maggie-mcleod
Hey, I'm Maggie and I'm 15 years young. Young, burnt out, no where else to turn. I love poetry because I get to write about whatever I want, nothing is too deep or explicit or grotesque or just too depressing. I like it when people tell me that they get what I say, that they understand what I go through. / I'm sponsored by Clinical Depression.
I wish to speak
nonsense words and
be understood; for
I am a poet.
Every and any
meaningless thing has a
meaning.
You just have to
look for it.
So my job is to
give these things their
purpose, give them their
life.
I
breath life into the
letters I form,
for I am a
savior. These
words had no intentions until I
picked them up and
brushed off their dust. I
caress them and
care for them and
bend them to my will;
they oblige willingly.
These words create
art on your page, and
I am the
artist, putting
ideas in your mind from a
simple picture. But
this picture you can
read. You can
read the
emotions and
ideas plainly.
I wish to put
thoughts in your mind, for
I am a hypnotist.
I take these words and
twist them to your
preference,
infiltrating your subconscious with
my ideas that I
****** upon you;
I leave
subliminal messages to
think what I think,
do what I do,
say what I say.
You don’t even realize that
you do the same with your
own words.
I wish to be
noticed, for I am
human.
I
write these words
feverishly, hoping that
SOMEONE will
see them,
read them,
appreciate them.
I pour out my
heart and soul in a form that
you will listen to;
all I ask in return is your
approval,
response,
opinion.
Any reaction would suffice.
But it’s for
you that I write, for
you that I take
time and energy to
face my fears,
expose my flaws,
expose my
self;
prove me vulnerable.
Yet
you give me nothing in return.
And I
continue in this
thankless career,
dreaming of the day when
somebody will realize that
all I want is to be
appreciated.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?
Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
everything that comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 9:12 PM UTC
Save me from the
noise, the
crowd.
Save me from the
judging, jaded eyes.
Save me from my
pain, and make me
forget
such things exist.
But most of all, take this
broken heart of mine and make it
whole.
You put the
color back into my face, the
feeling back into my soul, the
passion back in
everything I do.
You lead my
cold eyes to warmth and my
numb mind to emotion and my
scarred heart to healing.
You took words and
put them into my head,
where I can
plaster them on the paper.
You took these
forgotten fingers and
taught them how to write again.
You brought back the poetry that
ran away from me when I
changed,
convinced it to take me
back into its
accepting arms;
because poetry doesn’t just take
sadness.
It takes
hope, and
happiness, and the
mental capacity to understand what you
can and can’t change.
You gave me
all of these,
because of you, I am
whole again.
And I
thank God every day for it.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 9:10 PM UTC
You ask me if I’m okay;
all these
words come up in my head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
But on the inside, I’m
SCREAMING.
I’m not okay, and I
wish I could say that. I
wish I could tell you that I
still want to die, I
want to slit my wrists,
swallow my pills,
jump from a building or
SOMETHING.
ANYTHING.
Because I’m
not okay.
And I
never will be.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 9:09 PM UTC
Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?
Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
that which comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
You ask me if I’m okay;
all these
words come up in my head.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
But on the inside, I’m
SCREAMING.
I’m not okay, and I
wish I could say that. I
wish I could tell you that I
still want to die, I
want to slit my wrists,
swallow my pills,
jump from a building or
SOMETHING.
ANYTHING.
Because I’m
not okay.
And I
never will be.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:41 PM UTC
Laying with my heart wide open,
trying to understand your words spoken.
You tell me to accept your token,
but here I am, bent and broken.
Looking back into our past,
I thought that we would always last.
But then you ripped my heart wide open,
and here I lie, bent and broken.
You aren’t a simple love was lost,
It was my heart your facade cost.
But there were much too few words spoken,
so here I lie, bent and broken.
And as I dig in my well-bent mind,
I’m going to have to leave you behind.
A million apologies you could have boughten;
Too late. I’ll always be bent and broken.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
Why can’t I let myself be
happy?
Why is it that
every time something absolutely
PHENOMENAL
happens,
my mind starts to
beat
me
down
into a
****** messy pulp?
Why does it hurt to be
happy?
He hugged me.
Said I was sweet.
But yet I’m not
ecstatic as I should be.
Perhaps it’s my ability to see that
we will never happen?
My ability to see that it was
nothing?
Just pity.
He pitied me,
pitied my poem.
I poured out my
heart and soul,
and gave it to him on a
golden platter.
Yet he feels
nothing
in return.
He only said it was sweet
because he felt
sorry;
sorry that it had to be
him.
He only hugged me
because he felt
pity.
I’m just a
charity case.
Nothing
more.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 12:54 AM UTC
I want so desperately to be
beautiful,
so I write my
beautiful poetry using
beautiful words;
but that;s a lie.
It’s not beautiful.
Each and every one of my pieces are
horrid,
ugly,
defected...
just like me.
There’s no way I’ll ever be
pretty
(or pretty enough).
Nobody wants me,
anyways.
I’m made to be
lonely,
that’s why my mind seems so
complex.
I’ll never be alone;
I always have my thoughts...
or not.
Truth is,
I’ll never have anybody or
anything I want;
even though
all I ask for is someone to make me feel
beautiful.
Is that too much?
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
I
laugh
at my troubles, just
laugh the hurt away.
It stays, and simply
retreats.
It always
comes back another day,
just like the rain.
The hurt that came
the moment you kissed her.
The hurt that came
when I ran away and
you didn’t follow.
The hurt that is there,
every day of
every week of
every hour of
every minute of
every second...
I have enough
hurt
for us all.
So the masochistic I
welcome into my arms,
the lonely may stand in my
warmth,
and the depressed will not come because
they have no comforting place.
The schizophrenic I will
console,
the bipolar I will
stabilize.
And finally
in the end I will rejoice in their
comfort,
even though I have none.
It’s the closest I can get to
happiness.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC