mikeyla-s-benzinger
American
I first starting writing poetry several years back, but that was the cliche things that you would expect from a girl about twelve years old. Since then, my writing has been inconsistent. I'm trying to get back into it, but the inspiration just hasn't hit me yet. If you have any suggestions on how to get creative, let me know! / / P.S. A lot of these poems have been posted on other websites, most notably storywrite.com under the username lyricalrose.
Only she said that she loved you.
No one else could ever have weathered your storms,
a veritable hurricane nine times out of ten,
unpredictable in fury and still unspeakably beautiful.
She only said that she loved you.
It wasn’t as if she meant it,
it’s easy to drown in the torrential rain.
Never trust the calm before the storm.
She said only that she loved you.
She whispered it and screamed it to the ceiling
while you drank in her body.
You called her goddess.
She said that only she loved you.
That your appetite and insatiability were overwhelming.
After a storm the earth drinks, drinks
until it gorges itself on life. You indulge too much, she said.
She said that she only loved you,
as if only could modify love.
As if your love were not enough.
The storm raged in your eyes.
She said that she loved only you.
She said it to quell the stormy seas
upon your sunset cheeks, although
if anger, shame, or sadness even you couldn’t say.
She said that she loved you only.
You and no one else.
You and you and you.
And you almost believed it.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
This oppressive heat, it chills me to the bone.
To think how a week ago the cold snow scorched
the ground and painted it ash white
as the finger-bone tree branches stretched towards a gray day sky.
The sun shone and made it colder,
made the mid-city seem like frozen tundra,
burying us under so many layers of clothing and despair.
The desolate city wasteland had never felt so claustrophobic.
But now, the heat sears through my closed blinds
as I stay inside to avoid the nice weather
and the “nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
from strangers who appear in the streets
as if emerging from a hibernation state too long inhabited.
It’s at times like these that I pray for rain,
for something to soften the rays of the sun
festering against my skin.
It’s easy to forget the heat in the dead of winter,
but it always comes back to remind us why we love the fall.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Five t-shirts, one stained
by the one night we spent together,
permeated by your aromatic
scent and the lingering feeling
that there won’t be another.
A pair of pants that aren’t mine.
You ask for them back but
I’m sentimental and it’s the
one thing I have to
remember you by.
A sweatshirt, yours, and
I refuse to actually wash it.
It still smells like you and
that’s a comfort on these
cold and lonely nights.
A bra that is mine, you tore
it a little in your haste to get
to the good part, the part that
was over too quick, seemingly
before it even began.
Socks, some mine, some yours.
All with pairs just as I am without.
My feet don’t get cold like they
did that night. I wish they had been
warmer. Maybe you would have stayed.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Dreary days drip into endless, sleepless nights.
Gazing out the window counting cars,
Counting seconds minutes hours.
The moon rises.
The moon sets.
I do not.
The sun rises.
I am still risen, lying down is too hard,
Too much work to finally rest.
There is no rest for the weary.
So many days have passed and
I am involuntarily awake.
The pillow disgusts me and
The dark terrifies me.
The walls close in, I cannot
Avoid the stares of the stars
Watching, waiting,
How I long for the days of napping,
Of sleeping when I wanted to,
Needed to.
How I wish I could fall asleep
With ease again.
The ease has gone from my life.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
I know I'm not worth your words, your ways.
I know the truth even when you say
Those pretty words that are meant
To make me bend down to your will.
But even then,
Can’t you pretend
That I am more than nothing?
That I meant something to you?
That I mean something still?
I see that I'm not worth your time,
That I am yours, but you won’t be mine,
And I wonder if you know how much pain
That pining away for you has caused.
But even then,
Can’t you pretend
That I am more than nothing?
That I meant something to you?
That I mean something still?
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
I guess I feel like eight months ago was just yesterday and my parents were driving away in their dodge as I walked back to the dorms.
And my heart broke because I knew that in that car, an argument was starting and ending with “I hate you.”
And I knew that somehow nothing would ever be the same once I swiped my card and walked through that door.
And that night I met you, and I wondered how my life could ever be the same with someone so wonderfully dangerous and dangerously wonderful.
I never knew that you were so perfectly damaged in such a bizarrely attractive kind of way.
I never knew that you would bring out my damaged side and cause my perfect side to disappear with my inhibitions.
And I never knew that my life would tumble down the tubes of insanity and frivolity as I stayed up too late and slept in too late and forgot the things that mattered until it was too late.
And I guess that after those things happened, it seemed like yesterday that I walked away after fighting with him, saying things about you that I didn’t want to mean and that I didn’t want to be true, but I did and they were.
And I guess that I had no one to blame but myself.
And I guess I wanted to blame you, because it feels like yesterday that I walked out that dormitory door and out into the street, waiting for all of my yesterdays to catch up and flash before my bloodshot and teary eyes.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
I hurt myself in little ways
In the beginning.
I’d force myself to spend time
With people that I didn’t like,
People that didn’t like me.
I’d end up frustrated as the tears
Cut across my cheeks
Drawing invisible scars.
That was only the beginning.
I began to deprive myself
Of the simple pleasures.
I’d throw up after every meal.
I was dehydrated and malnourished
And it still wasn’t enough.
My mouth burned and
My stomach turned on itself.
I couldn’t sleep at night.
I didn’t want to.
Stage three of my self-hatred.
I secluded myself from my friends.
There were days that I
Wouldn’t leave my room,
Wouldn’t leave my bed.
There were days that my head ached
From the tears that burned as they fell
Onto photos of people that I used to be,
People that I wish I could be again.
After that, the inclination grew stronger.
I couldn’t decide between drawing blood
Or refusing to draw breath.
One bottle of pills, one locked door.
And it would all be over.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Things change too fast, or I don't change fast enough.
Time flies by when I haven't even grown my wings.
There are things that are not how they used to be.
They are not how I want them to be.
They are not how I need them to be.
People leave while I am still hanging on;
thread by thread they cut themselves away.
I too am cut in the process.
People are running and I
am falling, drowning, breaking,
stuck in the landslide of
too many failed relationships
and too many successful lies.
There is a time and a place for everything,
and I fear that I have no time or place anymore.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
There is, at least in my mind,
Some sort of expectation for the children of the forsaken world.
That someday, we should be the ones to bring it back.
We, us, the ones who never lifted a single finger
In this forlorn world’s demise.
It is us that the former generations calls upon
When their energy has been spent
Destroying the thing that they ask us to fix.
And I ask you, what makes this fair or right?
That the innocent shall wait on the guilty?
That the ones not born yet should pick up after the ones long dead?
That the elder asks the younger, does that make it right?
Where is the justice?
And I ask you, with tears streaming down my face,
Why should I help those who would hurt me?
Why should I cry for the ones who shed no tears?
And when the young are done toiling to repair the despairing world,
They will have grown old.
Their childhood stolen from them, just as their masters’ never were.
And this is the cycle of the world,
That the weak shall prey on the strong until there are no strong left for the weak to devour
And then the weak will be gone too.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
There was a day
When the sun did not shine
And the clouds never went away.
There was a night
When the moon never shone
And the stars,
They made me feel alone.
There was a time
When everything
Was better,
And now is the time
When everything
Is worse.
There was a place
Where I was happy.
There is a place
Where I am sad.
There will be,
Soon,
A place where
I am dead.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC