monmichsat - Hello Poetry

They say pain can help you write better Pain They say I scream so quietly no one can hear me Pain pain pain Over and over Pain Again again again They say pain can be art But how do I save myself? When my lungs are filling up with water When I am drowning in the sea of my own thoughts Is anyone out there quiet enough to hear my screams? Someone save me No no no Just let me drown Because unlike most, I cannot simply turn the facts (I am not theirs You are not mine My heart is racing Living But too fastly I am dying.) into words that speak to another souls That comfort those like me, like you and tell us quietly, "you are not alone in this" Tell me, my love, (or rather fellow comrade, high on our youth and lust) how do I turn my pain into something beautiful? When you say, Pain is not Pain cannot be Pain is quiet Pain is truth Pain does not have to be beautiful Pain is you Because you are not beautiful and there is no need to be Just like how you do not have to write better Because I hear you

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Jun 16, 2015

Jun 16, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC

Untitled #1

They say pain can help you write better Pain They say I scream so quietly no one can hear me Pain pain pain Over and over Pain Again again again They say pain can be art But how do I save myself? When my lungs are filling up with water When I am drowning in the sea of my own thoughts Is anyone out there quiet enough to hear my screams? Someone save me No no no Just let me drown Because unlike most, I cannot simply turn the facts (I am not theirs You are not mine My heart is racing Living But too fastly I am dying.) into words that speak to another souls That comfort those like me, like you and tell us quietly, "you are not alone in this" Tell me, my love, (or rather fellow comrade, high on our youth and lust) how do I turn my pain into something beautiful? When you say, Pain is not Pain cannot be Pain is quiet Pain is truth Pain does not have to be beautiful Pain is you Because you are not beautiful and there is no need to be Just like how you do not have to write better Because I hear you

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Because by then, I would have known how the words I spat at them would seep through their ears and down their spinal cord and somehow, eventually reach their heart where its poison would slowly **** them Because by then, I would have known how much they try even if they have had *** they did not believe in god they lost hope in humanity they were not democrats Because by then, I would have known how it takes every ******* muscle in their tired bodies to not bring out a gun in a room full of people they saw at school every day or how they would rather let their anxiety or depression take them away Because by then, I would have known how I was not the only one working or trying to love when the reason they had lost all hope in that meaningless world in the first place was me Because by then, I would have known that I cannot expect somebody to love me when I myself am unable to love them

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Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC

Never in My Life Will I Tell My Children That They are Bad People

Because by then, I would have known how the words I spat at them would seep through their ears and down their spinal cord and somehow, eventually reach their heart where its poison would slowly **** them Because by then, I would have known how much they try even if they have had *** they did not believe in god they lost hope in humanity they were not democrats Because by then, I would have known how it takes every ******* muscle in their tired bodies to not bring out a gun in a room full of people they saw at school every day or how they would rather let their anxiety or depression take them away Because by then, I would have known how I was not the only one working or trying to love when the reason they had lost all hope in that meaningless world in the first place was me Because by then, I would have known that I cannot expect somebody to love me when I myself am unable to love them

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I wish To look at the waves of old memories (Are they even mine?) of brushing rough fingers against misty hands―salty like sea foam (Are they even mine?) Or typewritten words (Are they even mine?) because I simply despise my own mark of pen because ink stains this day will never be as fascinating as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt as dark and as deep as it is forming waves against your stomach Stop, Ask myself (Are they even mine?) And sigh, not heavily nor curse myself, with the words I so carelessly throw around like this like the sea of letters pulling me away now, but whisper, "That was beautiful." (Were they even mine?)

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Nov 11, 2014

Nov 11, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC

Forgetfulness

I wish To look at the waves of old memories (Are they even mine?) of brushing rough fingers against misty hands―salty like sea foam (Are they even mine?) Or typewritten words (Are they even mine?) because I simply despise my own mark of pen because ink stains this day will never be as fascinating as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt as dark and as deep as it is forming waves against your stomach Stop, Ask myself (Are they even mine?) And sigh, not heavily nor curse myself, with the words I so carelessly throw around like this like the sea of letters pulling me away now, but whisper, "That was beautiful." (Were they even mine?)

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