alec-boardman - Hello Poetry

I ****** up. I mean like I really ****** it up this time. I don’t know what I said wrong But I’m sorry. I’d pray you aren’t mad at me If I believed in a god. But I don’t So I just look for people to blame and Oh look! I choose myself. God. This is the worst. I’m going to be alone forever. Oh. Never mind. He texted back

0

May 2, 2017

May 2, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC

I Mean, Basically

I ****** up. I mean like I really ****** it up this time. I don’t know what I said wrong But I’m sorry. I’d pray you aren’t mad at me If I believed in a god. But I don’t So I just look for people to blame and Oh look! I choose myself. God. This is the worst. I’m going to be alone forever. Oh. Never mind. He texted back

17

So I have this reoccurring dream where I rush to my childhood home and Open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the familiarity of the smell of day old crackers masked by Febreze. My eyes search to find a cage full of rats. I have never owned a rat. Yet, there are about 20 of the fuzzy little guys Gnawing at the bars of the cage, pink paws grabbing and clutching, exasperated squeaks escaping their mouths as if to say “Help me!” or “Welcome home!”, my subconscious isn’t smart enough to clarify which. I open the cage, A few of them are dead. Stiff. Small. Dead. Instead of waiting to mourn I quickly scoop up the others in my arms Cuddling them close. The scenery changes to a pirate ship in the way that dreams do. Slowly and in a way that sort of makes you dizzy but your dream self doesn’t even notice and it only starts to mess you up when you’re thinking about it while eating Froot Loops two days later. The rats are afraid and hurry out of my arms I desperately try to scramble them up But one by one they all fall overboard. Now, I aced AP Psychology, so I know how to interpret this There are 3 theories on dreams. Information processing theory says dreams sort, sift, and fix a day's experience into memories. I don’t remember losing my precious rats on a pirate ship. So that isn’t it. Problem solving theory says dreams are the continuity of waking thought but without the constraints of logic or realism. That dreams are meant for solving your problems. It suggests my rats are metaphors. I love rats, and if rats are problems, what does that say about me? That I keep trying to hold my issues and insecurities close to me but can’t juggle them all? That all my chances keep falling and dying and I’m losing my sense of self. That I need a reason to be the victim in every situation so I will never have to take responsibility for my actions and I can pretend like my faults never happened. And what about the pirate ship? Like, I don’t even like pirates so why would I put myself in a place I hate and then cling to disgusting faults like they’re precious. None of this makes sense, except maybe it does and I refuse to admit it, I’m in denial, I don’t want to get better I want to stay in this awful cycle forever. But activation synthesis theory says dreams are a product of activity in the brain. The cerebral cortex attempts to make sense of neural firings by creating a story. In other words, dreams have no meaning. So this whole poem. Is worthless. As worthless as a rat. A small. Fuzzy. Loving. Yet short-lived rat.

0

May 2, 2017

May 2, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC

The One About The Dream

So I have this reoccurring dream where I rush to my childhood home and Open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the familiarity of the smell of day old crackers masked by Febreze. My eyes search to find a cage full of rats. I have never owned a rat. Yet, there are about 20 of the fuzzy little guys Gnawing at the bars of the cage, pink paws grabbing and clutching, exasperated squeaks escaping their mouths as if to say “Help me!” or “Welcome home!”, my subconscious isn’t smart enough to clarify which. I open the cage, A few of them are dead. Stiff. Small. Dead. Instead of waiting to mourn I quickly scoop up the others in my arms Cuddling them close. The scenery changes to a pirate ship in the way that dreams do. Slowly and in a way that sort of makes you dizzy but your dream self doesn’t even notice and it only starts to mess you up when you’re thinking about it while eating Froot Loops two days later. The rats are afraid and hurry out of my arms I desperately try to scramble them up But one by one they all fall overboard. Now, I aced AP Psychology, so I know how to interpret this There are 3 theories on dreams. Information processing theory says dreams sort, sift, and fix a day's experience into memories. I don’t remember losing my precious rats on a pirate ship. So that isn’t it. Problem solving theory says dreams are the continuity of waking thought but without the constraints of logic or realism. That dreams are meant for solving your problems. It suggests my rats are metaphors. I love rats, and if rats are problems, what does that say about me? That I keep trying to hold my issues and insecurities close to me but can’t juggle them all? That all my chances keep falling and dying and I’m losing my sense of self. That I need a reason to be the victim in every situation so I will never have to take responsibility for my actions and I can pretend like my faults never happened. And what about the pirate ship? Like, I don’t even like pirates so why would I put myself in a place I hate and then cling to disgusting faults like they’re precious. None of this makes sense, except maybe it does and I refuse to admit it, I’m in denial, I don’t want to get better I want to stay in this awful cycle forever. But activation synthesis theory says dreams are a product of activity in the brain. The cerebral cortex attempts to make sense of neural firings by creating a story. In other words, dreams have no meaning. So this whole poem. Is worthless. As worthless as a rat. A small. Fuzzy. Loving. Yet short-lived rat.

29

Mother warned me not to be too absorbed In the mirror. I need to instead pay attention To the world around me. “To form an identity, One needs not to worry about perfection.” She said. But, mother, you are apathetic If I am anything but. I calm my impulses. I buy and obsess over material possessions by impulse. Catch me with a teen magazine, completely absorbed As I block out the real world with an apathetic Attitude. As I sit and read, I pay attention To the celebrities who demonstrate perfection. I will copy their traits to form my identity. Lost in this dreary world, searching for identity, I collect people’s personalities, stealing them on impulse. Searching for happiness coincides with the pursuit of perfection. I laugh at those who say I am self absorbed, That say I am only looking for attention, When it comes to criticism, I am apathetic. I don’t care that I come off as apathetic. It just happens to be part of my identity. I don’t do it for attention. Or maybe I do? I’m too impulsive. I’m only this way because I’m self absorbed. Obsessed with the idea of perfection. I look at myself and all I see is perfection. Others may see me with nothing but apathetic Stares, but they are simply too absorbed With their own problems of their identities. Not my fault that they don’t feel the impulse To love me. I don’t need their petty attention. That was a lie, I live for attention. Can’t everyone see I am the human embodiment of perfection? Without their validation, I may act on my impulses. And then when they ask why I did it, I will be too apathetic To care. Dangerous and beautiful is my identity. It isn’t so bad to be self absorbed. I am absorbed in myself, desperate for attention My identity relies solely on the thought of perfection I am only apathetic because I care too much about myself. Here they come again, the impulses

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC

@ My Narcissism: Please Stop

Mother warned me not to be too absorbed In the mirror. I need to instead pay attention To the world around me. “To form an identity, One needs not to worry about perfection.” She said. But, mother, you are apathetic If I am anything but. I calm my impulses. I buy and obsess over material possessions by impulse. Catch me with a teen magazine, completely absorbed As I block out the real world with an apathetic Attitude. As I sit and read, I pay attention To the celebrities who demonstrate perfection. I will copy their traits to form my identity. Lost in this dreary world, searching for identity, I collect people’s personalities, stealing them on impulse. Searching for happiness coincides with the pursuit of perfection. I laugh at those who say I am self absorbed, That say I am only looking for attention, When it comes to criticism, I am apathetic. I don’t care that I come off as apathetic. It just happens to be part of my identity. I don’t do it for attention. Or maybe I do? I’m too impulsive. I’m only this way because I’m self absorbed. Obsessed with the idea of perfection. I look at myself and all I see is perfection. Others may see me with nothing but apathetic Stares, but they are simply too absorbed With their own problems of their identities. Not my fault that they don’t feel the impulse To love me. I don’t need their petty attention. That was a lie, I live for attention. Can’t everyone see I am the human embodiment of perfection? Without their validation, I may act on my impulses. And then when they ask why I did it, I will be too apathetic To care. Dangerous and beautiful is my identity. It isn’t so bad to be self absorbed. I am absorbed in myself, desperate for attention My identity relies solely on the thought of perfection I am only apathetic because I care too much about myself. Here they come again, the impulses

39

What do you want from me? Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me? Have I not suffered enough in this pitiful life? All I ask is to have a stable identity and sense of self But you come creeping into my development and overtake Labels are nothing Labels are everything No in between with anything, Black and white thinking Love or hate Mania or depression In the span of 5 minutes. The only constant you allow me to feel is my hatred for you. Every moment is a swirling vortex of losing hope and Clinging to anyone who so much as smiles in my direction But I suppose When everything is switching Faster than a traffic light Because of you. The thing to be most thankful for Is to be able to hold onto you. Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me? My only sense of self, since you change everything else

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC

Apostrophe to my Mental Illness

What do you want from me? Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me? Have I not suffered enough in this pitiful life? All I ask is to have a stable identity and sense of self But you come creeping into my development and overtake Labels are nothing Labels are everything No in between with anything, Black and white thinking Love or hate Mania or depression In the span of 5 minutes. The only constant you allow me to feel is my hatred for you. Every moment is a swirling vortex of losing hope and Clinging to anyone who so much as smiles in my direction But I suppose When everything is switching Faster than a traffic light Because of you. The thing to be most thankful for Is to be able to hold onto you. Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me? My only sense of self, since you change everything else

23

A wind chime old and rusting on your grandmother’s porch The song not as clear as it once was The new tune so softly eerie that to a passerby it seems just fine Waking up five minutes before your alarm Sitting on your bed, wide awake Just watching the time tick pass, minutes of your life Until you’re past the time to go In the idle of traffic, you become aware Of all the movement around you Babies whine, horns honk, people sing Yet here you are What are you doing? Are you doing anything at all? Your bed is a coffin, dusty from the days you don’t open it at all The sunlight is foreign to your eyes People prance around you, basking in its glory They don’t even blink at your inability to see the light. In the cemetery, Gravestones surround you, Bodies of the lost and souls of the ****** You can’t help but resonate somewhere deep inside your soul. Not that you wish to be dead, no. Just that it seems you already are.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC

My BPD Has Turned Me Into A Ghost (a.k.a. Borderline Ghost Disorder)

A wind chime old and rusting on your grandmother’s porch The song not as clear as it once was The new tune so softly eerie that to a passerby it seems just fine Waking up five minutes before your alarm Sitting on your bed, wide awake Just watching the time tick pass, minutes of your life Until you’re past the time to go In the idle of traffic, you become aware Of all the movement around you Babies whine, horns honk, people sing Yet here you are What are you doing? Are you doing anything at all? Your bed is a coffin, dusty from the days you don’t open it at all The sunlight is foreign to your eyes People prance around you, basking in its glory They don’t even blink at your inability to see the light. In the cemetery, Gravestones surround you, Bodies of the lost and souls of the ****** You can’t help but resonate somewhere deep inside your soul. Not that you wish to be dead, no. Just that it seems you already are.

23

Rushing through never seemed so lovely Do I have to do this again? How much time until it ends? Phase through the routine and Put up with the words spat in your face like venom Who can blame you for being lazy? It isn’t laziness making you this way This is a universal feeling that no one knows how to explain A lot of people don’t even know it’s there Like A poison slowly seeping into the gases we breathe So subtle we barely even notice as it overtakes us Controls us But we are all under the veil of a lie that this is just how we are Maybe it isn’t this day making us all mindless robots Maybe it isn’t just enhancing our already full glass of depression Maybe it’s ******* away at the energy of before And maybe it’s doing nothing at all. Since time is a concept, we just all search for things to blame for our own faults Are we doing the same with this? We have so much to look forward to. That’s all we truly care about. A self centered shallow cry for excitement that we buzz through what we could also be making exciting We treat this day like a ghost fogging up our glasses when it is truly an opportunity smacked down into the middle of it all. We all need a break, yes. But what are we really taking a break from?

