Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 22 · 122
practical uses
poesuer Apr 22
ask him to hold you
why? because you are lonely?
or are you just cold?
poesuer Mar 12
I would have done so much different had I known the consequence of my actions but I was a child and how was I to know?
I understand now things I once had, security even within transience and I squandered, oh did I squander.
Even now I am drawn to the childish impulse to lay blame. It was he, because he hurt me. It was she, because she lied.
Childish impulses to hurt, destroy, scream and cry-
to leap off of the top floor, a memo around my neck with chicken scrawl,
"I regret it all," and oh, I dearly do.

There are many weighs I do not know how to carry with me and so I didn't walk with them, I stayed and rested and hibernated for years before I tried to go outside again.

There are many things I still do not know that I feel an adult should.
I've never understood less in my life.
Jan 29 · 126
isolation disorder
poesuer Jan 29
I feel as though I comprehend language more than the act of communication itself
I can recite definition and etymology
Spell it out loud for you
But understanding of language is no substitute for understanding of the other, to truly convey meaning

And oh, I crave to communicate but all I do is speak
in my fight or flight of thought, deconstructing and analysing
Oh do I crave to be understood

clanging against disequilibrium,
Oh do I throw myself at the door and ****** my fists beating at it
Oh do I scream and rip the handle clean off
Oh do I cry and wish good wombs had borne better sons
Oh I set the whole world on fire for its sins and seek forgiveness of mine

But I am unable to reach through the barrier
I cannot touch or be touched with words the way human beings do
I have miscomprehended everything all along
And as much as I crave a saviour I have made peace
That nobody will ever know me
and that my words are all I have

echolaliac epileptic, easily defined by clinical terminology
my body is cumbersome though my skin is thin
the isolation disorder is double consciousness, watching through my own eyes,
it is out of body and it is lonely
(as am I)
the older I get the more I realize that my neurodevelopmental disorders affect me. I realize how different and lonely I am. I realize how people must have perceived me wrong all along and I don't know what to do with my past clinging to me like a chain around my ankle.
Jan 19 · 81
about the past
poesuer Jan 19
I don't even think about it anymore because it would crush me. it would eat me alive. starting in my gut, dissolving through the fat like acid tossed in someone's face. you'll see right through me like my skin is made of glass. empty greenhouse. bricked windows. only weeds and mold grow here.
poesuer Dec 2019
you do not find peace nor take comfort in transience

you never have and never will

the cycle of grief is the only consistency
Dec 2019 · 104
poesuer Dec 2019
it was all a day dream on the walk home from school
none of it was real

you stumble through the front door and everything was just how you left it
home alone, home at last  

nick your brother's ps2
take it into the lounge and connect it to the big TV
drink cherry coke straight out of the bottle
ruin your dinner with sour drops and stawberry laces before mum gets home
hide the evidence, there's nothing to worry about  

objects outside of the room disintegrate, nothing else matters

you're playing crash bandicoot and the future is far away so pay it no mind
longing for a simpler time
Nov 2019 · 104
idle plaything
poesuer Nov 2019
oh let me be safe here
let me escape the tragedy
I'm in your arms
let me burrow so deep beneath your skin let me turn into cotton let me feel a body with mine

oh let me escape, let my fibula system click into place and send the right pulses to my brain in all the right places with nothing amiss amongst the gray matter

you're a real boy, and so am I!
skin, two, twin, one
mad scientist in love, a deluded state! I'm clearly not that insane if i know such big words!
I'm clearly not insane if i can feel, here, your flesh with mine, it does not burn it only warms my skin, gently

I'm clearly not insane if i proceed, go foreward, kiss your forehead and run my fingers through your hair, god how I've missed human beings like you

your hands trailing down my back,
your idle plaything
it feels like you're doing God's work
poesuer Nov 2019

Nov 2019 · 170
maria's crying
poesuer Nov 2019
"****** purest," swims through her head, shes growing,
oh god, oh the sinking dread

unrecognisable, her eyes with the shame,
her blood poisoned, the toxins remain
pulsating through her skin, her brain

and when you eat her guts from the inside out
while shes crying for her mum

shes a good for nothing, good for nowt

and she tastes like blood and ***
Sep 2019 · 131
poesuer Sep 2019
people always told me to hold onto the spark but it only ever got me in trouble
neurosis crawling up my spine and stunting the growth just below my neck

