I am awake, living
I can hear the birds outside my rusted window,
I open my eye, cheek squished against my pillow
I catch a glance of the world outside these 4 walls that hold the fluctuation of emotions inside of me
" Another day ", I think to myself.
The smell of coffee brewing gives me the will to crawl out of bed,
The element of living, how rare for the average human being
The warmth of my home reminds me of the small blessings life has given me,
As the days pass me, I peel off the callus that has surrounded my heart,
I have been given another chance. A new opportunity.
I sip my coffee,
Ah, the warmth on my lips,
I feel it seap down my throat burning just enough for me to enjoy it,
" I am whole again".
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Unbearable hands wrapped around me
Suffocating me, making me feel as if life is drowning me
You create knots in my stomach
An eagerness that cannot be explained
You come out of nowhere and take a grasp around my neck
Latching yourself like a hungry leech
You creep over me like a gray cloud creeps over a sorrowful soul
You make it unbearable to let my soul live freely; with no worry
Those unbearable hands,
Wrapped around me, intoxicating me with your strength
You move oceans inside of me, making me feel sea sick from the current
Unbearable hands, a grasp that i cannot control
A figment of my imagination some say, but you're much stronger than what people believe you to be
Unbearable hands, let me live.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen
All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial
A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?
The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human
The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries
The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.
From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.
Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.
The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.
An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.
It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.
As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.
But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead
And I am only living.
Because he will
Always wait for
A muse
Unworthy of flowers.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Somedays, I feel like I sinking.
I can fill it in my ribs, as each one breaks from the heaviness of my heart.
I feel the flowers I planted inside my soul, dying.
Each petal slowly falling, and cracking from the lack of nourishment.
Tears fill my eyes, and run down my face like a heavy creek stream.
I fear the power of my emotions.
I fear losing insight, for life is so beautiful.
Life is precious, easily ticked away by time.. yet, makes us feel like we've lived centuries with the wisdom we gain through our darkest corners.
Im holding onto my sanity; my strength.
I'm letting myself reep away, so that I can grow again.
My roots will flourish; my soul will be crisp.
Until then, I'm only a vessel, a floating soul, trying to find its way back home again.
Oh, the thoughts over coffee and ticking of my mothers clock.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen:
a gaseous nebula must collapse.
So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Music up so loud
So I can ignore the crowd
Make me feel like I'm on the ninth cloud
I never want to come down
The night started out young
But it's slowly getting older
I'm slowly getting unstrung
This is my kind of high and I never want to be sober
The song is hitting every one of my strings
I'm understanding every beat
I wanna get lost In every melody
Make my headache go away
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
The memories hurt,
The memories will never fade,
They stick to my head like bubblegum,
They creep in my loneliest moments and torture my soul.
I hate you for doing this to me.
Why did you make me love you so deep?
Why did you show me you cared?
You shouldn't have spent 3 A.M summer nights talking to me,
Maybe then you wouldn't have known my real self,
you wouldn't have been able to reveal my weakness.
Unforced happiness,
The connection between us,
The grip of your hand when i was unsure,
The look of admiration in your eyes when i stared at you,
I saw my reflection behind those hazel eyes,
I saw the way you saw me,
My fingers tangled up into yours perfectly;
It was like it was meant to be.
You left me empty handed, unsure of who i was anymore,
My favorite summer memory,
My favorite Hello,
You made me feel whole;
yet so empty.
You were the best, and worst thing that has ever happened to me.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
I look around,
All I see is mind less walking corpses,
Their fear to stand out, their fear to be visible,
Empty vessels, unwakend souls.
Stuck in a world of no substance,
Hollow minds brainwashed by the eye of society,
No knowledge of one's true self.
Starving souls.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
Let's talk about the girl,
who wasn't ready for the nights events,
ashamed of the fact that she didn't know the right words, or gestures to prove herself worthy.
Let's talk about the boy,
keeping a pace comparable to roaring waves,
inviting himself into a place he wasn't welcome.
Let's talk about the word "please",
how it fell off his tongue like cinnamon; coating the surface of her uncertainty with promises of a tomorrow.
Let's talk about the street lights,
radiating like a warning,
whispering: run.
Let's talk about regret,
humming her to sleep,
reminding her of the view from a dark street
screaming: you deserve more than this.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC