livingbetweenpages - Hello Poetry

that crick in your neck when you're looking at books sometimes violets pop up early there is always chocolate it's fun to get letters in the mail things are going to be ok. rainbows happen (or you can just draw some) there are babysitters getting bored of peek-a-boo drinking really cold water when you just finished exercising again, chocolate i know this looks like nothing more than a list but, it's a new year and for some reason in the middle of silly traditions we can get a little booster of hope. things are going to be ok.

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Jan 7, 2019

Jan 7, 2019 at 9:39 PM UTC

nice things that exist

that crick in your neck when you're looking at books sometimes violets pop up early there is always chocolate it's fun to get letters in the mail things are going to be ok. rainbows happen (or you can just draw some) there are babysitters getting bored of peek-a-boo drinking really cold water when you just finished exercising again, chocolate i know this looks like nothing more than a list but, it's a new year and for some reason in the middle of silly traditions we can get a little booster of hope. things are going to be ok.

18

You never really know anyone. Need an example? Have a stay at in the psych ward. The girl who caught my eye after rolling up her sleeves to paint started to cover scars until I showed her mine. She wrote song lyrics on her arms to remind her that others feel the same way. There is solidarity. One girl with the cute afro and anger issues cried after yelling at one of the other girls. She loved to do word searches. Who says we are in control? The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall to rid herself of the demons looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch. Anyone can be effected. One girl who had to learn to eat again, wouldn't let you hate on your own body. She could speak 3 languages and draw like a goddess. We are more than our pain. The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles. We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone- that’s we always want to crack jokes. Between the locked doors and gray walls, we shared stories from days long ago, we got excited on chicken tender day, we ran around the gym and painted everything we could- We are trying to heal. Next time someone assumes they know you, but get it all wrong, try not to get mad, no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth, because you know the truth. The truth that you never really know anyone, at the end of the day- if it helps, don’t worry, nobody really knows you.

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Dec 31, 2018

Dec 31, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC

Nobody Knows

You never really know anyone. Need an example? Have a stay at in the psych ward. The girl who caught my eye after rolling up her sleeves to paint started to cover scars until I showed her mine. She wrote song lyrics on her arms to remind her that others feel the same way. There is solidarity. One girl with the cute afro and anger issues cried after yelling at one of the other girls. She loved to do word searches. Who says we are in control? The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall to rid herself of the demons looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch. Anyone can be effected. One girl who had to learn to eat again, wouldn't let you hate on your own body. She could speak 3 languages and draw like a goddess. We are more than our pain. The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles. We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone- that’s we always want to crack jokes. Between the locked doors and gray walls, we shared stories from days long ago, we got excited on chicken tender day, we ran around the gym and painted everything we could- We are trying to heal. Next time someone assumes they know you, but get it all wrong, try not to get mad, no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth, because you know the truth. The truth that you never really know anyone, at the end of the day- if it helps, don’t worry, nobody really knows you.

43

But, my god. He was just a little boy. I’d never seen eyes like that, like the ones that were watching me right then, hallowed, gauging whether I might be a threat to him. Cute when he was happy, so small, he looked 3. Because they starved him. He would talk to you. Short sentences. Speech stopped progressing at age 3. When he got angry, he would use horrible words. The only tool he ever learned for emotions that he couldn’t understand. Curses. Wild threats. He would spit in your face and threaten to **** you. Who taught him that? His only tools. But, my god. He was just a little boy. Meeting him at a time that I was absolutely powerless, crumpled hope and understanding reality. I couldn't help him, and the ones who could treated him like a chore, mindless work without reward. Grown-ups, tasked to protect him, held him down yelling demands of complacency. What kind of things did they force on him back home? Of course, he spits the pills out, he couldn’t possibly understand. There is that word again. If you say “It’s like he’s three.” Then you cannot treat him like a prisoner, for he has committed no crime. Oh, god, they hurt him in so many ways. I cried for him every night, barely sleeping the entire week there. I couldn't imagine how he felt, alone in that room. They assumed he’d attack. I was only the girl in the wheelchair. Behind his eyes Lies an island of nightmares. There is no turnaround here, now I know: I am the one who couldn’t possibly understand. - - - This boy was 7 years old. I am writing this poem to the universe, itself. Throwing out an aching wish to anyone listening. Please, please, protect him. Because my god, he was just a little boy who deserves to know what love feels like.

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Dec 20, 2018

Dec 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC

One Little Boy

But, my god. He was just a little boy. I’d never seen eyes like that, like the ones that were watching me right then, hallowed, gauging whether I might be a threat to him. Cute when he was happy, so small, he looked 3. Because they starved him. He would talk to you. Short sentences. Speech stopped progressing at age 3. When he got angry, he would use horrible words. The only tool he ever learned for emotions that he couldn’t understand. Curses. Wild threats. He would spit in your face and threaten to **** you. Who taught him that? His only tools. But, my god. He was just a little boy. Meeting him at a time that I was absolutely powerless, crumpled hope and understanding reality. I couldn't help him, and the ones who could treated him like a chore, mindless work without reward. Grown-ups, tasked to protect him, held him down yelling demands of complacency. What kind of things did they force on him back home? Of course, he spits the pills out, he couldn’t possibly understand. There is that word again. If you say “It’s like he’s three.” Then you cannot treat him like a prisoner, for he has committed no crime. Oh, god, they hurt him in so many ways. I cried for him every night, barely sleeping the entire week there. I couldn't imagine how he felt, alone in that room. They assumed he’d attack. I was only the girl in the wheelchair. Behind his eyes Lies an island of nightmares. There is no turnaround here, now I know: I am the one who couldn’t possibly understand. - - - This boy was 7 years old. I am writing this poem to the universe, itself. Throwing out an aching wish to anyone listening. Please, please, protect him. Because my god, he was just a little boy who deserves to know what love feels like.

78

I write and I write and I write and I write- but, can you hear me? Secrets are slipping through my fingers, landing on the keys beneath, don't worry, the letters of the alphabet stay put, but my fingers are sliding passion clouding my reason, but I swear-- if you would just listen. am I showing my soul? place a world at my feet and I will roll around in the mud until I find the gem so full of color that it drips from its cracks cracks like the ones in my timeline, my story, that I've created with mistakes ones that I've filled with gold.

0

Dec 20, 2018

Dec 20, 2018 at 5:18 PM UTC

Soul on Keyboards

I write and I write and I write and I write- but, can you hear me? Secrets are slipping through my fingers, landing on the keys beneath, don't worry, the letters of the alphabet stay put, but my fingers are sliding passion clouding my reason, but I swear-- if you would just listen. am I showing my soul? place a world at my feet and I will roll around in the mud until I find the gem so full of color that it drips from its cracks cracks like the ones in my timeline, my story, that I've created with mistakes ones that I've filled with gold.

21