this earthly plane was one i wasn't too fond of
i wanted to go to jupiter
or somewhere like it
big and full of orange like my favorite sunsets
Europa is my favorite moon
because it reminds me of europe
it reminds me of anywhere but here
it reminds me of away
it reminds me of gone
have you ever wanted to be so far away,
so stretched thin
to the point of no return?
it's an earthly human feeling that i'm not too fond of
i'd like to be an alien
not the green or the gray ones with big heads and thin bodies
but the ones who know things
more things
things that Plato knew
and things that Sylvia Plath knew
and Goethe, and Einstein, and Martin Luther King Jr., and every woman on the planet
I want to know things
things no one knows
and i can't do that here!
i need to be in jupiter or a heaven of sorts
because the fire of this hell burns my not only my tears
but my passion dry
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
i wrote a poem and wanted to hear ur thoughts ok here it is
I'm scared of dying...like most empathetic humans are,
but I have to try extra hard to not have an existential crisis. Or two. Or ten...
and my late nights begin with starring at dotted ceilings or purple curtains or clenching them tight because I'm scared of the shadows I might glance at!
but sometimes I don't notice that they're open
and I'm just blankly starring into an abyss of darkness.
It's so hard to be happy when there are monsters under the bed.
They tug at my limbs until I cry,
they want me dead
and I believe their whispers
but I'm so scared of dying!
Skeletons dance around my head,
taunting my flesh to join them in the dirt, even though I repeat, "no, no, no, make it stop!"
But the demons don't care...
But, there is this one angel,
who brings me back to happy, to serenity, and content minded smiles.
The angel sings to me about sunshine and reminds me that I'm loved
and sometimes I feel guilty
because the angel helps me but sometimes the monsters outnumber the angel in my mind
but when the angel kisses my lips while caressing my cheek,
the skeletons dance away, and I have this goofy grin on my face that is real!
And it lasts long enough to lock the monsters out of my room.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
for her [every woman]
sparkle red [sparkles are stereotypically for girls. but instead of sparkles, it is blood. so, bleed red.]
& care little [do not care]
& honor every 'no' [honor every woman who has every said no to anyone or anything because it is not highly looked upon for women to stand their ground]
to our every 'no' [a cheer. like a raising of the glass for women as a whole who have stood our grounds and have said no. we deserve a pat on the back.]
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
pale flesh
against pale sheets
writing on pale paper
but her heart is red
and the vessels bleed love
and the pulse plunges deep
some days she is colorful
and others she is dark
but either way it's because of love
her hesrt tugs and weighs
like a bursen to feel so much
it's her blessing and her curse to linger with blood stained fingerprints all over him and open wounds in her flesh but he patches them with kisses
and they bleed together
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
my head lay upon your chest and i could've sworn our heartbeats were one
when tears tugged at my eyes, you made them beautiful
your arms around me in our weird cuddles made me feel at home
and when you're not in my bed with out breaths intertwined, i feel like a ghostly shadow lingering for your return
any time you leave i miss you, whether it be a second, or days, my heart aches for yours
and if you leave it will ache much more or even break and shatter
you promise you wont go but i still take in every heartbeat and pulse with you
i feel every inch of you and i watch your eyes flicker to mine
i could look forever into the garden boys eyes
and let our galaxies intertwine
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
im scared of dying
although everyone has done it
and we all have it in common
one day you and i
will be the dirt
and whats etched onto our stones
wont matter to our cold-to-touch hearts
our lungs wont puff cigarettes or posioned air
in fact we wont breathe at all
just the abyss of our memories swelling nothingness
all of the world left behind
yet you're buried into it
with everyone else that has ever lived
if there is an after life
i hope to see gogh and plath
because i belong with people like them
and my whole life i'll be searching
for souls like mine
i know i am hopeless yet hopeful at the same messy, indecisive time
the fear of death
is not only the fear of pain
and the road less traveled afterwards
it's the fear of dying not knowing myself
and being trapped forever inside
the box i always contained myself in
and still feeling cricks in my neck
from not loving myself enough
when people tell you
that it's inevitable and you should "just get over it"
do they realise how impossible that is
for a broken heart like me?
i am a derailed train and a puzzle piece no one understands
and i am a writer who suffers for art and because i am this....
this mess of a person
not even living
i just walk
and talk
and breathe
sometimes exhaling with a sigh
it pains me to think that by the time
death is knocking on my door
i still will not have lived
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
shall i compare thee to a summers day?
i admire shakespeare for being such a yaknow, writer
and i wish i could equate to his flowing of words and make hidden messages between the metaphors
i try my hardest
but amogst the other angsty teens who bleed tears and numbness
it's hard to compare thee to a summers day when thats what everyone is doing
but it's so true
you are the flowers that bloom out of my ribcage after winter has been in my lungs for some time
and you are the sunshine that peaks through to warm my heart
you are the summer rain and wind that makes me flutter like the butterflies in the south
but you are also a human
and sometimes you turn to winter
or spring
or fall
but i love thee til mine death
and theres something poetic about the old english
this modern english makes me feel less of a romantic lover and writer all together
i want to compare thee to cold bedsheets after a sweaty day or the splash of water onto my feet when the ashpalt gets too hot for touch
i want you to be my metaphor for everything
i want it to be simple and complicated and use really big words because im pretentious
but i just want to love you
and as we progress into the robot era
i still sit here writing my love for you
bleeding for you
this is not romeo and juliet
and i never really know what im doing
im actually quite a mess
and this doesnt make sense
but the spark of light for my love of you will never dim to darkness
and i will hold the candle to the heavens as an offering for you to be the eternal light
this is rambling on and on probably
but i love thee
je t'aime
ich liebe dich
i love you
do you compare me to a summer day?
am i colorful like a meadow and soft like a cloud?
am i your greatest living, breathing, loving figuruative language?
or am i another hopeless (hopeful) romantic that is another page in a story that you wont speak of or analyze enough to understand
will you skim me?
i sometimes doubt your knowledge of love for me
i wonder if it's surface love
or if it pulls your heart to your stomach to ache when my touch and laugh is unavailable
i wonder if you mourn at the thought of my pain
and if romeo and juliet is a plausable scenerio
ha ha- joking
i sometimes doubt
but i know thee loves
and im sorry that im like this
but at the same time im not
anyways,
and yes, anyways is a word (at least to me)
(english breaks its own rules all the time)
i shall compare thee to a summers day
and thee shall be loved
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Have you ever felt air suffocating you? How can something you need to live be killing you?
Maybe because the breaths aren't careless, long, beautiful and free
But short, restricted and sloppy
It feels like I'm choking,
especially on my words
How do you explain depression?
Unbearable sadness and clogged throats
Not wanting to get out of bed and either staring at a clock watching time move both quickly but not quick enough
or it's staring at the indents or popcorn ceiling of your haunted house pretending they're stars
It's people telling you to just be happy
Don't you think I would've done that by now?
It's constant dragging of feet and weighed down shoulders and exasperated sighs filled with air I can't swallow for the life of me
They're filled with everything I want to say and nothing too
Indecisveness plays such a factor into this and is the pinacle of why I cannot put into words why the air is choking me
Am I worthy to breathe you?
Were you made for me? Or was I the lousy experiment that is ruining you?
I don't believe in God anymore now that I'm less optimistic
Why would God punish me for breathing when God was the one who made the air?
Sometimes I don't even want to speak
It's kind of all over the place
like my thoughts
but like I was saying,
I am drowning in air
and that's the best I can
explain it
Every breath feels like a burden
and I'm waiting for the
last sorrowed exhale
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
twisted and dark
the demon in my mind
i reflect an angel
but inside i am dying
my rivers have all flooded
and now they're dry
and i thought i was drowning
but now i must die
i do not want life
and i do not wish for death
but i do hope for a medium
inbetween where i can
stop floating in the abyss
of my angst mind
filled with sorrow
and guilt for merely being alive
i wonder what normal people
are like
but i will never know
because if you want a definition for
insanity, then look no further
than into my own mind
sometimes it's a good time
it causes for uncomfortable poems
that only the dark
will understand
that only the people who grieve
and mourn at breathing
the one's who have thorns
poking their eyes
us who see beauty
in death
we romanticize the things others fear
we are poets
we write poetry
about the things
we secretly thrive off of
we write poetry
when we are staring into space
at 2 in the morning
we write about the silence
we write about all of the bad things
we write about all of the good things
we write
thats all we do
and sometimes we laugh
and sometimes we'd rather be dead
than move our fingers onto paper
oncemore
but as poets
our duty is to be the disturbed
and the ******
and i will do my best at making your skin rise
because by now im more than used to the feeling of things shattering
inside of my own bones
and i will tear you limb from limb
and lick my fingers when the blood
is still fresh
uncomfortable yet?
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
the light fades to a piercing black
the darkness:
swelling and pulsing slowly,
like lungs taking their last breath,
like hearts skipping their last beat,
and eyes shedding their last tears,
as the darkness consumes the
layers of scars you've built up
from falling off the swings you call life,
as the darkness takes you
to the depths you didn't know existed
you turn to bone
no more flesh to call your own
and you cannot see the light
anymore
when life's in deaths hands
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC