I'm an environmentalist;
I keep my friends recyclable.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
Friends are like glue;
It's always so exciting
when they're brand new
and exactly what I needed
to put something together.
Then when it's completed
they find new ways
to stick around
day after day
until life starts
demanding so much
that more time is spent apart.
Though I had tried to be careful,
I seem to still find them everywhere,
but it really only takes a few minutes of drowning them in water to fix that problem.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 3:40 AM UTC
I do not want to be here
not a reference to this chair
nor wherever I am
living is too much to bear
I do not want my body
It is beautiful in its time
that is not the issue
it just doesn't feel it's mine
I do not want to marry
they tell me I'll change my mind
but someone who won't touch me
will be very hard to find
I do not want children
this is not a worry of wealth
I simply couldn't do it
as I'm still a child myself
I do not force "giving hugs"
for not all children feel safe
as once upon a time
help for me came too late
I did not ask for this life
nor the things that have been done
but I must act grateful
for the sacrifice of the Son
I do not want to be here
It is God who wishes I live
but hell is worse than earth
so something has to give
I do not want to deny
myself and my desires
but life was not made for me
it was made for something higher
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
It must be nice to be a cloud; to get so full of what surrounds: all evaporates. It has no say, but then, when full, it relieves the pain. Rain pours down for what can seem, at times, to be eternity. Though it's dark, soon comes light, and the world is full of life.
To be a cloud would be a dream; instead I'm trapped inside of me. Like a cloud, I soak up pain. Overwhelmed, I wait for rain. It grows and grows until it hurts. Still in drought, I wish to burst. Skies turn dark, yet try as I may, my eyes refuse to precipitate. Alas--they do; storms pour down until my heels can't feel the ground. Overpouring flood waters rise; I'm drowning fast in my cries. At last, it stops; I look around--no life has grown upon the ground; instead what's left are puddles of strife to evaporate again into my life.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
If I disappeared;
just gave up,
would a sole notice
my life had stopped?
Maybe entangled,
they would stay;
their eyes locked,
keys thrown away.
Would they remember the loneliness
that possessed my being,
or would they remember the lies
I allowed them to believe?
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
Always feeling
this colicky
infant--it is
grasping to me
Days seem to be
never ending;
The screaming is
never relenting
It seems that it
never quiets,
telling me I
cannot fight it
It always wants
my attention;
Carrying it
causes tension
And day by day,
it grows and grows;
the increasing
weight never slows
The weight I must
hold seems too much
Some days I want
to just give up
I keep going;
hope for the best,
praying that soon
the infant rests
The others say
this cannot last;
repeating that
this too shall pass
Their infants have
all cried and cried
Soon enough
the cries subside
So they advise
to build a bridge,
pick myself up
get over it
But, alas, no!
Mine won't lessen--
my infant's name
is depression.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
What a strange feeling
it is to want to die
The joyous surround
always wondering why
someone would refuse
to just choose
happiness
As if this feeling
can be simply
harnessed
Like a mutt on a leash
Easily controlled
Always obeying the
commands it is told
Instead I feel despair
While others say
if I'm just grateful
for each and every day
then somehow I'll be cured
Which is like saying
if a man who's been laying
paralysed in bed
would thank God he has legs
then he'd be walking instead
People look at the
smile on my face
but they'll never know
how much practice it takes
to feel yourself break
drowning
in your own tears
that you hide in fear
from those who would ask
"What's wrong with you?"
while keeping that
super-glued
lie smothered across your face
Because if you tell them
the truth
That you just don't know what
to do
about the emptiness
and the darkeness
How getting through
every day
feels like you haven't slept
and you're starved to death
but you have to run
a race
And what's funny is that
you really are tired
and you never want to eat
Or maybe you can't stop
But if someone asked you
to run a race
you'd stare at them and laugh
in their face
Because you can't even
get out of bed.
So when a best friend's boyfriend
got down on one knee
As much as I wanted to feel it
I couldn't feel happy
So I put on my mask
and played the part
of the ecstatic friend
while holding my heart
to keep it from bleeding
Because blood would show
and no one could know
They wouldn't understand
why
I was feeling so low
that I wanted to
die.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
I'm afraid to "grow up" because that means I will have reached the end of my potential; it will mean that no matter what I'm doing, I will be doing it to "make a living" and then live that life that I'm supposed to want to live--except that I don't.
I'm supposed to spend eight hours, every day, doing a series of mundane tasks that I secretly wish I didn't have to do--that I secretly wish would somehow **** me--all for a paycheck that allows me to keep a roof over my miserable head and keep poison in my fat body to just keep on breathing so I can continue this cycle of attending this mundane job to pay for this living that feels so lifeless.
And for what? So I can go out a few hours a week and spend my extra time with other human beings--my extra time that I wish I could just spend without--and pretend, for their sakes, that I desire to be with them; that I desire to spend this time here, on this earth, performing for them and the world and everyone else?
So, really, the meaning of life--the reason to go on living--is so that those who spend their own few, precious, extra hours with me can go on, knowing I'll be there, wearing my mask, so they can feel as if they're making a living out of this life.
...But if I don't "grow up," I can possibly continue to fool myself into believing that life will, some day, be worth living.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
She swore all was fine;
Thought she was alright.
Sure, some days were dark--
At times, there was light!
The light came and went,
like a Christmas tree.
Fooled by the flashes,
She dreamed she was free.
And, so, one by one,
each light faded out.
Soon there was nothing;
Abandoned with doubt.
Desperate and alone,
In search for light missed,
All she could find were
more scars on her wrist.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
Being wrapped in blankets is a seemingly wonderful thing. You get all wrapped up, things are feeling grand, but one wrong movement and BAM: a swab of fabric unexpectedly covers your face. You squirm and try anything to get it off; to unwrap yourself, but, alas, you cannot--you're stuck.
Breathing becomes more and more difficult until you are completely suffocating. Suddenly, everyone walks away, aloof to what is happening; but wait--here's the catch: there are no blankets and there are people all around.
"What's wrong with you?" They ask.
They wonder why doing anything is so hard; why nothing is enjoyable--why you may be numb to everything. They can't see the blankets, or that the struggle to escape overpowers all joy; that it may be so tight that you've become numb.
They don't understand why you want to give up.
"Get over it." They say, as they walk around, free as a bird, no blankets to hold them down.
You want to take their advice; to set yourself free. You begin to slash at the blankets, only to realize you're only slashing at yourself--but it helps for a bit. Maybe you feel less pain; maybe you finally feel something. For a few moments, you can breathe and put on pretend wings.
Fake wings don't last forever, though. Soon they fall, are stolen, break, get lost--whatever it may be--and they're gone.
You slip back into the blankets.
The birds with real wings start to notice; they want to know why you're doing this to them again.
"You were doing so well!" They insist.
You do what you know, and your scars become too numerous to count.
Again and again you escape and find a pair of wings, but it never seems to be enough.
You are never enough.
Suddenly, you've got it. If you're small enough--strong enough--the blankets can't contain you.
So food becomes your enemy.
Soon enough, your blanket becomes as empty as you are. You think you are strong as you easily slide out, finding refuge in a pair of beautiful wings.
The birds all stare.
"How thin she's gotten," they comment.
Some are concerned, others jealous.
"She's not healthy," they say.
They take your wings away, insisting you need help.
The blankets are always there, waiting. This time, they've gotten smaller and they swallow you up. As you begin to be forced to swallow as well, the blankets refuse to grow with you.
Breathing is harder than ever.
You realize there's no way to stop this cycle. The blankets will always be waiting, never relenting. The birds will never understand, always blind to the fabric encompassing your face.
There is only one way out that will last forever, never a blanket in sight.
Slash deep enough and the blankets will disappear--and so will the birds.
"I can be free," you think.
Freedom at last.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC