i am
words
dripped in honey,
a golden sheen
across
my body,
coursing through
my veins
in luxury.
i am
an interlude;
the space
between your fingers
were not made
to contain me.
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 1:09 PM UTC
you are
a gasp of fresh air
underneath
lips I’ve forgotten;
a kiss
departed from which
I left my heart at.
I am
the name
you sighed
as our lips met.
and yet,
as we part,
we are
words
you could never say.
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 4:25 AM UTC
the word ‘poetry’,
a fatigued outcry i buried,
in the light of the emotional burdens i carry,
i stumbled across these thoughts in a mortuary.
the word ‘poetry’,
whispered words from the wary,
uttered thoughts of the dreary,
emblazoned by a fuse that ignites your soul, leaving you hungry.
the word ‘poetry’,
acknowledged by people around the world globally,
should be used to tell stories,
especially tales with difficult backstories.
the word ‘poetry’,
is a haven for many,
yet no one has ever seen me
writing, when i’m drowning in the depths of my worries.
the word ‘poetry’,
so unnecessary.
so take this as a cautionary,
don’t post things up on the internet, without a proper commentary.
the word ‘poetry’,
a single word spoken in sanctuary,
dipped in blood soaked strawberries,
my life is woven through a series of just being empty.
the word ‘poetry’,
i am so angry.
how dare you, how dare she,
judge me for the ways i curb my insanity.
the word ‘poetry’,
i am afraid of it, you see.
i despise the way people look at me with sympathy,
as though what i wrote can only be about misery.
the word ‘poetry’,
people say i hoard all the negativity.
i stroke a finger across my wrist absently,
is it any wonder that death feels so friendly?
the word ‘poetry’,
i resign to the fate that normalcy,
is a consequence thats eludes even me,
for all i want is to be set free.
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 4:16 AM UTC
so much love to give,
not much will to live.
i must be stupid, i think.
people pass by in a blink
only stopping when i share,
not for the fact that they care.
its all about them
and their needs,
its all about them
and my deeds.
so much love to give,
not much will to forgive.
i must be forgiving, i think.
i have to be empathic, or sink
down the drain to be forgotten
or left behind to become rotten.
its all about them
and what they need,
its all about them,
nevermind that you plead.
so much love to give,
not much will to outlive.
i have to outgrow childish whims,
either that or be out on a limb.
i have to move on, they say
but why should i, i cry.
it’s all about them
and what they feel,
it’s all about them,
you just have to deal.
so much love to give,
however will i leave?
i want to grow feathered wings,
i want to cut off their puppet strings.
i want to be able to breathe again
without feeling like i have little to gain.
it’s all about them
when it should be about me,
it’s all about them
but I want to be free.
so much love to give,
but **** if I’d ever learn to believe
that i am worth so much more;
that i should leave sadness at the door;
that i am fully adored
by the people swimming by the shore.
the shore is filled with people who
don’t take until there’s nothing left, who'd
keep you at your very best, who
are your very own life vest, who’d
never make you choose,
even when you have nothing left to lose.
you have so much love to give,
don't let yourself wilt away like this.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
its been so long.
i wondered if you’ve moved on.
i dreamt of you this morn,
when the sun rose
and my heart closed.
it must’ve been a sign of fate,
that seems to occur as of late.
i see people from my past in my dreams,
they were sarcastic and mean,
which could’ve been foreseen
if i had made peace at seventeen.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:36 AM UTC
shuffling papers together into a pile,
you look like you’ve run a mile.
in such a hurry of what you’re looking for
that you forget what you’re pushing ashore.
papers strewn across the table
gathered in a fit of labor;
you’re in a hurry to chase the next high
but are you really? or are you really just chasing flies?
i am the paper that slips out of your grip.
i am the paper that hangs off the tip.
the floor beckons my fall,
the drop becomes a call.
a call for help, yet a call ignored
as you left me on the side as though i am nothing more.
(maybe its because i mention death like a prayer.)
i am the paper that idles by.
i am the paper that was hung out to dry.
you’ve purposely left me behind.
you’ve shoved me aside blind.
i trusted in you therefore i am blind.
when you confided in me, i was kind.
(maybe you were hurt by my actions.)
i am the paper sitting silently.
i am the paper binging on anxiety.
pick me up again and i’d be useful.
use me again although it may be cruel.
i don’t like the feeling of being abandoned.
it makes me feel like i’m a loose cannon.
(maybe your dead stares makes me ill.)
i am the paper that flew with the wind
i am the paper you seem to have skimmed
i am an afterthought, i think to myself a lot.
i am being overlooked like a blind spot.
i am forgotten just as easily.
you’ve gotten rid of me, finally!
(maybe i should scratch until i bleed today.)
i am the paper that is facing down.
i am the paper that is close to breaking down.
i wear a mask that is always cracking.
because i am done pretending.
pretending that everything is okay.
pretending that i am sane when i’m being put on display.
(maybe i should be punished for thinking this way.)
i am the paper that flew into the mud.
i am the paper that is drenched in my own blood.
i am weak but i am not.
i am strong but i think not.
i am tired but i am trying.
i am trying but i am dying.
(maybe my death will prove that i am right.)
i am an afterthought that is being forgotten
and i know its a lot for you
but if you ever think me rotten,
tell me now because i am not willing to be the paper
that was made out of spun cotton:
valuable until deemed unimportant,
helpful until easily forgotten.
(maybe I can finally sleep tonight.)
i am an afterthought that is being forgotten
and i know its a lot for you
but its a lot for me too.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:22 AM UTC
Running after ghosts of the past,
whilst stepping on glass shards,
you spend your days chasing the next high,
not knowing that you’re getting caught in the lies.
Like a spider that
meticulously weaves
and endlessly plots,
you take your strides cautiously,
yet still with a hint of mischievous spontaneity.
But the train tracks ahead of you
that are littered with rocks
and the crunch of footsteps behind that mocks even you,
never falters, never ceases.
You pace yourself as though you're running,
but all you're really doing is falling.
You’re drowning in quicksand,
making waves in the pits.
Distressed cries; not knowing where you’d land.
You wait to see if anyone will save you,
not knowing that all you ever needed was yourself.
Do you not see, do you not hear?
That your heart is hurting?
Its asking you to love yourself a little more,
to let your guard down and soar,
to bless yourself with change,
although it may be strange (to you).
This life is an endless journey of self growth,
charted by fate, and
accompanied with love,
but only when you let it happen,
will it make you great again.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 1:03 AM UTC