong to me
Drowned in my bath
My own ocean
As deep as thoughts
As sweet as dreams
As dark as past
I still have that artist fingers
Which leaks the truth
The sharp knives that tears apart
I have demons behind my eyes
A stone in my chest
An aimed heart in my head, which I call brain
My candle still burns
By a different flame
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC