i just wanna know why
why i'm never good enough
for anything, for anyone
why am i always the selfish one
why can't i just want to make myself happy
why do i devote myself to fixing people
that don't care if i'm anywhere close to whole
why do i live my life to other's expectations
i'm feel like i'm living someone else's life
i'm living for someone else
and i just don't feel happy
or whole or loved or appreciated or
hell,
i don't feel ******* real
and i really just don't know why.
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 11:02 PM UTC
You used to kiss me like
the sun kissed the moon.
You used to hold me
so lovingly,
so caring,
so adoring.
You let go,
like a child lets go of a kite
on a strong windy day.
You didn't even chase after me,
until I was too far gone.
Like the sun chases the moon.
You made me feel, dumb, stupid, used
without meaning to.
I loved you.
You didn't make me feel loved.
I guess forever doesn't mean forever
and soul mates aren't infinite.
I'm sorry means nothing anymore
and I don't even care.
Like the sun and the moon...
we don't need each other
not
any
more.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 12:11 PM UTC
I am sorry
that I am going to come off as a *****
but I,
my friend,
Can't stand you like I used to.
You brag
and you scream
and you ignore me
but say hello to me
when no one is around.
Please tell me
what I did wrong
for us to grow apart-
It's almost like you didn't care.
Did you?
Or was I used to boost your ego?
I wasn't like you,
not good at the things you do.
I'm inferior
so to speak.
I complimented you.
I supported you.
That I didn't get in return.
I got ignored in return.
So tell me,
old friend,
Did I boost your ego?
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
My hands
wrapped in yours
My hands
wrapped around your hips
My hands
holding you hostage to my
love
Your hands
wrapped in mine
avoiding a goodbye
Your hands
holding my heart
Your hands
squeezing at my
metaphorical throat
asphyxiating the bad dreams
My hands
Your hands.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
I hear the plunking of the rain
as I sit alone
once again
looking through the
big window in English
as it is
pouring the rain.
What even is rain?
Some say God's tears,
others say it's simply science.
Maybe it's the tears of the angels
looking down at the pitiful world.
Maybe it is my feelings poured out
in a way I don't control
helpless and inconsistent
Drip drop, the rain is done,
and I'm still sitting alone,
over and over again.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
Hello,
you don't know me yet.
I'll bet you wish you wouldn't.
My name is Irrational,
and my hobbies include worrying about the world,
myself,
and everyone else.
My talents include cynicism and anxiety
and lacking variety
living in a not-so-high society.
Living with welts
on my heart
from being alone
for so long
begging for attention,
living with condescension.
Wondering what'll be on my gravestone.
"Loving mother, daughter, sister, wife,"
in the death of a cynic
another critic
comes another poem
about just some boring life.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
I had a dream
once upon a time
I thought I'd be successful
(but obviously, I'm not good enough for that)
There was once a gleam
in my eyes, that I
would cherish
for years.
But now I
am not good enough,
I am just a rejection.
Just tears in a bathroom stall,
red eyes and broken hearted,
over something small.
Does it really matter?
Because I am a rejection
for every darling thing
that I've ever wanted
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
I am not a poet.
I may write poems
but I am not a poet.
Poets speak pretty words.
I speak in a tongue no one knows,
not even me.
I am not a poet.
I am a girl,
with unspoken words
who gazes at trees.
I am a girl
with red hair and
watery eyes
but I,
I am not a poet.
I am not a poet.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Vagabond of the heart
Always wandering, searching for
Love. Bless the heart of the
Exuberant lover whom thought.
No love to find here, nomad, no love.
To where you go, oh vagabond?
In the years I've known you, you've
Never found love.
Even then, you're still searching, old and weary.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
Part of me wants to believe
that I'm important,
more important than the dirt we walk on
Part of me says that
I'm the equivalent of the grass
that is shredded in the lawnmower
Which am I?
It depends
maybe on the day,
maybe on the person
but to me
I'm just the wind blowing
on a cold day
that freezes your nose
and numbs your heart
I'm the kind of person
that you don't want to be.
the kind of person
that cries over everything.
The kind of person
that wants to believe she's good
but doesn't feel like she is
Tries, tries, tries but isn't
Who am I?
Who are you?
I'm a whisper
in the night,
overlooked.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC