Poetry approached me in that chaos of raw inverted power and leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder, said, “You need to learn how to listen, you need grace, you need to learn how to speak. You’re coming with me.” I did not walk off into the sunset with poetry, or hit the town with a blaze of gunfire with poetry guarding my back. Rather, the journey toward poetry worked exactly as the process of writing a poem. It started from the inside out, then turned back in to complete a movement. And then on and on in the manner of a ripple in water, a song in the air

Be proud of yourself. Remember the nights you crumbled under the weight of your pain, and the mornings you fought to open your eyes, and won. Remember how you put yourself back together, brick by brick; remember the ache in your shoulders as you laid each stone. Remember that life is often the more difficult choice, and that it takes a special kind of bravery to choose it anyway

Corruption is never beautiful, that’s something i have always believed in until I saw the way her soul looked like. It was corrupted and destroyed into little pieces but it looked like art and writing about it couldn’t be harder. Her sharp edges didn’t scare me,I embraced her with my shaking hands and hoped she wouldn’t feel the vibration of my sorry heart. she had the most unsettling poetic thoughts. she cries poetry and smokes dreams,she hopes for a better life where she doesn’t feel as homeless as she does now. she writes the way an angel does and aches the way a devil does, she wants to write to free her angel but the devil is taking control of her pen. She will break you, shatter you until you can’t see the light, but she’ll hold your hand and guid you in the darkness, show you her veins until your sight returns, you’ll see the universe in her palm, she is a creature of Venus or maybe the stars. You could never know her not the way you want, the puzzle you’re trying to solve is missing a piece. I see her in everything surrounding me,the rays of sunshine and the whispers of the night,I see parts of her in me and parts sprawled around existence itself. She sometimes seems like a fancy, a greek god you read about or a song you listen to,I sometimes feel like she only exists in my mind. She is a storm, a hurricane but for some weird reason Im not scared to drown in every inch of her soul

I wouldn’t even call this poetry.
Words just happen to be
One of my only escapes.

I have bruises on my fingers from the things i was not supposed to write about. Creation will **** you.

I have the words
but they are out of tune,
so write me a song.

I don’t play guitar
and I don’t read the notes
so write me a song.

I can give you words, but I won’t
cause I want your own
so write me a song.

And maybe we’ll sing it together,
Or i’ll sing it alone
Doesn’t matter, just write me a song.

Or a stanza,
Or a line,
anything, just make me something.

please,
write me a song…

later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt? it answered everywhere
everywhere

Thank you for seeing museums in me where i saw empty hallways.

“i can feel autumn in the air tonight, and as always , my lungs feel so heavy. the trees are turning color, and i am turning pages. a new chapter begins for me. i can’t help but feel better when the wind is cooler, when the sky is grayer. this season matches my soul. all rusted, where the living goes to die, where the old washes away in the rain. a place where dead looks so pretty, where it’s okay to fall away from what keeps you elevated. i breathe better, the air isn’t thick around me, suffocating the soul that lives in this body. gloomy never looked so beautiful, and i secretly hope, someone will look past the dead pieces of who i once was. the remnants i carry in my pockets, and on my smile. i hope they can see the beauty i offer. despite the dying soul i may have.”

You must understand that I am a deeply unhappy person. I grew up memorizing all these cracks in the walls.

Maybe dawn is not in the sunlight every morning, maybe it is in the middle of the night when you hold yourself against the darkness. you are sitting quietly and feeling yourself break apart yet knowing this hour, this very hour, you are finding yourself. maybe this is your dawn. maybe for you, the first light appears in the middle of the darkness, when pain clings to your throat. sometimes dawn visits you at night.

“somehow you’ve made the mistake of seeing me as a writer. i am a teller of stories, but sorely only capable of the truth. unfortunately there are no lyrics here. what you’ve taken for artful is nothing more than my own beautifully jotted tragedy…”

"Some cry with tears, others with their thoughts"

I am losing. What?Myself.

This is how it happens:
first comes the shock. the ache has had no time to settle itself into your bones or braid itself into your hair. it doesn’t cross your mind as often as it should because you still can’t quite comprehend what’s going on.
then comes the worst wave of depression. the equivalent of a broken-hearted-tv-and-ice-cream-binge. you’ll use a few boxes of tissues and everything outside of your blankets will feel wrong for a while. you’ll cry until you run out of tears and then you’ll just feel numb and hollow like someone carved out your insides with a spoon.
third comes denial. you try to pretend like everything is still okay and your life is exactly how it has always been. you keep expecting a letter or good news because you slipped up again and
next is the doubt.
i guess the last step has to be acceptance - what else could it be? you have to turn your light on again and throw out your tissues and actually wake up in the morning.
i think that’s how it happens.

Fact is I will never be happy. Fact is depression is my destiny. Fact is I am drowning in my own tears. Fact is I wish I could die at 18.

There are always going to be talents that you want to have, looks that you prefer over yours, intelligence that you crave, and people that are beyond your grasps. Life will never fall perfectly in your hands and you will never be the ideal person that you imagine in your head. There is always going to be somebody else who you wish you were. But you don’t need all those things to be a good person. You don’t need to know how to deliver prose like melodies or how to write words into stories to realize that kindness is one of the few things you can learn to control. You don’t need to look like supermodels or Photoshop masterpieces to appreciate the fact that no matter your appearance, who you are inside is what counts. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist to understand that compassion goes a long way and you don’t need to have hundreds of friends to know that it’s more important for you just to be one. There are so many things that we wish we could change about ourselves but in the end, none of it will make much of a difference if we cannot say that we are proud of who we are within.
— “Not everyone can be a supermodel but everyone can be a role model

Everybody keeps telling me that
it’ll be okay and I’ll get through this alive
and that I have nothing to be worried about
but ****– I am so tired of hearing about
how I am supposed to make it through the day;
I just want somebody to tell me that yeah,
I might crash and burn, I might crumble like
a decrepit building under a roof too heavy
to hold, I might falter and trip and break
a few bones, I might not make it out of
this mess as neatly or as happily as I came
into it– and I want somebody to tell me that
it’s okay to **** up and it’s okay to fail and
it’s okay to make a mess of my life because
I’m so tired of these standards I’ve set for
myself– I want somebody to tell me I can
let go once in a while, I want to be able
to let go without losing myself I want to
be able to fall without going straight to hell–
I want somebody to tell me that I can be human
and that it’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
— I have been hiding the human inside of me in hopes of being perfect

I have made a habit of storing pieces of myself into others so that they have something to hold onto when they have lost themselves.
But I have learned that people are not so careful with what does not belong to them because now I am a just a walking dispensary of bruised knuckles and scarred hearts

Drowning in depression. Drowning in stress. Drowning in anxiety. Drowning in hurt. Seeking happiness and peace yet all I do is drown in sorrow.

"If it feels like suicide again today, I give up."

this is how it happens:
first comes the shock. the ache has had no time to settle itself into your bones or braid itself into your hair. it doesn’t cross your mind as often as it should because you still can’t quite comprehend what’s going on.
then comes the worst wave of depression. the equivalent of a broken-hearted-tv-and-ice-cream-binge. you’ll use a few boxes of tissues and everything outside of your blankets will feel wrong for a while. you’ll cry until you run out of tears and then you’ll just feel numb and hollow like someone carved out your insides with a spoon.
third comes denial. you try to pretend like everything is still okay and your life is exactly how it has always been. you keep expecting a visit or letter because you slipped up again and forgot that the number you never deleted from your phone was disconnected last month and the birthday cards won’t come anymore.
next is the doubt. you can’t decide whether you should love what they loved in reverence or hate it because it’s just pouring salt in a wound that is desperately trying to heal. you wonder who’s next and why it can’t be your turn yet.
i guess the last step has to be acceptance - what else could it be? you have to turn your light on again and throw out your tissues and actually wake up in the morning. you no longer have an excuse to miss class or ignore another phone call. someone isn’t coming back into your life and now you have to be okay with that.
i think that’s how it happens.

Girl, you know you're lost. Lost in it all.

A girl with broken dreams like a guitar with broken strings.

"Feelings guarded, heart on lock"

Peace is the mission. What is peace?I've never experienced such so, sadly, I do not know what you are talking about.

Each of us wages a private battle each day between the grand fantasies we have for ourselves and what actually happens.

I can’t understand why emptiness is the heaviest feeling of all.

Every fibre of my being is tired of everything.

When I found myself,
there was no need
in seeking validation
from anyone to inform me
on what I should become.
I did not fall apart many times,
to rise back up for anyone
to dictate where I am heading
in this life.
I am still finding myself
everyday in many ways.
Yesterday doesn’t stop
the learning process of
becoming a better woman.
Today is a new day,
there so much for us to learn
and share with the world.

My whole world is grey. I'm seeking for my flashlight but unfortunately, sadly I am surrounded by darkness, grey. No light at the end of the tunnel.

Depression, a strange yet comforting company.

I fashion my poetry after you–
not in a way words are
clothed in starlight
that pops at the first sign
of darkness but rather, elegance
you’d notice in simple things,
of everyday occurrences
that makes mundane instances
more beautiful after
the second look
these verses are a cotton dress
where you’re most stunning
against the summer sun
the glare in which blinds; yet eyes
were caught,refuse to change focus
and notes to remember in memory.
I could not ask for a better
model to reflect
how my words should appear
when it walks a busy street
full of strangers willing to read.

I want to disappear, become invisible. I'd rather lay in a coffin than live this life.

They say wounds heal with time but why does it feel like I want to die?

“These days, I’m at my emptiest.”

Slowly dying inside each and everyday. I'm no longer trying to survive. Actually, I'm done trying with all of this. I scream "Anxiety, go way!No one likes you" it's always there pulling me down. Never been destined for happiness in my life and I'm done trying finding it. Something awful repeatedly happens. I'm always waiting on my flashlight, some light would be wonderful for once but I guess there is no light. I'm done. Done.

I let numbness wash over me
Again
And again
And again
Because being numb is so much better than feeling a **** thing.

Weeds grew between the cracks in my heart and the breaks in my bones but for some **** reason i decided the single dandelion that grew was the good in me and I call it Poetry...but sometimes, most times... all I call it is a lost cause and the grim reminder of the person I never became... I'm a writer...a performer, and I thrive for hearts and souls & Ink and Pens.

“I have written a thousand poems. And nine hundred of them are about you. Do you know what that means? It means you’re ****** heavy. Get off my heart, and get out of my mind. I’ve had enough"

The only reason I cannot stop writing, is that because I have no more tears left.. yet I need to let the burden out.

Sometimes i wake up dead
both of my lungs decaying
i light up another cigarette
exhaling out the thought of you
& watching it billow out into sun-
light from the shadows only for
the knot in my heart to tighten
because i’m reminded of your
beautiful smile that’s why i hide in the shadows and run with the wolves chasing the moon knowing that no matter how far i run she’ll always be 237,000 miles away & when the world became heavy the right thing to do would be to just shrug it off and to remember to breathe and be a woman
and just dealing with it the way i deal with swings at poker with unwavering stillness grounded in the calm knowing that everything is okay and unbroken but i didn’t. when you saw my soul bleed
i wanted to die. you were not supposed to see me hurting. how did you end up in my cave? or did i drag you into the darkness?
i never wanted to give you a sneak peak into the shadows while i was knee deep more than three feet with my insecurities
lying against the sharp edge of your critiques handing you a love note i wrote on a receipt you’re a beautiful and sweet but me? i’m on a spiel street do you feel me?
i feel weak please **** me i wish i could be all that you want me to be but i can’t. i can only be me and hope you see the real me.

I run out of words to say but any touch, a simple taste, any dose of you really... and the book of poetry starts to turn its own pages.

My life is a mess.

“If you don’t feel like you’ve been stabbed in the chest every time you write poetry, you’re not doing it right. Because the part of you that’s hurting needs to bleed, needs to die. That’s how a poem is born.”

What is happiness?Happiness is a short lived moment in her life. Sadness or darkness will always be there to stay forever. Bad energies, stress, unbalanced emotions are what she knows and will know forever. Her sun is always hidden. Where is she even going in life?She asks, hoping the maker will respond.

“Today I held a gun to my mouth and it dissolved as quickly as I thought about you.
I laughed and laughed
and felt the moon pulling my skin away from my bones.
the silent forever of a halfway heart.
Sometimes I sew threads of your hair into the sleeves of my jacket
but when I say your name out loud; it burns.
The angels tell me this is poets breath.
And gravity falls past me; I call your ghost and say “this is where my body feels heavy.” And you tell me that it hurts to forget.”
— But the moon doesn’t have its own light and I guess I don’t either.

“I write because there is a fire inside me that only ink can put out.”

Me : bye.
bad habit: bye?
Me : yeah. They say it takes 21 days to get rid of a bad habit. Tomorrow is day one. So for now, bye.
Bad Habit : what bad habit?
Me : you.
People too, can be bad habits.
Day 1. My brain kept yelling at my heart, asking her to stop weeping over a love she won’t receive. Brain warned heart and heart didn’t listen. The rest of my body tried ignoring this Civil War, attempting to find ways to keep me busy. Heart wept so much it worried Brain to spending the night numb to everything but my ears just to make sure Heart wouldn’t give in and stop pumping blood or convince Lungs to stop breathing.
Day 2. I spent my day locked up in my room browsing the Internet and having consecutive naps but you kept running in my mind and weighing me down. You are the reason I am weak, not the lack of food. I went to see my best friend at dawn because you shout in my mind and stab my heart when it gets dark and I was actually afraid of being by myself. I couldn’t witnesses parts of me fighting because of you all night again. I kept thinking of how I shouldn’t be thinking of you. My mind is very upset with my heart.
Day 3. I spent the day with my friends and we danced all day and you weren’t in my mind until a handsome guy came my way and all I could talk to him was about you. I thought I was getting cured but it seems that my mind is playing a cruel joke on me.
Day 4. My knuckles are ****** from all the ways I tried to stop myself from texting you. Eventually, I had to delete your numbers and block you from every social network to stop myself from talking to you.
Day 5 : I saw my doctor today. I have to go to Pretoria for further mental evaluation. It seems like you did more damage than I had presumed.
Day 6 : We could have been so much better together. I was ready to grow in love with you. I don’t understand how one can fear commitment or love itself so awfully. Am I the only one who felt the fire we make?
Day 7 : I found myself thinking of you with other girls. I feel sorry for them. You will look for me in every girl you come across. I am not replaceable. They will find pieces of me left behind inside of you along their attempts to love you, they will keep bumping into me.
Day 8 : I talked to your brother today. He said you say I’m a warrior and you are happy I’ve moved on but really, I am weak. I could cry an entire ocean into existence and swim across it if that would bring you back into my life. I am not without you.
Day 9 : I laughed without you today.
Day 10 : when I woke up, you weren’t the first thing on my mind. I fell asleep on my mother’s lap.
Day 11 : I stopped wearing your t-shirt to bed.
Day 12 : maybe I love me more than I think I love you.
Day 13 : I spent the whole day in your t-shirt listening to our favourite album and cried whenever our favourite parts played. I’ve forgotten how your touch feels but your scent still quivers up my nostrils when I hold onto myself for long enough.
Day 14 : Maybe we will meet again next life time. Maybe it will work out next life time. Maybe I should get out of bed, take off your shirt, take a shower and have a warm meal. Maybe I will lay here in the dark until you return.
Day 15 : I remember the night you kissed my neck and carved “forever” on my left thigh with your finger tips.
Day 16 : I miss you quiet terribly.
Day 17 : How long does a human being go without food or water again?
Day 18 : I cry but the tears don’t come out anymore. I cry in silence. Mother begged me to have breakfast this morning. I asked for coffee instead. Two sugars, no milk. Just the way you like it.
Day 19 : My mind won’t let me rest. My mind is trying to find you. You promised me forever. I’m still here. Where are you now?
Day 20 : I finally got out of bed for a shower. I put your shirt back on. I cannot let it get washed. Too much of what I had with you has been washed away already.
Day 21 : I swept the piles of our memories together in a neat lump behind my heart. I’m expecting your visit...so i can tell you i did my time, Goodbye.

I styled my hair with dramatics
cracking wishbones with prayers
wanting heat on my shinbones
kisses on my chin and knees
let’s be a haystack
mangled wildness on the sheets
using poetry as our roadmap
my thigh as a street.