I am stunted, those boys in baggy school blazers and leather shoes will grow into men and I've barely got an inch on them

a savant of sorts, sure, but I'm not a child anymore
my ways hold me back; my ways hold me down

the spark I was told to to hold on ever so tightly, it hurts peoples eyes and burns their fingertips

I will not grow
I will only die down and submit to
the natural elements

disintegrate along with the vapour of the candle when it burns out
I have a developmental disability. I never thought it held me back. but I feel as though I was wrong.
Jul 2019 · 188
spontaneous combustion
poesuer Jul 2019
there was definitely a spark
it could have been a match to a gas leak
the striplights could have all blown at once
everyone else in the world besides you and me could have gone up in flames

I didn't hear it, I didn't see it,
but I know something happened

because god,
my heart is on fire
Jun 2019 · 119
waste not!
poesuer Jun 2019
you cannot idle by on your Saturday evenings, wasting away to the song you could have written if only you had thought of it in time!

your lungs will inflate and deflate and your heart will go dudum for a few decades yet!

you must live! you must take the dusk in your stride;

take a stroll on Sunday morning,
you'll find something to write about
and in doing so,
you'll find something to live for
Jun 2019 · 114
a favour
poesuer Jun 2019
can you touch me and pretend like the fat doesn't gather around my chest and hips? can you touch me like a boy would touch a boy?
can you hear me like it's a polite young man talking? can you hear the shrill, nasally drone and remember that it's supposed to be me?  
can you stop looking into my eyes? can you sew them shut? can you stop pretending to know all that I am?
can you come up behind me and smash my head in with a glass bottle?
May 2019 · 101
a passing thought
poesuer May 2019
as I lay there, hugging my knees, tucked up into my jacket
the 4am gales swept away any comfort I may have found, and I thought of a wisdom I once heard,
"this, too, shall pass"

and I clung to the thought as my eyes drifted shut,
as the dawn stumbled its way forth
and the street lights weren't needed anymore
"this, too, shall pass"

and as my head drifted from concrete
back to cotton sheets
and I felt safe and content and greatful for all I have
I breathed a sigh
softly, in relief
"this too shall pass,"
I don't know the origin of that saying but it helped me through sleeping rough so I'm greatful it exists
May 2019 · 336
are you a virgin?
poesuer May 2019
I fiddle around with the truth in my hands
trying to mold it into a shape I can stand
(that isn't age 7 when I didn't understand)

I look up and say with a pensive sigh,
"I've never made love to anyone,"
because that is no lie

but I promise myself, there is hope for a body profane as mine
a ****** I will be! and I'll make love for the first time-

to a lover, to a tender hand,
to another boy and not a man

in the queen-sized bed, on the soft white sheets
intertwined and in love, our bodies will meet
May 2019 · 128
back garden
poesuer May 2019
as I sat there watching the birds dart about in my own little fenced off Eden
I thought to myself
good grief! That tar they pave the roads with is ugly!
not even weeds grow in an asphalt garden
Apr 2019 · 492
where's the receipt
poesuer Apr 2019
to live with a female body;
it would have been fine!
if only that body
happened to be mine
Apr 2019 · 118
poesuer Apr 2019
the touch of a grown man is easy,
just stay quiet and hope he's gentle

you'll learn how to live with the shame
Apr 2019 · 271
poesuer Apr 2019
my spine curves inward and outward like the horizon of a burial mound
if I stand up straight you might clock the little girl that's buried there
somewhat abstract poem about gender dysphoria that came to my head looking in the mirror
Mar 2019 · 190
tiny arson
poesuer Mar 2019
lash out, miniscule inferno
making his way through the forest as fire burns beneath his tiny feet

only a few leaves and twigs will catch
only a frog or two will perish

still, what a bother to clean up
Mar 2019 · 208
poesuer Mar 2019
I try to act natural, try to blink like a human might do
but I can't help but check, check, check
the TV is off, the computer is off, the plug socket is on

where is that sound coming from?
Jan 2019 · 173
poesuer Jan 2019
his exhausted hunch, his purpling heart, his bullet shocked head
he picks the shells off the floor and kisses them
he throws them in the air and dances with them
he lies with them like a great beast would

he lost his life first day of the somme;
his medals worth no more than their weight

he cracks the bullets open like a rat underfoot
and he creates, he paints and he sings
and he could have really been something if God had saved him
Dec 2018 · 225
Sanitised suicide bait
poesuer Dec 2018
"There will surly be a place for you," a wise old woman said
"Not on god's green earth, only in heaven above, will there be a place for you."
The concept of a happy peaceful afterlife is very dangerous if you say it to the wrong person. Not that I think it's not a valid belief, quite the opposite. It's dangerous to promise eternal happiness to the disinfranchised when the only way to attain it is to die.
poesuer Dec 2018
The dog barks at the mailman, some school kids catch the bus, the sun goes up before going down

A spider climbs across the mirror and she doesn't know the shape of a human being

The dog settles down in his bed, the kids walk home together sweet treats in hand, the lesser stars start to love themselves

The spider got whacked by a hardback book and she doesn't know what a human is
How can one think like a human without being shaped like one
Nov 2018 · 529
I dreamt I wrote a poem
poesuer Nov 2018
a word doesn't have to be real for it to have meaning
nothing has to be real for it to grip your stomach and throat and force butterflies into every part of your anatomy
the emotion crawls under your skin and all you can do is feel it

a woman rises in the dawn with her fiery red hair, eating men like air
you become that smiling woman, only 17 and not even a lady
dying becomes your art, and you are indeed very good at it

a man frowned like thunder and went away, the stars not needed today
you begin to pack up your very own sky, melancholy filling your entire world until it all comes to a standstill
wind does not blow and not even streetlights shine
your very own lover is still in tact, a phone call away even
but he frowned like thunder and went away

a raven, a remorse, a rapping at the chamber door
a madness, a mania, a man whose mind is gripped by loss
a horror that now belongs to you, the pigeons on the street start to quoth "nevermore,"
every crow is an omen, every bird is wandering through purgatory just to torment you,
and you have no loss to speak of

I dreamt I wrote that feeling, I dreamt I put it into words
I dreamt I transcended humanity, I dreamt I became the art
I dreamt about the feeling, I dreamt you felt it too
I've been reading a lot to get out of my writers block and this is the result. three of my favourite poems, lady lazarus by Sylvia Plath, funeral blues by WH Auden, and the raven by Edgar Allen Poe served as main inspo. I tried to make them into something new, about poetry itself and how much of an amazing art form it is. about how you don't have to empathise to be able to feel the intense emotion and power behind them. also, I know 'dreamt' isn't a word. I just like how it looks/sounds more than 'dreamed'.
poesuer Nov 2018
I'm going to have a hard time cleaning up this mess
sorting out the bedsheets and pulling the mattress topper back into place,
throwing out the takeaway we were too drunk to eat

the febreeze won't hide the sweat and rotten food, not very well

my little den of hedonism feels empty without my love to share it with
without his arms around me, without his cologne,

I feel unclean in the morning-after mess
my bf came back for a visit. it was fun, but we made a lot of mess and now he's back at uni and I miss him again.
Sep 2018 · 240
Going, not leaving
poesuer Sep 2018
I needed to write something

Maybe about how after you went I was only left with smoke dancing in the streetlights

Or about how the stars were so pretty when my eyes couldn't make out your silloette anymore and all I could do was look up

I thought about writing about a dying lover, a ghost that I could still feel clinging to my body

But that's just not right

You're still here, my halcyon boy

You didn't smile like thunder and go away,
No funeral blues today

tether holding me to earth, I can still reach out and hold on tight

My boy, we won't see each other much

And it'll take some time

But somewhere down the line

We won't be alone
Jul 2018 · 154
sweet old man
poesuer Jul 2018
There's a man on the radio trying to show the audience how to grow onions

Who has the heart to tell him he's mistaken?
Jul 2018 · 500
As the bruises fade
poesuer Jul 2018
No more blood letting rituals to clense me of ***** hands

my blood flows only through heart and veins

As it should-
my blood flows,
my chest rises,
the light, once again, shines on my ****** skin
Jun 2018 · 335
poesuer Jun 2018
my skin peels away as I itch the bumps moving around beneath it
beetles burrow into my flesh and search for a home
soon they will find
that there is no home here
Jun 2018 · 426
poesuer Jun 2018
he shows me his music,
I show him my arts

we show off our writings
and then we show hearts
all I can write about is him lately. ah.
Jun 2018 · 229
To London
poesuer Jun 2018
the jittering of joints at high speed and under the pressure of gravity made the perfect backdrop to the half melody tangling us up

the music of my love, his voice quietly mimics songs he could have written for me if he had got there first

but I prefer the music he did write for me
I prefer it more than any Frank Ocean or James Brown

cute thing, hot thing,  
sweet words, sure

but I prefer the words
of my everything
I wrote this on the way to a car seat headrest concert with my boyfriend. I love Will Toledo, but I love my boy a whole lot more.
poesuer Jun 2018
the angels must have curled each and every delicate hair on your head for it to fall so perfectly over your forehead
your eyelashes too-
each one perked up so heavenly, hooding two tiny impressions of planet earth in them, the whole world is there to be seen
your mouth as well, hallelujah be sung from it
teeth carved from the very same clay that God crafted into all of his beautiful creations
poesuer Jun 2018
I feel the running water with the index finger on my left hand

and though I can't tell if its scortching or freezing

but it gives my skin the burning feeling
so I hold my wrist there like a muddy boot that I'm trying to clear the grime off
May 2018 · 121
poesuer May 2018
a little bird told me
to stop smoking so much

a little bird told me
to get better

a little bird told me
that I am loved

I told the little bird
to mind her own **** business
poesuer May 2018
what's a poet to do when words just aren't enough?
May 2018 · 173
poesuer May 2018
"no, I don't hate you,"
with a voice flatter than roadkill
that's what she said
Apr 2018 · 127
przc to crplx
poesuer Apr 2018
kids like drugs and feeling good but drugs are easier to get I guess
Apr 2018 · 259
mother hates moths
poesuer Apr 2018
he spreads his tiny grey wings before he takes flight,
short-sightedly finding the closet light source he can

he cares not if the light will burn him when he reaches it,
he cares not if the light will last long enough for him to live and die in the warmth

he simply craves the light;
the only survival instinct left in his tiny, temporary body
poesuer Mar 2018
if you see a bright light it's only human nature to chase after it
Mar 2018 · 142
not so bad!
poesuer Mar 2018
only a few touches, only a few trickles of blood
it didn't last too long, it didn't hurt too much
only a few minutes- barely anything at all!

so grow up, little victim complex
your martyrdom is forced
(and you were not!)

why do you claim trauma on something
that didn't mark you anymore than you do yourself?
a bit **** but I need to get out of my writers block. have a self-loathing self-blame poem.
Mar 2018 · 140
poesuer Mar 2018
you can't tell me that its not my fault when you weren't there to see how much I deserved it
Feb 2018 · 401
don't waste our resources
poesuer Feb 2018
I fought against this life as hard as a scared child could and it still didn't work
I tried my hardest to be truly alive but I was too weak
I have no choice in being this way

you threw your life away because you couldn't be bothered to live it
poesuer Feb 2018
Victor Frankenstien went shopping through morgues and cemeteries and picked out only the very best features,
stitching them together with string and tape

the flowing black hair and the delicate pale skin,
it should have been perfect

but once the lightning struck and the creature opened his glassy eye the truth was revealed

you can't make a person that way
not a good one anyway

the hair was matted and the skin that looked so fresh on a corpse was jaundice

the monster was a monster by design, even if it was not intentional

I understand what it means to take what seems so beautiful on other bodies and stitch it together haphazardly trying to make something perfect

I have Victors hands, the hands that play god

but more than that,
I have the sickly skin and the glazed-over eyes

I have the very best things I saw in everyone else

a gentle angel with one million eyes to watch over her children,
I took her kindness
a wretched holy beast that could never be hurt, I took his aggression

I stole ideas and attitudes that resonated with me,
I stole the rebellion that I saw the righteous wear in books and on TV
I stole the heart that some sweet girl wore on her sleeve with faith in the world around her
I plagiarized, I became everything I thought was beautiful

with my Frankenstein hands I had created a self to live in, an idea to thrive in my useless body

I thought I could live as the perfect boy, the perfect person

but the ideas split off, still inside me
growing and expanding and bulging out of my skin
my bones crack under the weight of so many people within

the sweet, the angry, they were always at odds

a monster, a monster that lies in poppy fields and dreams about love

a sweetheart, a sweetheart that slices rats in half just to see what their insides look like

I am not the perfect thing I wanted to be
I am fractured like the bones I had to rip apart to make them fit

I am too little too late and too much too soon all in one,
not enough, never enough, far too much to bear

I am the god I swore was dead,
I am taxidermy animals that don't look quite right

I am fractures of what I wanted to be

I am Frankenstein
I am also Frankenstein's monster
it's weird having DID. so much identity disturbance.
Feb 2018 · 307
poesuer Feb 2018
the wretched shackles that bound my wrists clanged together dreadfully as I shook
they themselves being the bindings between my innocence and the gallows patiently awaiting me

the voyeurs shout-
"murderess, o foul murderess!
burn eternally, you foul murderess!"

I am numb to these accusations,
as I am numb to the fear of death

the benevolent masses, the enemies that seek my execution,
these are not evil spirits
and so,
the guilty verdict that once grated against my skin now feels as soft and gentle as the clouds that, too, await me

I have retired the melancholy
I resolve myself to die with the dignity and gentleness that I had conducted myself with from the moment I was given life

I resolve to hold onto the sweetness and maternity that I showed that sweet boy,
that I had used to hold him for the first time

my hands, nothing but affectionate to that boy, my boy
the same hands that loved and cared for him from his very conception,
these are the hands they convict

these hands were supposedly the weapon that choked the life out of that sweet fawn, that I had loved so dearly

and so, these are the hands that are held accountable
bound behind my back, wrapped together tightly

these are the hands of love that have been convicted
so I started reading Frankenstein. Mary Shelly is an amazing writer, I decided to write a poem in her style as practice. I'm quite happy with the result, honestly!
Feb 2018 · 168
gunpowder season
poesuer Feb 2018
fireworks catapulted into the sky with stupid pride
that I'd only ever seen in the eyes
of some narcissist
(he fell down in the same way too)

on the 6th of November
all that's left was shell-shocked
cardboard lining the pavements

no more gunpowder,
he used up all its power on
flashing lights and trickery

not really anything but
a couple seconds of fake thunder
until he dwindled himself to death
when I was a kid I'd always sing "gunpowder season's plot," instead of "gunpowder, treason, and plot," I always thought it sounded better that way.
Jan 2018 · 277
the aching flower
poesuer Jan 2018
triffids sprouted out of my brain, sinking their roots into my cerebellum
replacing electrical beats in my arteries with venom

they ate through the back of my left eye
they wrapped my whole mind in their murderous vines

as my body was shaking and my vision began to smother

I gained a new found respect for my headaching mother
my mum gets awful migraines.
Jan 2018 · 256
I notice these things
poesuer Jan 2018
when I say I love you

your mouth twitches slightly,
barely opening and curling up at the sides
like your hair curls around my forefinger when its just you and me in bed

you'll lay your head on my chest sweetly and timidly,
looking up at me with those bambi eyes
while I completely forget that I hate eye-contact

I just love your eyes, your hair, your trembling slightly-open mouth

when I say I love you

are you trying to say it back?
Jan 2018 · 180
I'm spiteful like that
poesuer Jan 2018
I hadn't lost anything but a few coins
yet the grief overwhelmed me

a snake slid into my mouth slowly and ebbed down my throat

I could feel it drag itself through me
my body nothing but a means to its end

I pushed my fingers in after it to try and catch it, missing it

failed again by dull reaction time

I felt it writhe around in my gut
here was nothing I could do
to stop it from eating away
at whatever it found deep inside

so I poisoned it,
streetlights outside my window were glowing tenderly,
I watched my shadow's mouth fill up

pills first, then *****, then blood

I wanted that little imp slithering around in my insides to die

even if it killed me too
Jan 2018 · 578
confessions and mud
poesuer Jan 2018
you can't forgive me for things
I don't even know I did-
the blame is all mine

people have died because
of the vile things
I become when I'm sad

I, too, will to die that way
cut with things I don't remember doing
(my head aches so I know it happened)

I will collapse
under the weight
of multiplicity
I will bury myself
beneath mud and stones
no more "I", no more "us"

just myself,

the only self there should be
Next page