Occasionally, somebody comes along and unlocks
a part of me, that I never knew existed.
Sometimes, I am okay with that,
welcoming, the rush of warmth that floods my body.
Then occasionally,
more often than not,
I mess up.
Time, and time again -
never learning but always loathing.
I have changed though,
yet it appears it's too little, too late
and those that could have been an option for
joy, those who could have held my very own
personalised key to happiness,
have left already.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:00 AM UTC
I have to move.
I have to get up and brush myself off and start over, again.
I need to feel the energy surging through me,
pulsing, throbbing.
I need a sensation that is merely a distant memory,
feeling alive.
I know I will eventually move.
Sometime, soon, maybe.
I have to move,
Get up and go -
travel, run, explore.
I need to live again.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
It's been a long time,
Since I smiled sincerely, or
built up the confidence to start over.
It's been a while since,
I've felt the sun and all it's glory
shine down on me.
It's been a long time since,
I've explored my emotions and put pen to paper,
always pushing words aside,
saving them for later.
It's taken a long time,
but now I'm back,
and from now on, these emotions
shall not get suppressed,
but addressed.
It's been too long.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
Bus number 231,
A journey into the unknown, butterflies fluttering in my stomach -
nerves beyond those of which I am familiar with.
The silhouette of you matches the figure of which I had in mind,
you walk - or rather, stroll - up the lane, a puzzled look upon your face as my bus innocently sweeps past, the warmth of the summer air blowing your hair back in exasperation.
Buzz
Then buzz again, of a different kind.
The spring breeze wafts past me, teasingly.
A singular pavement winds up to you and eventually we meet.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Depression is gradual,
It doesn't start off looking in the mirror and thinking 'I hate myself'
It's more like every day you get worse and worse until eventually you realize how many times a day you fake a laugh,
It's the times you wanted to curl up into a ball but instead you fake a smile and act normal.
Depression is not self harm,
It isn't defined by the number of scars you have or how deep they are,
It isn't the nights spent crying or how your home life is,
It's feeling tired all the time and having this hole in your chest that no amount of fake smiles can fill.
It's nights spent staring at a wall or constantly sleeping because nothing is worth doing.
Depression is not romantic,
It can't be cured with a few hugs and I love you's,
It isn't scars to be kissed or bruises to be caressed,
It's nights spent alone even when there are people beside you,
It's emptiness and realizing that all of those things you used to do, that you used to revel in, aren't worth it anymore.
Depression is real,
It isn't wanting attention or someone to tell you everything will be fine,
It isn't wearing short sleeves so people notice your scars or telling everyone how sad you are,
It is looking at the casket of one of your friends because we didn't notice it, because no one saw the signs,
It's a noose around your neck 24/7 because that's all you can think about,
It's emptiness and loneliness,
It's sleepless nights but sleep filled days,
It is the worst feeling in the world,
Depression is real and depression kills
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
Of course I survived that Sunday afternoon.
Of course I made it to that dreaded Monday-morning.
An overcast afternoon as I set off, four-seventeen,
rain droplets thumping against my umbrella which shrieked with terror.
Pathetic fallacy, the foreshadowing of what was to come.
Your house, on the top of that hill, an uphill climb
with an even worse descent back home.
Crawling under your duvets, suffocated in love more than you can imagine yet an hour later, and the comfort of warmth and shelter is stripped away from me, like one would strip a bed of it's duvet-cover.
Five-forty-five, as the clouds thicken and rumble with excitement, shuffling sheepishly down the stairs,
I pick up my coat and various belongings.
Your dog whimpers, but he's not as sad as I am.
Maybe this time I'll leave, and won't come back.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
People write about people,
that make them cry with joy or burst
with happiness.
I talk about people,
that break hearts and move on without a second glance back.
Association.
Disassociation,
mixing with the wrong kind.
Merging with those that wave their middle-finger to the world.
If I don't veer from them soon,
One day I could end up like those
people.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Now,
I'm not one to wallow in the depths of my own despair.
What a waste of time,
I'd rather be jumping for joy in the paradise they call life,
such a blessing to live, to be alive
or so they say.
So when you display emotions of comfort or love towards me,
am I wrong in thinking that you are growing fond of me?
That perhaps we could be compatible, jump through life together,
or at least for the foreseeable future?
Was I wrong for mistaking your soft, heart-warming-now-heart-wrenching, messages as a sign that possibly, you were mine?
Then how so, is it, that I turn my back for a second and you're gone?
'There's nothing wrong with you, it's just she is something else'
Oh well, forgive me whilst I weep, forgive me whilst I sleep
the pain away, forgive me, for apparently, I have sinned.
I'm still not one to wallow in the depths of my own despair,
what a waste of time, but time is no longer of the essence, so I shall do as I please, turns out I was wrong.
I always am though.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Medicine,
they say, eases the pain.
Is it okay, then, if I take one more pill for extra luck?
Sip, transparent liquid, with more colour to it than my face.
Pale, as a snow flake, but stubborn and alive.
It's been a while now and I feel nothing.
Shifted into a helpless dimension, I am paralysed.
More time has passed and I hear voices,
dull, monotonous, life-less screeches
"She's going to make it"
White - a complete white wash.
Thrown into life without my permission.
I've made it, but perhaps one more pill won't hurt?
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ripped jeans,
And beneath: torn ligaments
Fractures, bruises, scratches.
The pain, is no longer prevailing.
Such a thought to think you can't think
of anything worse.
Such a situation to be in.
Standing, leaning, slumping.
Collapsing, wallowing, lying.
Cold coffee,
Still warmer than your heart
that has grown colder than the Arctic in the winter.
One of these days,
we shall look back and laugh.
Tears joyously trickling down our cheek.
We'll wipe them aside and resume our stories
of which are filled with sorrow, yet shine brighter than ever.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC