beetleboo52 - Hello Poetry

Thump Thump. Butterflies crawl in my chest. Thoughts swirl around in my head. I can’t focus or see straight. This is anxiety. And it’s not something I talk about often, though it’s more common than one might think, where my heart pounds so loud and anxious thoughts threaten to drown out everything that makes me, Me. You see, my brain sees simple things incorrectly. Texts and sometimes the thought of leaving the house sends adrenaline coursing through my system like a thousand shots of caffeine into my bloodstream. The logical parts of me fled on the first flight out of town, leaving me to feel the tremors and full force tsunami on the ground. Anxiety is a lot like love, but it’s a battle not a dance. A lifetime, not five minutes. Unlike love, it’s often violent. But just like love, it’s quite silent. Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger. Like fear, but it lasts longer. Writing this poem has quelled the qualms that anxiety often spells. I wish that I could be honest about this part of me. But it's one of those things you’re trained not to talk about from a young age. Because unless you’re depressed, medicated, or heaven forbid you’re not seeing a therapist, then it’s not bad enough to qualify. It’s not big enough to report. I’m not suffering enough. But if you could just feel my heart beating fast. If you could interpret the swell of my tell-tale blush. If you could whisk your fingers through all of my thoughts. If you could only hear all of the things I’m feeling but can’t quite express. Then you would know that my silence is telling. I may be smiling, but currently I’m fighting for sanity in my own mind. The mind I feel is no longer mine. I’m walking a dangerous tightrope slope. My mind is a minefield of poisonous butterflies. They threaten to swallow me alive, so I tread the violence quietly. I fear when I expose you to this side of me, you’ll only see anxiety or that maybe I’m lying. But anxiety is not me. I am more than mixed up brain signals. The rest of me is cardigans in the summer, because it’s cold inside. I am mock converse and ponytails and words on paper, thoughts poured out, slowly. I just feel anxious Sometimes. More than normal, actually. But I’m dealing with it. And I’m no less me.

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Sep 30, 2016

Sep 30, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC

The Beast Within

Thump Thump. Butterflies crawl in my chest. Thoughts swirl around in my head. I can’t focus or see straight. This is anxiety. And it’s not something I talk about often, though it’s more common than one might think, where my heart pounds so loud and anxious thoughts threaten to drown out everything that makes me, Me. You see, my brain sees simple things incorrectly. Texts and sometimes the thought of leaving the house sends adrenaline coursing through my system like a thousand shots of caffeine into my bloodstream. The logical parts of me fled on the first flight out of town, leaving me to feel the tremors and full force tsunami on the ground. Anxiety is a lot like love, but it’s a battle not a dance. A lifetime, not five minutes. Unlike love, it’s often violent. But just like love, it’s quite silent. Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger. Like fear, but it lasts longer. Writing this poem has quelled the qualms that anxiety often spells. I wish that I could be honest about this part of me. But it's one of those things you’re trained not to talk about from a young age. Because unless you’re depressed, medicated, or heaven forbid you’re not seeing a therapist, then it’s not bad enough to qualify. It’s not big enough to report. I’m not suffering enough. But if you could just feel my heart beating fast. If you could interpret the swell of my tell-tale blush. If you could whisk your fingers through all of my thoughts. If you could only hear all of the things I’m feeling but can’t quite express. Then you would know that my silence is telling. I may be smiling, but currently I’m fighting for sanity in my own mind. The mind I feel is no longer mine. I’m walking a dangerous tightrope slope. My mind is a minefield of poisonous butterflies. They threaten to swallow me alive, so I tread the violence quietly. I fear when I expose you to this side of me, you’ll only see anxiety or that maybe I’m lying. But anxiety is not me. I am more than mixed up brain signals. The rest of me is cardigans in the summer, because it’s cold inside. I am mock converse and ponytails and words on paper, thoughts poured out, slowly. I just feel anxious Sometimes. More than normal, actually. But I’m dealing with it. And I’m no less me.

83

We’re under a vast illusion. Somewhere along the line we came under this impression and somehow we think that we’ll always have it all together. Always have all of our strings wrapped perfectly around one finger. That the earth will always spin the right way. That the weight of the metaphorical world won’t tip our planet’s axis .2 centimeters to the right, uprooting the ground from underneath of all of us suddenly and all at once the balances shift, Kristallnacht. A German word. It means, simply, Crystal night. The night of broken glass. The night of broken people and shards of lives. The night everything fell apart, suddenly and all at once the scales re-arranged themselves, Kristallnacht. Mid-way into a thousand year reign of 12 years. The end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. The definition of destruction and the physical representation of a bubbling and spontaneous hatred. You see, we’re under a vast illusion. We think that the world will always look this way, That we’ll always be young forever. You see, she used to run through meadows, picking wildflowers and daisies, blowing dandelions and making carefree wishes. Running barefoot, arms splayed out, heart all akimbo through fields of forget-me-nots, singing about how he loves her, loves her not. Not a care in the world. Then the riots started and she couldn’t explain why the meadow she used to run in was suddenly full of stones with names tattooed on the front with a date. Overnight, the balances shifted and that 6 year old girl seemed to age 10 years. She saw it all. Beautiful faces, beautiful minds. She saw the world fall apart like fluttering hearts and butterfly wings at midnight. People coming back together in a huddle of broken promises and forgotten hallelujahs. A 1000 year reign cut short. She saw the end of the world as she knew it. Saw the careless hatred decimate her carefree meadow of daisies. She began to sing a new song. Picked a handful of forget-me-nots and chose to love like she did before the night the world ended.

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Apr 21, 2016

Apr 21, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC

The Night the World Ended

We’re under a vast illusion. Somewhere along the line we came under this impression and somehow we think that we’ll always have it all together. Always have all of our strings wrapped perfectly around one finger. That the earth will always spin the right way. That the weight of the metaphorical world won’t tip our planet’s axis .2 centimeters to the right, uprooting the ground from underneath of all of us suddenly and all at once the balances shift, Kristallnacht. A German word. It means, simply, Crystal night. The night of broken glass. The night of broken people and shards of lives. The night everything fell apart, suddenly and all at once the scales re-arranged themselves, Kristallnacht. Mid-way into a thousand year reign of 12 years. The end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. The definition of destruction and the physical representation of a bubbling and spontaneous hatred. You see, we’re under a vast illusion. We think that the world will always look this way, That we’ll always be young forever. You see, she used to run through meadows, picking wildflowers and daisies, blowing dandelions and making carefree wishes. Running barefoot, arms splayed out, heart all akimbo through fields of forget-me-nots, singing about how he loves her, loves her not. Not a care in the world. Then the riots started and she couldn’t explain why the meadow she used to run in was suddenly full of stones with names tattooed on the front with a date. Overnight, the balances shifted and that 6 year old girl seemed to age 10 years. She saw it all. Beautiful faces, beautiful minds. She saw the world fall apart like fluttering hearts and butterfly wings at midnight. People coming back together in a huddle of broken promises and forgotten hallelujahs. A 1000 year reign cut short. She saw the end of the world as she knew it. Saw the careless hatred decimate her carefree meadow of daisies. She began to sing a new song. Picked a handful of forget-me-nots and chose to love like she did before the night the world ended.

83

I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals. I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred. Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift as if unsure if they should grace the world with their beauty or hold back with chagrin. Bodies burrow under blankets with banned books instead of men. I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a rainy day rather than a body lying next to me.

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Feb 27, 2016

Feb 27, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC

Song of Myself (a ****** imitation of Walt Whitman)

I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals. I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred. Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift as if unsure if they should grace the world with their beauty or hold back with chagrin. Bodies burrow under blankets with banned books instead of men. I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a rainy day rather than a body lying next to me.

10

Nine years of age is too young to understand that the distance that separates us is only One ocean.

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Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC

Miles to go

Nine years of age is too young to understand that the distance that separates us is only One ocean.

6

I sit at a table among present company. It's easy to say away my nerves. But the butterflies won't stay at bay within me.

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Dec 14, 2015

Dec 14, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC

Present-Tense.

I sit at a table among present company. It's easy to say away my nerves. But the butterflies won't stay at bay within me.

6

It's been nearly a month now. And I mark my days in numbers. Almost as if to remind me, that my days are also numbered. The numbers mark a new phase of my life, a new place of development. And the numbered dates are in a way, comforting. Number, slash. Number, slash. Number, slash. The pattern repeats consistently. In a way it's almost invariably and monotonously sickening. The numbered dates remind me that Today is exactly like Yesterday, and Tomorrow is exactly like Today. It's this sick and twisted cycle that I can't seem to break. So I think for now, I'll spend all of my Todays thinking of three reasons why Today is not Yesterday.

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Dec 2, 2015

Dec 2, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC

Numbered..

It's been nearly a month now. And I mark my days in numbers. Almost as if to remind me, that my days are also numbered. The numbers mark a new phase of my life, a new place of development. And the numbered dates are in a way, comforting. Number, slash. Number, slash. Number, slash. The pattern repeats consistently. In a way it's almost invariably and monotonously sickening. The numbered dates remind me that Today is exactly like Yesterday, and Tomorrow is exactly like Today. It's this sick and twisted cycle that I can't seem to break. So I think for now, I'll spend all of my Todays thinking of three reasons why Today is not Yesterday.

30

He left her standing there on a cold street corner and all she could really do was stare and pray that she could reverse the clock and retrace his steps. But the clock was set and any minute now, she was set to explode.

0

Oct 30, 2015

Oct 30, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC

Forty-Four

He left her standing there on a cold street corner and all she could really do was stare and pray that she could reverse the clock and retrace his steps. But the clock was set and any minute now, she was set to explode.

14

If I could pen a poem from all my regrets, I would fill up ten dozen notebooks. And if I could take back all the things I wished I hadn’t said, I could start my own branch of the U.S. public library. And if I could wrap it all up with one big gift-bow and present it to you, I would speak of the fragmented memories of all the times I spent with you. Because… Five years ago, in January, Hours turned into Minutes and Minutes slowed into Seconds. And then suddenly, all the time elapsed between us without warning. And your ticking time-piece turned out to be a homemade explosive you marked as ‘flammable’. And if I could have just one more minute to tell you that I love you, Just one more moment, to say that I’m sorry. Just…just one last second to say goodbye and to make sure you knew for sure what I always knew that you knew; Before the hours turn into minutes and trickle down into seconds Before all the time elapses in- between us… I would use those moments to tell you that I love you more than Mercury loves the sun, and that I long to see you once again just as Pluto longs to make one full rotation. And I would tell you I will always “see you later, alligator” and that in my dreams, you will always be my "crocodile-lover." And how I’ll always go back to Summers of how your fuzzy mustache tickled my innocence during our special eskimo kisses. And that I’ll forever remember how you pushed me on the swings singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame," And how you whispered to me sweet nothings of how I always was your favorite. And I’ll always remember that you loved candied orange slices, gummy bears, sugar smacks and your “top secret” chocolate stash almost as much as you loved your precious cigarettes, almost as much as you loved me. And I’d tell you that I’m still scared of lawnmowers, Grandpa, And that I’m scared that there’s no man who will love me like you did, And that I’m scared that growing up will make me forget. Because it’s six years and six million tears later. And I wish I could tell you how many things have changed. But the most important things will always remain the same. Because, Everyday the hours turn into Sixty Minutes and the Sixty Minutes turn into Sixty Seconds and the time still elapses between all of us as you sing me softly to sleep Even from below Six feet.

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Oct 13, 2015

Oct 13, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC

to my "Crocodile-Lover"

If I could pen a poem from all my regrets, I would fill up ten dozen notebooks. And if I could take back all the things I wished I hadn’t said, I could start my own branch of the U.S. public library. And if I could wrap it all up with one big gift-bow and present it to you, I would speak of the fragmented memories of all the times I spent with you. Because… Five years ago, in January, Hours turned into Minutes and Minutes slowed into Seconds. And then suddenly, all the time elapsed between us without warning. And your ticking time-piece turned out to be a homemade explosive you marked as ‘flammable’. And if I could have just one more minute to tell you that I love you, Just one more moment, to say that I’m sorry. Just…just one last second to say goodbye and to make sure you knew for sure what I always knew that you knew; Before the hours turn into minutes and trickle down into seconds Before all the time elapses in- between us… I would use those moments to tell you that I love you more than Mercury loves the sun, and that I long to see you once again just as Pluto longs to make one full rotation. And I would tell you I will always “see you later, alligator” and that in my dreams, you will always be my "crocodile-lover." And how I’ll always go back to Summers of how your fuzzy mustache tickled my innocence during our special eskimo kisses. And that I’ll forever remember how you pushed me on the swings singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame," And how you whispered to me sweet nothings of how I always was your favorite. And I’ll always remember that you loved candied orange slices, gummy bears, sugar smacks and your “top secret” chocolate stash almost as much as you loved your precious cigarettes, almost as much as you loved me. And I’d tell you that I’m still scared of lawnmowers, Grandpa, And that I’m scared that there’s no man who will love me like you did, And that I’m scared that growing up will make me forget. Because it’s six years and six million tears later. And I wish I could tell you how many things have changed. But the most important things will always remain the same. Because, Everyday the hours turn into Sixty Minutes and the Sixty Minutes turn into Sixty Seconds and the time still elapses between all of us as you sing me softly to sleep Even from below Six feet.

90

Old Dan Tucker and endless hours of hanging out at that little coffee-shop-convenience-store you liked turned into hours of writing about the fragmented memories I have of the time I spent with you. Five years ago, in January, Hours turned into Minutes and Minutes slowed into Seconds. And then suddenly, all the time elapsed between us And your ticking clock turned out to be a homemade explosive you marked as ‘flammable’. But my clock still ticks on, and deep inside of me, it’s forever set to summer. Summers I spent hours with you; playing Old Dan tucker on the piano, and singing while you pushed me on the swings and I screamed with utmost delight and glee. I begged you to let me soar higher and higher, still, far away to heights unknown and forever un-dreamt about. Even back then, I thought I was an angel. But then Hours slowed to minutes, and while your explosive clock broke down, and minutes trickled down to seconds and your beautiful lungs that sang me pretty songs and whispered to me how I was your “favorite grandchild, “ Your once beautiful lungs were as black and as dark as charcoal is before it burns up. Though your lungs went black, and the strings that held you together were wearing thin, your heart never did. And even almost six years and six million tears later, you still hold our family together with a glue as strong as the heart that never stopped beating, and as beautiful as the lungs that sang me softly to sleep, even from six-feet deep.

0

Oct 6, 2015

Oct 6, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC

an ode to You.

Old Dan Tucker and endless hours of hanging out at that little coffee-shop-convenience-store you liked turned into hours of writing about the fragmented memories I have of the time I spent with you. Five years ago, in January, Hours turned into Minutes and Minutes slowed into Seconds. And then suddenly, all the time elapsed between us And your ticking clock turned out to be a homemade explosive you marked as ‘flammable’. But my clock still ticks on, and deep inside of me, it’s forever set to summer. Summers I spent hours with you; playing Old Dan tucker on the piano, and singing while you pushed me on the swings and I screamed with utmost delight and glee. I begged you to let me soar higher and higher, still, far away to heights unknown and forever un-dreamt about. Even back then, I thought I was an angel. But then Hours slowed to minutes, and while your explosive clock broke down, and minutes trickled down to seconds and your beautiful lungs that sang me pretty songs and whispered to me how I was your “favorite grandchild, “ Your once beautiful lungs were as black and as dark as charcoal is before it burns up. Though your lungs went black, and the strings that held you together were wearing thin, your heart never did. And even almost six years and six million tears later, you still hold our family together with a glue as strong as the heart that never stopped beating, and as beautiful as the lungs that sang me softly to sleep, even from six-feet deep.

56

i will Always go back to Never. we both said things we regret and promised each other with our Nevers that we will Always make sure that this Never happens again. but with eyes as full as empty skies; eyes the size of saucers beg for this secret meeting of Nevers to Always happen again. so one week later, we find ourselves at this place once more; breaking promises sealed with Nevers and one a.m. tear- stained cheeks. because Never will Always Never be enough to keep You away from Me.

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Oct 1, 2015

Oct 1, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC

Always and for-Never

i will Always go back to Never. we both said things we regret and promised each other with our Nevers that we will Always make sure that this Never happens again. but with eyes as full as empty skies; eyes the size of saucers beg for this secret meeting of Nevers to Always happen again. so one week later, we find ourselves at this place once more; breaking promises sealed with Nevers and one a.m. tear- stained cheeks. because Never will Always Never be enough to keep You away from Me.

35