It's hard to get over them
When spoken words remind me of those days
When men were boys who had no toys
postures and behaviors trigger
Yes, they trigger me
Figures, I can not trust this space
Smells take me back to the places,
I see faces and shapes that wait
I promise the truth when I say
'I'm not overreacting,
but my mind and body are."
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
After all I did for you, I will not take this...
...How dare you?
-Pride
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
Sometimes deep
...unexpected
...right on the surface
...noticeable
...announcing their presence
...unwanted
...required
...lovely
Feelings...
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
"I love you"
~trigger warning~
does He mean it or is it just to say?
He stares at me
~trigger warning~
He leans in
I feel uncomfortable
~trigger warning~
"I CAN'T"
I screamed as I pushed him away
This takes me back yesterday
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
Death seems to come closer as the days are over
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
My eyes hurt because I force myself to keep them open.
When I close my eyes I see scenes I cant forget,
I have regrets.
I'm a sinner and yet,
I complain.
I complain that people don't remember my name.
I complain when I get the wrong order.
I complain about life.
But I'm grateful for the strength in my legs.
For my legs that support my body when walking.
The ability to hold a pen and write.
Sense of humor, friends, family and air.
I am thankful for my eyes,
they help me see.
Not just see what I have now,
also what in the future will be.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Unspoken words flow through my pen
They are the tear that cannot leave my eyes
And thoughts that linger to the halls of my mind
Trying to find ways out without doors to meet
I'm blue but words beat me up until I'm black
Scars that remind me its real
Bruised by life's ways
Most days,
I cannot take it
That's when I bleed on pages
Samantha | © 2017
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
She felt the pressure to push me out
that's how I was born
I felt the pressure to complete
but I failed
I felt pressure to say yes
I felt pressure,
Pressure to succeed
Pressure to make them happy
Pressure, parents have no idea
Pressure. . . Panic. . .pressure
I felt pressure to allow
I felt pressure to permit
Pressure I felt
Pressure to go along
Pressure to be someone else
Pressure I give in
Pressure I give up
Pressure messed me up
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC