Now,
18 is a smidge too old
to be worried about things
jumping from my closet,
but I still feel uncomfortable
when it's even just
kinda sorta almost open
and I find myself
bracing for trauma
for just the teeniest second
when I need to grab my bag.
you see,
the thing is,
I've been scared for so long.
I've been scared since I was a child
but when I was a child
my closets had no doors
and they were across the room.
I was too busy being scared
of the giant in the room next to mine
to even notice them.
I was scared of bruises
and coming home.
I was scared of not seeing my refection
in the dishes
and I was scared of seeing myself
too clearly.
now I'm an adult
and I've grown up
and out of that fear.
Now I'm just angry
because I'm still bunking it
with a madman,
with everything I've come to loathe
because I was too busy being terrified
to put my life together,
so now I stare at my closet
until I don't
and sometimes when I don't
I lie still enough
to feel like I'm not alive,
but I guess that's just life.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:09 AM UTC
Did you mean what you said
Or was it a blurry, drunk moment?
Am I paranoid,
Or was something left unspoken?
Because I pictured a husband
And daughters and sons
Much too fast for my mind to grab hold of.
Successful,
Hell even college educated,
I wasn't there for your future though
I stuck through it for ours.
You told me your feelings
And I stuck through that too
I stuck through it for me
And for you.
My anxiety has spiked
But you're not heir to my problems
And least that much I'd decided
Because you havent been depressed a day in your life
And boy I've never seen that.
Why does my heartbeat
Sound more like a scream
Why are my lungs collapsing on me?
What are you doing in my sudden time of need?
Boy,
What the **** are you doing to me?
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC
but i am putting it down
until it hurts
and grips me vicariously
'til i'm twisted around-
i'm turned into a mug's handle
it's the same plastic feeling
i had before
i miss the solid glass,
and the strips of wood
i teased with my angel fingers
the mirror couldn't see me
today
i didn't let it.
how could i?
my eyes are too small, here
shaggy planet earth
was invaded in 1981
beginning with my first soul:
i was so young
i didn't know better
tossed out, i'm left to drink up
the abundance of this world.
swallowing more light and dark
than my small eyes can;
i turned to ethanol.
hemingway entered my life
in the fall of '09
i couldn't have been more in love.
maybe that's why
i'm pen in one hand, drink in the other.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
I tried to write a book once
i titled it
Sparked,
but the plot was dull.
Ironic.
I tried to tell myself
I could write
I had some poems
and I thought too much,
Little did I know
I wasn’t close and
all I had were repeating lyrics
that filled my thoughts
and kept me up at night.
They were meaningless
I swear
I’d plan out speeches in my head
tell people what I think about
and why I didn’t try enough.
Excuses.
Every time it came to speak
I rumpled up
even though i’d memorized it
in my sleep.
I’d try to write it
but my meaning would hide
it was written behind the lines.
Jumbled metaphors and
tacky similes
became my family.
Not even they knew
that behind closed doors
was a feeling I couldn’t afford
I wasn’t adored.
School mattered more
I ate too much
and every one knew the class bore
“ it was you”
Assumptions
they blame me for
that which I haven’t done
they care for me?
none.
The poster child
on the thrown away copies.
I watch people step on
caterpillars
complain about the lack
of butterflies,
beauty.
It’s not what I see
it’s not what i’m called.
Different.
But not unique.
Age 15
but boys make me snore
no one gets that
so the topics quite sore.
I think if I rhyme
it’ll be less
serious
because i’m not.
Serious.
I’ll talk about the things
that hurt me most
nonchalantly
because I care too much.
I’d ignore the ones who knew me
for the ones I wanted to know.
Clingy,
to everything
but my own.
I was lost at sea
the captain of my ship
but not knowing
how to steer.
I guess I fell asleep
in that class.
Not that it mattered,
stranded on
land or water
I was already lost
I’ve already had
my fair share of
disasters,
but everything is worse
than this.
Everything is worse
than not having friends.
I’m a lucky one
invalidated in the least
but hey
I have food to eat.
I have a roof
and teachers who care more
about who I can be
than who I was.
Than who I still am.
Potential.
Lacking in my eyes,
yet overflowing.
Students ask me for help
yet they have better grades.
Implies I don't apply myself.
True.
Denies to have the time
for help.
Pure apathy,
but still praying
for some empathy.
I’m sick from school
or sick of being there.
I go home
sleep until dusk
remind myself to brush off the dust
homework
not of essence
tell that to my
61 F
no effort.
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
Red is unique.
Red is love,
But also anger.
It's passion.
I've dyed my hair red
5 times and my father says,
"You're being fake."
I am a force to be reckoned with,
I do not answer to fake
Red is unique and he doesn't see this.
You can't make purple a natural color for hair
And you can't make brown an unnatural color
But you can soak me in ginger
And make me a glorious fire truck
Let me will rain on others.
When I started wearing makeup
It was a passion I couldn't afford
So I ignored it.
I would hide in the bathrooms though with the few things
I could buy myself
And I'd mock my Father.
Red lipstick made me a *****
I didn't wear it in public,
But on that bathroom floor I flaunted it.
Pink didn't look right on me
And purple made my teeth look yellow.
Red was bold though.
No one misses red lipstick,
Not even on an unfamiliar face.
Red's not my favorite color
Or anything.
But everything I do will always be red.
Red will hold my hate.
Red will show my compassion for anyone who was kind
And lent more than a judging glance
I am a thousand different waivering things,
But red will always be me.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC