elliterate - Hello Poetry

i wonder if the need to talk about myself comes from the stars; narcissism is a common trait in all three of my signs, taurus, leo, and scorpio; or it could be the fact that i'm an artist; a person who tells their own story over and over through means of different media. i've always said that artists are narcissists, we come built with an inherent fixation on ourselves, an insatiable desire to fill the world with us; we need to be seen, need to be heard, need to be felt. but i'm not so sure if that's it. artists, we want to be known for our work; i want that, and i want to be known for me. i want to be thought of when i'm not around, i want someone to hear something and think of my face. i want to talk someone's ear off. i live my whole life in a jar; i don't speak much, and i'm often too quiet to be heard from behind the glass. can the world be about me, for a minute? i can't control how people see me inside this jar, i can't control the weather, or the future. i have no control over anything at all; can i explain myself? can i explain? can you hear me?

0

Sep 28, 2017

Sep 28, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC

elliterate

narcissa

i wonder if the need to talk about myself comes from the stars; narcissism is a common trait in all three of my signs, taurus, leo, and scorpio; or it could be the fact that i'm an artist; a person who tells their own story over and over through means of different media. i've always said that artists are narcissists, we come built with an inherent fixation on ourselves, an insatiable desire to fill the world with us; we need to be seen, need to be heard, need to be felt. but i'm not so sure if that's it. artists, we want to be known for our work; i want that, and i want to be known for me. i want to be thought of when i'm not around, i want someone to hear something and think of my face. i want to talk someone's ear off. i live my whole life in a jar; i don't speak much, and i'm often too quiet to be heard from behind the glass. can the world be about me, for a minute? i can't control how people see me inside this jar, i can't control the weather, or the future. i have no control over anything at all; can i explain myself? can i explain? can you hear me?

26

the day i get into college, my mother says she is proud of me. her eyes water; her little girl is growing up. my hands shake in the passenger seat. my eyes water for different reasons. the day i go back to therapy, my mother says she is proud of me. she cries again -- it's a family trait -- and holds me in her arms. i wonder how she could ever be proud of a child who is scared of recovery; a child whose only discernible feature is the anxiety rocking in their chest. the day i move into college, my mother says she is proud of me. she says it's a big step forward. she appreciates that i'm taking a step out of my comfort zone. i want to tell her that it's my comfort zone that's adapting to this new place, not me. my comfort zone is nervousness and never-ending panic; it's just searching for new things to worry about. goodbye is so hard. i spend my first few weeks of college in a panic induced state; weeks blur into one another and i stay in my dorm whenever possible. i skip meals, because the cafeteria is a long walk across thin ice. everyone's staring at me, this obese baby deer, learning how to walk on legs that are too meek. i sometimes call my mother in tears; she says she is proud of me. it's so refreshing to hear that it hurts. there are wounds beneath my elbow where i took out the rattling of my bones during a meltdown in my design class; they itch underneath the bandaids as she reassures me: she's proud of me. i can only imagine the look on her face if she sees what i've done to myself, the seven shallow scars underneath my elbow. i haven't done that in years. will she pull me out of school? realize the pressures of living is too heavy for me to wear right now? too heavy for me in five years? too heavy forever? the word proud is lost on her lips; replaced by the word sorry. how could she ever be proud of a child who can't make phone calls without crying at least twice? how could she ever be proud of a child who hyperventilates when a cafeteria worker scolds them for not using tongs? how could she ever be proud of a child who found a frenzied comfort in a blade? mama, are you proud?

0

Sep 19, 2017

Sep 19, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC

elliterate

a mother's pride

the day i get into college, my mother says she is proud of me. her eyes water; her little girl is growing up. my hands shake in the passenger seat. my eyes water for different reasons. the day i go back to therapy, my mother says she is proud of me. she cries again -- it's a family trait -- and holds me in her arms. i wonder how she could ever be proud of a child who is scared of recovery; a child whose only discernible feature is the anxiety rocking in their chest. the day i move into college, my mother says she is proud of me. she says it's a big step forward. she appreciates that i'm taking a step out of my comfort zone. i want to tell her that it's my comfort zone that's adapting to this new place, not me. my comfort zone is nervousness and never-ending panic; it's just searching for new things to worry about. goodbye is so hard. i spend my first few weeks of college in a panic induced state; weeks blur into one another and i stay in my dorm whenever possible. i skip meals, because the cafeteria is a long walk across thin ice. everyone's staring at me, this obese baby deer, learning how to walk on legs that are too meek. i sometimes call my mother in tears; she says she is proud of me. it's so refreshing to hear that it hurts. there are wounds beneath my elbow where i took out the rattling of my bones during a meltdown in my design class; they itch underneath the bandaids as she reassures me: she's proud of me. i can only imagine the look on her face if she sees what i've done to myself, the seven shallow scars underneath my elbow. i haven't done that in years. will she pull me out of school? realize the pressures of living is too heavy for me to wear right now? too heavy for me in five years? too heavy forever? the word proud is lost on her lips; replaced by the word sorry. how could she ever be proud of a child who can't make phone calls without crying at least twice? how could she ever be proud of a child who hyperventilates when a cafeteria worker scolds them for not using tongs? how could she ever be proud of a child who found a frenzied comfort in a blade? mama, are you proud?

48

you were just a boy - teeth glistening, cheeks aching - rehearsed politeness and combed hair -- poise and dignity, an air of confidence circles you like a shark phony boy, made from cellophane; talk a big game, go home and write lines you'll never say you stay awake - you don't really have a choice - remodel your town, make it the place you long for it to be; remodel yourself -- carve yourself from marble, aluminum boy they used to call you adonis; now, they call you nothing you were only a boy

0

Jul 30, 2017

Jul 30, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC

elliterate

rcg3

you were just a boy - teeth glistening, cheeks aching - rehearsed politeness and combed hair -- poise and dignity, an air of confidence circles you like a shark phony boy, made from cellophane; talk a big game, go home and write lines you'll never say you stay awake - you don't really have a choice - remodel your town, make it the place you long for it to be; remodel yourself -- carve yourself from marble, aluminum boy they used to call you adonis; now, they call you nothing you were only a boy

16

breaking bones grinding them to dust let your skin shrivel let the sun soak it up you belong to the ground your heartbeat, your spine, your stomach girls like you don't stay above ground for long it's time to go home lay in the dirt no pain, all peace the earth misses your breath swallow fallen teeth and sink

0

Jul 22, 2017

Jul 22, 2017 at 3:52 AM UTC

elliterate

so long

breaking bones grinding them to dust let your skin shrivel let the sun soak it up you belong to the ground your heartbeat, your spine, your stomach girls like you don't stay above ground for long it's time to go home lay in the dirt no pain, all peace the earth misses your breath swallow fallen teeth and sink

15

magnets for misery melted into mouths, molded lips made for malaise the heavyhearted rock in between hips, hot and hopeless loneliness lives in lungs the listless leaping of laborious breaths, lugubrious lusting souls ****** sadness, **** songs of sorrow somber little slapper sleeps next to something sonorous, slow sinking

0

Jul 20, 2017

Jul 20, 2017 at 3:37 AM UTC

elliterate

kiss me

magnets for misery melted into mouths, molded lips made for malaise the heavyhearted rock in between hips, hot and hopeless loneliness lives in lungs the listless leaping of laborious breaths, lugubrious lusting souls ****** sadness, **** songs of sorrow somber little slapper sleeps next to something sonorous, slow sinking

12

the early morning silence is good for me i usually miss out on the sunrise, but when i don't, i let myself soak in it my fingers prune under the rays of a sun unreleased this in-between -- the not quite day, but not quite night -- sets my world in motion time stands still and life forms inside my window pane bliss in a 5:30AM lilac sky the early morning silence is good for me

0

Jul 8, 2017

Jul 8, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC

elliterate

7.8.2017

the early morning silence is good for me i usually miss out on the sunrise, but when i don't, i let myself soak in it my fingers prune under the rays of a sun unreleased this in-between -- the not quite day, but not quite night -- sets my world in motion time stands still and life forms inside my window pane bliss in a 5:30AM lilac sky the early morning silence is good for me

10

i put my eggs on the bottom of all my groceries. i did it last time, and i'll do it again, and i'll still act shocked when i open the carton and they've fallen apart. i'll watch devastatingly as the yolk slips through my fingers; i'll mourn for the money lost, mourn for the eggshells on my kitchen counter. breakfast is the healthiest meal of the day, and mine is spread across my kitchen floor. everyone walks on eggshells around me, but i stomp on them. i pour bacon grease on my legs; the burn feels good for thirty minutes, but the blisters become unbearable at thirty-one. i didn't just spill the milk; i poked a hole in the carton. i watched it leak through, like blood seeping through a bandage; i'm crying over spilled milk. i'm always crying over spilled milk. i want to grow out of this never ending stage of self sabotage; i am the victim, i am always the victim; the child cries wolf and no one in town cares anymore; the wolf can't be found, because the child has swallowed it. i am no good. my kitchen is a mess, i don't eat breakfast, and i play the victim card like it's the only one left in the deck. my groceries are in the dumpster out back; i'm ravenous -- i'll eat you out of house and home.

0

Apr 16, 2017

Apr 16, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC

elliterate

mo(u)rning

i put my eggs on the bottom of all my groceries. i did it last time, and i'll do it again, and i'll still act shocked when i open the carton and they've fallen apart. i'll watch devastatingly as the yolk slips through my fingers; i'll mourn for the money lost, mourn for the eggshells on my kitchen counter. breakfast is the healthiest meal of the day, and mine is spread across my kitchen floor. everyone walks on eggshells around me, but i stomp on them. i pour bacon grease on my legs; the burn feels good for thirty minutes, but the blisters become unbearable at thirty-one. i didn't just spill the milk; i poked a hole in the carton. i watched it leak through, like blood seeping through a bandage; i'm crying over spilled milk. i'm always crying over spilled milk. i want to grow out of this never ending stage of self sabotage; i am the victim, i am always the victim; the child cries wolf and no one in town cares anymore; the wolf can't be found, because the child has swallowed it. i am no good. my kitchen is a mess, i don't eat breakfast, and i play the victim card like it's the only one left in the deck. my groceries are in the dumpster out back; i'm ravenous -- i'll eat you out of house and home.

29

i want to write you the perfect poem i want to string words together so spectacularly that you tattoo them on the inside of your eyelids i want to write you the world, wrap these lines in a bow and leave the package on your doorstep i want to write you the perfect poem, but i'm an imperfect person and love, so are you you are the bags under my eyes i carry you with me wherever i go and you draw the most attention to the brightest parts of me my under eye bags are the only cosmetics i wear daily; you are the result of late nights of laughter and 1 AM drives home you sopped up the spilled cherry coke in the back of my car with napkins from my glove box i braked too hard and it spilled all over your feet it was a quiet ride home my knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my head a blur of apology my favorite mop; my messes are yours and yours will be mine and i've never been one for tidiness but i'd scrub the world clean for your smile you are the dent in my passenger side door, the soreness in my muscles, the paint stains in all of my jeans; i can’t get rid of it, i’ll never get rid of it; the dent gives my car character the soreness makes my body feel real the stains make me feel free and the jeans fit me like a glove i like routine and you are a part of mine text you tease you love you wash rinse repeat i could send you a thousand love letters i’ll keep them in a shoebox instead i'll write your name into the stars, i'll carve my love for you in the moon, print it on postcards, press it into my skin but i cannot write you the perfect poem

0

Mar 25, 2017

Mar 25, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC

elliterate

shoebox

i want to write you the perfect poem i want to string words together so spectacularly that you tattoo them on the inside of your eyelids i want to write you the world, wrap these lines in a bow and leave the package on your doorstep i want to write you the perfect poem, but i'm an imperfect person and love, so are you you are the bags under my eyes i carry you with me wherever i go and you draw the most attention to the brightest parts of me my under eye bags are the only cosmetics i wear daily; you are the result of late nights of laughter and 1 AM drives home you sopped up the spilled cherry coke in the back of my car with napkins from my glove box i braked too hard and it spilled all over your feet it was a quiet ride home my knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my head a blur of apology my favorite mop; my messes are yours and yours will be mine and i've never been one for tidiness but i'd scrub the world clean for your smile you are the dent in my passenger side door, the soreness in my muscles, the paint stains in all of my jeans; i can’t get rid of it, i’ll never get rid of it; the dent gives my car character the soreness makes my body feel real the stains make me feel free and the jeans fit me like a glove i like routine and you are a part of mine text you tease you love you wash rinse repeat i could send you a thousand love letters i’ll keep them in a shoebox instead i'll write your name into the stars, i'll carve my love for you in the moon, print it on postcards, press it into my skin but i cannot write you the perfect poem

35

my english teacher asked me to write a poem for a young author contest she likes my writing and thinks i could win i wonder how to tell her that i can only write poems when my emotions are on high my hands only know how to speak when i am spitting fire the only time my claws come out and carve words into trees is when my eyes leak venom and my jaw is unhinged i can’t write poems about fall without ******* the life out of the season i bite into the beauty and leave it bone dry the leaves from the trees are not leaves, they’re the burdens i place on my friends when my brain changes color i can write about love; god knows i can write about love i’ll write ten pages on the heaviness that it leaves on my chest the pressure on my lungs makes it hard to breathe but my god is it addicting the love that falls from my fingertips is real, it is intense, it is too much for anyone to see poetry is not my passion it is first and foremost a coping mechanism my head is a ship in a bottle i only crack it open when i start to drown

0

Mar 25, 2017

Mar 25, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC

elliterate

i'm sorry, ms. k

my english teacher asked me to write a poem for a young author contest she likes my writing and thinks i could win i wonder how to tell her that i can only write poems when my emotions are on high my hands only know how to speak when i am spitting fire the only time my claws come out and carve words into trees is when my eyes leak venom and my jaw is unhinged i can’t write poems about fall without ******* the life out of the season i bite into the beauty and leave it bone dry the leaves from the trees are not leaves, they’re the burdens i place on my friends when my brain changes color i can write about love; god knows i can write about love i’ll write ten pages on the heaviness that it leaves on my chest the pressure on my lungs makes it hard to breathe but my god is it addicting the love that falls from my fingertips is real, it is intense, it is too much for anyone to see poetry is not my passion it is first and foremost a coping mechanism my head is a ship in a bottle i only crack it open when i start to drown

20

loving you in twelve year old cars soft kisses in the front seats a dent in the passenger side door your backpack in the back seat paint lingering underneath fingernails achy joints i love art does art love me? my friends are all ghosts i see them we laugh and we love illusions shatter after too long i drive you home at 1 AM i can barely keep my eyes open on the way home your love is thrumming through my body and my gaslight is on i get a little bit reckless when i’m on the road alone breathing is just easier with one hand on the steering wheel in, out. in, out. this year is hard i’m up to my neck in responsibilities is this what growing up is like? i want to sit down close my eyes planes fly above me and i feel a sense of longing i’m already made of metal wind me up and watch me go i’m ready to fly i have never felt heavier my head weighs a ton and my neck is made of straw i want to live in between the bricks i want to go home

0

Mar 7, 2017

Mar 7, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC

elliterate

senior year

loving you in twelve year old cars soft kisses in the front seats a dent in the passenger side door your backpack in the back seat paint lingering underneath fingernails achy joints i love art does art love me? my friends are all ghosts i see them we laugh and we love illusions shatter after too long i drive you home at 1 AM i can barely keep my eyes open on the way home your love is thrumming through my body and my gaslight is on i get a little bit reckless when i’m on the road alone breathing is just easier with one hand on the steering wheel in, out. in, out. this year is hard i’m up to my neck in responsibilities is this what growing up is like? i want to sit down close my eyes planes fly above me and i feel a sense of longing i’m already made of metal wind me up and watch me go i’m ready to fly i have never felt heavier my head weighs a ton and my neck is made of straw i want to live in between the bricks i want to go home

32