she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
you always said your favorite color was blue
Like the sky crashing into an ocean at midnight
your room, it was painted blue like easter eggs we used to make and then end up throwing them at each other
the walls that you put up around you, I liked to think of them as blue
but not like the sky crashing into the ocean or the easter eggs
your walls I liked to think of them as a shade of blue that was so dark it was almost black
my favorite color was always black, go figure, our friends they would call us
black and blue
like the bruises I would get when you were drunk and it was late and you couldn't control yourself
you would always apologize with brownies, a lopsided smile, and a white letter laced with the early horizon blue
that was always my favorite shade of blue
when you had left me you had left me a card that was black laced with blue and it said that you couldn't stand to hurt me any longer
I understand why you did it but what you don't know is that I am still black and blue it's just on the inside now and after everything, what you don't know is that I would've preferred your version of black and blue
because in the morning I would get brownies, your lopsided smile, and a card with my favorite shade of blue
and now my mornings are filled with bitter disappointment, ashes of my gray heart, and and cards that are only black in the back of my mind
I like to think blue is still your favorite color and that wherever you are you know that black is still mine
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
There are moments.
I want to scream
Your name
Out loud
Not so everyone could
Hear
But so I could
Loud and clear
To let it surround me
To remind me of
Your eyes
Your smile
The awkward
The lovely
You are
All these things
To me
You are
Who you are
I would drown in
Your ocean
Just to breathe
Your air
To bask in
Your sunshine
I would scream
Your name
Out loud
So I might feel,
Somehow
You could
Surround
Me.
-D.D.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
More blood drawn for no apparent reason.
Things may be okay, but I am not.
My body will be my canvas, that nobody will see.
My scars will be a masterpiece, but only in my dreams.
I want the pain.
Or is it pleasure?
Since I get so much joy from the crimson blood forming on my thigh.
I am a *********
I want it, I need it.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
"I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you."
Now you see, I am your spaniel, no matter now much you hurt me, I will always be faithful to you, I will always be yours.
You could break my heart one million times, and it would still rebuild itself to fit you.
I am unworthy of you, but still I am drawn to you.
I am broken, but you can fix me.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Is it bad to want the feeling of the blade slice through my pale flesh?
To see the blood form in beads on the thin lines on my thigh?
Not even flinching as the blade pierces my skin and laughing when it's over.
It's like I am drawn to the blade,
It's right there for me to pick up and scar my precious skin.
I get told to stop, but I do it again and again.
Like my flesh is asking to be cut.
Normal.
That's what it is for me now.
I used to do it for a reason, but now I do it to feel something other than pain.
To feel something other than the pain and hurt I am continuously reminded of.
So fast things change, from a young, innocent, happy child.
To a dark, pained, scarred teenager.
Oh well.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
That sense of release, that sense of happiness.
Like a drug to some, a painful memory for others.
But it's the same sense of release.
The same sense of release that made some girl **** herself, the same that made some boy hurt others.
It's all dangerous.
Not that anyone cares, they keep doing it.
They keep hurting themselves until they've done something wrong.
They've burned their flesh too much, they've cut a nerve.
It's all the same and no one can stop it.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
All I need is pen and paper,
So I can drown my sorrows,
In words.
Lots and lots of words,
All meaningless to others,
But everything to me.
Some are happy,
But most are sad.
Because sad is what I am.
I touch the ink to the blank page,
The words start pouring out.
Until there's no room.
Stuck with a dilemma,
I must keep it inside.
Because I have no pen and paper.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 6:47 AM UTC