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC

Wednesday

Rushing through never seemed so lovely Do I have to do this again? How much time until it ends? Phase through the routine and Put up with the words spat in your face like venom Who can blame you for being lazy? It isn’t laziness making you this way This is a universal feeling that no one knows how to explain A lot of people don’t even know it’s there Like A poison slowly seeping into the gases we breathe So subtle we barely even notice as it overtakes us Controls us But we are all under the veil of a lie that this is just how we are Maybe it isn’t this day making us all mindless robots Maybe it isn’t just enhancing our already full glass of depression Maybe it’s ******* away at the energy of before And maybe it’s doing nothing at all. Since time is a concept, we just all search for things to blame for our own faults Are we doing the same with this? We have so much to look forward to. That’s all we truly care about. A self centered shallow cry for excitement that we buzz through what we could also be making exciting We treat this day like a ghost fogging up our glasses when it is truly an opportunity smacked down into the middle of it all. We all need a break, yes. But what are we really taking a break from?

26

Three in the afternoon and everything is fuzzy You feel the familiar prickling under your skin and welcome it with open arms But you can’t feel your arms This vessel isn’t your body But at the same time it is You’re watching yourself lay there hopelessly while you pray and scream And cry Oh, God, please don’t let me die. But you aren’t dead But are you even alive? A bittersweet medium where nothing is real and your chest is on fire You live in the flames, you feel yourself escape the trap of gravity And you are floating The bed you lay on is no longer touching you You are in the air, weightless, but only for a few moments before You crash down to earth and farther And farther down more Falling into endless Painless Void. Am I alone? Am I real? Words ramble off the tongues of a homely face But the words got mixed up in Google translate Foreign words ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if If you are really experiencing everything you are Or if you’re just playing make believe with yourself. Back to nothing. Always everything but.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC

Is This What They Call Dissociation?

Three in the afternoon and everything is fuzzy You feel the familiar prickling under your skin and welcome it with open arms But you can’t feel your arms This vessel isn’t your body But at the same time it is You’re watching yourself lay there hopelessly while you pray and scream And cry Oh, God, please don’t let me die. But you aren’t dead But are you even alive? A bittersweet medium where nothing is real and your chest is on fire You live in the flames, you feel yourself escape the trap of gravity And you are floating The bed you lay on is no longer touching you You are in the air, weightless, but only for a few moments before You crash down to earth and farther And farther down more Falling into endless Painless Void. Am I alone? Am I real? Words ramble off the tongues of a homely face But the words got mixed up in Google translate Foreign words ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if If you are really experiencing everything you are Or if you’re just playing make believe with yourself. Back to nothing. Always everything but.

28

Fingers type aggressively into the night as I stare at the screen of my phone. A group debate about whether or not applying deodorant to your ****** will stop the chronic itching is being played out We all smile and laugh. For the record, it totally will. The discussion of memes enthrals my mind as I relax into the cotton comforter. The feeling of satisfaction travels through my veins as I embrace the friendship I have and the light, playful conversation taking place. Anxiety and paranoia settle in and take their well worn places in my mind. Like icy blue dragons, they curl around my thoughts, just waiting for these people who will soon be irrelevant to leave me. The words they type about Harambe have no meaning But the words they think about what I say in return imprison me. Fear of abandonment creeps in as I swirl the aspects of my personality into a hue that will convince them not to drop me in a ditch. I know, not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve seen it happen, that my trust in them will be burned to ashes eventually and I’ll be yet Another traitor to the fragile glass of friendships that we all hold together. Just waiting for them to use my insecurities against me like a time bomb ticking Ticking Ticking in my ear. And I can’t see the timer. But I laugh along. And send a relevant emoji. They laugh at my jokes and I can’t stop thinking about how soon enough they’ll be laughing at Me.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC

Social Anxiety My Old Friend

Fingers type aggressively into the night as I stare at the screen of my phone. A group debate about whether or not applying deodorant to your ****** will stop the chronic itching is being played out We all smile and laugh. For the record, it totally will. The discussion of memes enthrals my mind as I relax into the cotton comforter. The feeling of satisfaction travels through my veins as I embrace the friendship I have and the light, playful conversation taking place. Anxiety and paranoia settle in and take their well worn places in my mind. Like icy blue dragons, they curl around my thoughts, just waiting for these people who will soon be irrelevant to leave me. The words they type about Harambe have no meaning But the words they think about what I say in return imprison me. Fear of abandonment creeps in as I swirl the aspects of my personality into a hue that will convince them not to drop me in a ditch. I know, not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve seen it happen, that my trust in them will be burned to ashes eventually and I’ll be yet Another traitor to the fragile glass of friendships that we all hold together. Just waiting for them to use my insecurities against me like a time bomb ticking Ticking Ticking in my ear. And I can’t see the timer. But I laugh along. And send a relevant emoji. They laugh at my jokes and I can’t stop thinking about how soon enough they’ll be laughing at Me.

21

If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto. Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem. If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese. No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true. No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be. If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most. If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me. Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC

If I Were A Planet

If I were a planet, I would be as debated as Pluto. Scientists eons away that have no business with me and probably never will discussing all of my qualities to pinpoint me into a label they've created to push me like a pinball machine into different slots of make believe self esteem. If I were a planet, I would be the one whose moon is speculated to be made of cheese. No one quite aware of what really lies out there but it's fun to dream up stories and ideas that we know will never be true. No matter how damaging to this solemn planet's reputation in its universe these folk tales may be. If I were a planet, my sun would have an oval shaped revolution, sometimes close and sometimes far, moving its inspiration along on its route and leaving just when my people need it the most. If I were a planet, my living organisms would speak in tongues unknowing to even me. Desperately searching every tick in them to see how they view their home, but always confusing me as I spin on my axis round and round.

8

Feet don’t fail me now. I can’t look back, no way to go but forward I need to stand tall so no one can push me down I have to march on and pull away from the sticky bubblegum of my mistakes to rise up and grow higher than anyone ever could This world needs a hero, and I sure ain’t that, but I sure am going to try People push you down, but you have to pour in courage like the yeast in the recipe of your ideal self so you can rise to defeat all that will challenge you Break free of the chains made of liquorice and spit on the crushed toys of the past to become someone no one expected you to be Laugh at the quests others have said were undefeatable as you stomp them into the ground Snicker when they say you can’t With the flame burning in your chest, write in big firey letters the names of those who have crossed you and take the ocean of tears they’ve forced you to produce to wash them all out They are nothing You can do anything as long as you Keep Standing Tall.

0

Mar 24, 2017

Mar 24, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC

I Don't Remember Writing This, Which Says A Lot

Feet don’t fail me now. I can’t look back, no way to go but forward I need to stand tall so no one can push me down I have to march on and pull away from the sticky bubblegum of my mistakes to rise up and grow higher than anyone ever could This world needs a hero, and I sure ain’t that, but I sure am going to try People push you down, but you have to pour in courage like the yeast in the recipe of your ideal self so you can rise to defeat all that will challenge you Break free of the chains made of liquorice and spit on the crushed toys of the past to become someone no one expected you to be Laugh at the quests others have said were undefeatable as you stomp them into the ground Snicker when they say you can’t With the flame burning in your chest, write in big firey letters the names of those who have crossed you and take the ocean of tears they’ve forced you to produce to wash them all out They are nothing You can do anything as long as you Keep Standing Tall.

15