haley-12 - Hello Poetry

they told me to write, so I wrote. they told me to dance when a sound sung its chords directly in my feet so I found some grounding in my movement some protection with no boundaries I flew on table tops and vacuumed magic off of carpets drew fables with drops of veritaserum and Mad eye Mooney’d everyone even myself. Right now I’m writing about things other than my chaotic past few days they told me to write, so I wrote. they told me how guilty I am, how incapable I am. they told me to eat. they told my tear ducts let loose, and my airways to flood with panic. I told myself I can’t submerge myself into the river ways I’ve been swimming in, if I keep hearing them tell me things.

0

Jan 15, 2015

Jan 15, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC

today

they told me to write, so I wrote. they told me to dance when a sound sung its chords directly in my feet so I found some grounding in my movement some protection with no boundaries I flew on table tops and vacuumed magic off of carpets drew fables with drops of veritaserum and Mad eye Mooney’d everyone even myself. Right now I’m writing about things other than my chaotic past few days they told me to write, so I wrote. they told me how guilty I am, how incapable I am. they told me to eat. they told my tear ducts let loose, and my airways to flood with panic. I told myself I can’t submerge myself into the river ways I’ve been swimming in, if I keep hearing them tell me things.

7

it’s the wailing ones that always crack first you can hear their cries any time of the day wide eyed and stumbling, they walk among us hands, either shaking or ****** mice hiding amongst arm and tightly knotted torso you won’t watch it happen you don’t get to see the shatter it happens with a horse’s tail dipped in cement dragged along a body filled trench type of movement that required a lot of dead people the mothers listen to it unwilling ear glued against keyhole unwilling hand held in the ambulance the doctors try to explain how the wailing fluctuates between needle piercing eardrum and icicles shoved in mouth-holes and the mothers cannot listen to it

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Nov 17, 2014

Nov 17, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC

The Wailers

it’s the wailing ones that always crack first you can hear their cries any time of the day wide eyed and stumbling, they walk among us hands, either shaking or ****** mice hiding amongst arm and tightly knotted torso you won’t watch it happen you don’t get to see the shatter it happens with a horse’s tail dipped in cement dragged along a body filled trench type of movement that required a lot of dead people the mothers listen to it unwilling ear glued against keyhole unwilling hand held in the ambulance the doctors try to explain how the wailing fluctuates between needle piercing eardrum and icicles shoved in mouth-holes and the mothers cannot listen to it

18

Why do you think you’re so weird all the time? it’s nothing more than insecurity *not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to you know that flaley spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much* stop getting my ******* in a bunch you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls i like writing: i like and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******** like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble *this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay but only until the vyvanse wears off and your **** jar is empty and your cigarettes have been smoked and all your klonopin has been digested and your bank account is empty and the only thing left to take out your self pity on is this poetry* i like writing words like cigarettes and rhyming them with causal **** like regrets i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place i regret smoking all those cigarettes but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one

0

Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC

i love finding old ramblings

Why do you think you’re so weird all the time? it’s nothing more than insecurity *not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to you know that flaley spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much* stop getting my ******* in a bunch you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls i like writing: i like and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******** like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble *this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay but only until the vyvanse wears off and your **** jar is empty and your cigarettes have been smoked and all your klonopin has been digested and your bank account is empty and the only thing left to take out your self pity on is this poetry* i like writing words like cigarettes and rhyming them with causal **** like regrets i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place i regret smoking all those cigarettes but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one

27

Once Upon a Time, in a countryside field that expanded far and wide there grew a massive population of Black-Eyed Susans Due to the duration of their lineage in this country All the other flowers admired them quite jealously They were not lavender delightful like Venus’ pride or magenta seductive like the frail petaled pink fairies Black-Eyed Susans grew like Spartan warriors and sprouted healing wisdom like Aclepius Their bulbous heads attract butterflied so exactly every caterpillar is born in love with the color yellow born in lust for their persistant nature born with their meager caterpillar lips parted in marveled awe of how wonderfully healing Black-eyed Susans are asking for nothing but the sun’s rays to be warm and the rain to quench their thirst

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Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC

Black-Eyed Susans

Once Upon a Time, in a countryside field that expanded far and wide there grew a massive population of Black-Eyed Susans Due to the duration of their lineage in this country All the other flowers admired them quite jealously They were not lavender delightful like Venus’ pride or magenta seductive like the frail petaled pink fairies Black-Eyed Susans grew like Spartan warriors and sprouted healing wisdom like Aclepius Their bulbous heads attract butterflied so exactly every caterpillar is born in love with the color yellow born in lust for their persistant nature born with their meager caterpillar lips parted in marveled awe of how wonderfully healing Black-eyed Susans are asking for nothing but the sun’s rays to be warm and the rain to quench their thirst

16

Stories about people aren’t really about people this tale is a separate reality full of opinions and perception based senses I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph through our quiet suburban town she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution you see, she was in love with blinding pain out of control burning rubber scented pain and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat because her words are precious diamonds Her mind is a museum built upon three floors the first floor is tragedy concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions of what feeling safe is like shadows with shark like teeth she can never escape their threat of gnawing it even reaches her on the roof the second floor is forest green in-between escape and peaceful freedom she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities an explorer of broken wide eyed hope she could smile at a mosquito and every spider would willingly starve to death the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country dependent on chemicals she will never get the shooting star she deserves because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids

0

Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC

Shelly's Museum

Stories about people aren’t really about people this tale is a separate reality full of opinions and perception based senses I saw Michele’s addiction as a sketchy weather forecast the most famous weathermen lie the most, ya know She watched the sobriety of her life zoom by a whirlpool of backstreets flew by them in Chance’s silver Chevy malibu going 80 mph through our quiet suburban town she waved at every lightning strike the moment before electrocution you see, she was in love with blinding pain out of control burning rubber scented pain and I, tried so hard to be her fire extinguisher, her seatbelt I wanted her smile to radiate every karat lodged in her throat because her words are precious diamonds Her mind is a museum built upon three floors the first floor is tragedy concrete blankets and concrete misconceptions of what feeling safe is like shadows with shark like teeth she can never escape their threat of gnawing it even reaches her on the roof the second floor is forest green in-between escape and peaceful freedom she was born an observer, a lover of hidden oddities an explorer of broken wide eyed hope she could smile at a mosquito and every spider would willingly starve to death the third flow is a fireplace in the middle of a bonfire a wishing well anchored in the atlantic ocean everything she deserves, harmonious orchestras of sobriety salvation are stationed in a country dependent on chemicals she will never get the shooting star she deserves because she’s been soaring through our galaxy for lightyears a blazing comet amongst dull asteroids

35

You contradict mostly everything you say and it every day fall breeze blows with these every day falling leaves their woes of death and decay know it is not the end yet they’re crinkling cries of rotten demise sound finite just like us we are a pair of finite dying leaves fallen from strong trees with histories prosperous and motivated expecting us to live a future fabricated by society our cracks feel too deep to replenish what held us we lack the normality in relying on gravity because we’ve been thrown too far become lost in our scars taken above where we are like prisoners to our minds re-lived the evil which we thought was put behind us so it’s ******* difficult to listen to the world when straight arrow tasks become mangled and curled at least we have each other

0

Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC

Finite dying leaves

You contradict mostly everything you say and it every day fall breeze blows with these every day falling leaves their woes of death and decay know it is not the end yet they’re crinkling cries of rotten demise sound finite just like us we are a pair of finite dying leaves fallen from strong trees with histories prosperous and motivated expecting us to live a future fabricated by society our cracks feel too deep to replenish what held us we lack the normality in relying on gravity because we’ve been thrown too far become lost in our scars taken above where we are like prisoners to our minds re-lived the evil which we thought was put behind us so it’s ******* difficult to listen to the world when straight arrow tasks become mangled and curled at least we have each other

26

I’m becoming quite sick of myself that’s when I know I’m in trouble not that I’m not always sick of myself Just- I always find solace in the rubble leftover debris of purity that burned down just as it was building itself I came to terms with the darkness we shook hands acknowledging one another I respected him, he could only ever be darkness respect becomes debris in the dark Human emotion, powerful eruption of one’s sanity is so ******* beautiful because it exists, and we exist but we’re pre-programmed into this thinking a schedule a life plan an inkling that our purpose is to be the best we can be Yet, we have hearts and souls and no matter how strictly one may abide by the rules punishment finds us all in the cruelest ways “Life’s cruel punishments are lessons” ^ this was my explanation of conducted after years of contemplation about why the **** am I alive if I’m ******* miserable all the time there is no answer there s no reason there is simply being I know something is wrong when I can’t focus on anything but my inability to focus

0

Oct 1, 2014

Oct 1, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC

Redundant yet necessary

I’m becoming quite sick of myself that’s when I know I’m in trouble not that I’m not always sick of myself Just- I always find solace in the rubble leftover debris of purity that burned down just as it was building itself I came to terms with the darkness we shook hands acknowledging one another I respected him, he could only ever be darkness respect becomes debris in the dark Human emotion, powerful eruption of one’s sanity is so ******* beautiful because it exists, and we exist but we’re pre-programmed into this thinking a schedule a life plan an inkling that our purpose is to be the best we can be Yet, we have hearts and souls and no matter how strictly one may abide by the rules punishment finds us all in the cruelest ways “Life’s cruel punishments are lessons” ^ this was my explanation of conducted after years of contemplation about why the **** am I alive if I’m ******* miserable all the time there is no answer there s no reason there is simply being I know something is wrong when I can’t focus on anything but my inability to focus

31

Do Not Tell Me “everything will be okay” I will not feel relief my inside’s stress tsunamis don’t have an off button they will catastrophically annihilate anything I believe to be okay I wish they didn’t Oh fairy godmother, Oh yahweh, god, ************ jesus himself grant me wishes, grant the whole ******* world wishes because we’re tired I can’t even imagine the fuel debt of starving african children or stockholders losing what they haven’t bought yet when I, a financially privileged and well fed college student can’t get through 3 hours without trying to prevent another stress tsunami Do not tell me everything will be okay It is not what i want to hear I want to hear bullets in my head girls, screaming at the sight of my right arm gushing niagra falls of blood I want god to **** my **** I hope every therapist and so called good friend can understand these words when i say Depression will never be okay Feeling hundred year old brick buildings crushing upon my chest, my brain ransacked by rubble and my heart, an empty sack will never be okay I am burnt to a crisp I am too old for this ****

0

Sep 16, 2014

Sep 16, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC

burnt

Do Not Tell Me “everything will be okay” I will not feel relief my inside’s stress tsunamis don’t have an off button they will catastrophically annihilate anything I believe to be okay I wish they didn’t Oh fairy godmother, Oh yahweh, god, ************ jesus himself grant me wishes, grant the whole ******* world wishes because we’re tired I can’t even imagine the fuel debt of starving african children or stockholders losing what they haven’t bought yet when I, a financially privileged and well fed college student can’t get through 3 hours without trying to prevent another stress tsunami Do not tell me everything will be okay It is not what i want to hear I want to hear bullets in my head girls, screaming at the sight of my right arm gushing niagra falls of blood I want god to **** my **** I hope every therapist and so called good friend can understand these words when i say Depression will never be okay Feeling hundred year old brick buildings crushing upon my chest, my brain ransacked by rubble and my heart, an empty sack will never be okay I am burnt to a crisp I am too old for this ****

30

I can’t seem to catch hold of what’s next I’m digging in year old treasure chests to try and help me find a map to adapt along society’s throng the one I was born into and will die out of All of the questions being asked in my college classes pertain to inner opinions and oppositions I guess I struggle with this because in philosophy I learned self-love is the only superpower I have and I don’t want to talk about finding the balance between good and bad anymore my apologies Socrates, you’re the opposite of a bore but I’ve had enough of this question everything crap that I cannot even appreciate how simple this class is In English, I know writing will always be my salvation but motivation, I lack in motivation maybe I need my ritalin back but that’s a question for December that’s a question in whether I’m human enough to get up off my *** and ******* do something but every time I try to “do” something I feel like it’s ******** Oh Haley, that’s just your depression talking! and my self doubt and hypochondria and my eating disorder that I’ve been teasing with for months Recovery is a beautiful fallacy and honesty is for pages and strangers My apathy disgusts me and I’m stuck between an insatiable thirst for the past and appreciation for the luck I have

0

Sep 16, 2014

Sep 16, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC

recovery is a beautiful fallacy

I can’t seem to catch hold of what’s next I’m digging in year old treasure chests to try and help me find a map to adapt along society’s throng the one I was born into and will die out of All of the questions being asked in my college classes pertain to inner opinions and oppositions I guess I struggle with this because in philosophy I learned self-love is the only superpower I have and I don’t want to talk about finding the balance between good and bad anymore my apologies Socrates, you’re the opposite of a bore but I’ve had enough of this question everything crap that I cannot even appreciate how simple this class is In English, I know writing will always be my salvation but motivation, I lack in motivation maybe I need my ritalin back but that’s a question for December that’s a question in whether I’m human enough to get up off my *** and ******* do something but every time I try to “do” something I feel like it’s ******** Oh Haley, that’s just your depression talking! and my self doubt and hypochondria and my eating disorder that I’ve been teasing with for months Recovery is a beautiful fallacy and honesty is for pages and strangers My apathy disgusts me and I’m stuck between an insatiable thirst for the past and appreciation for the luck I have

31

words and feelings and actions and thoughts tend to congeal together with time my creative spontaneous quick thinking cost me clock ticking my age grows larger and I begin to rot I watch people function domino effect followed by theories directly speaking Freud and other teachings completely speaking open unrevealing doors and locks with rooms crisply burnt or merely dreaming White walled rooms recently inhabiting night engines, dream catchers conversations via phone- the private type in a bedroom alone White walled rooms now emptied by bodies with strong meaty arms and legs Quickly gotta move out quickly gotta respond to this good morning darling text next work five and half hours running on 80 mg of battery power I’m always dragging my tail

0

Sep 12, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC

Overwhelmed Overanalyzing

words and feelings and actions and thoughts tend to congeal together with time my creative spontaneous quick thinking cost me clock ticking my age grows larger and I begin to rot I watch people function domino effect followed by theories directly speaking Freud and other teachings completely speaking open unrevealing doors and locks with rooms crisply burnt or merely dreaming White walled rooms recently inhabiting night engines, dream catchers conversations via phone- the private type in a bedroom alone White walled rooms now emptied by bodies with strong meaty arms and legs Quickly gotta move out quickly gotta respond to this good morning darling text next work five and half hours running on 80 mg of battery power I’m always dragging my tail

28