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.

“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.

At the very least, poetry and science are sisters.
But, more likely, they are the soul and the body,
sharing a single heart,
whispering arias to the universe,
waiting to hear it singing back

“I didn’t love him.
I barely liked him.
But he was heat at the peak of summer,
and he kissed like I was his last meal–
And I was looking for a body to drown in.
Back then, I had a candy-coated heart,
like flowers tucked in the pages of a hymnal,
and he had the thick, calloused hands
of a working man.
He talked like a friend,
but touched like an animal
and my bubblegum chest wanted that
in ways it couldn’t understand yet.
He asked what colors I kissed in
and the poet in me cracked open and spilled over–
Exposed like an open wound,
like all the soft, pink parts of me
I didn’t know about.
He was a means to an end:
my Machiavellian loss of innocence.
I don’t regret him,
but sometimes I wish I did.”

All I need to do today is get up and survive another day.

Having conversations with walls is so much more interesting 'cause who else do I talk to?I need to deal with my inner being. I am a mess hey.

Man we must all be blind playing a game of optical illusion.

"See I'll not have *** even if baby I'm at risk of being your ex for I know that my love I will get from the next by faith he my man will be heaven sent."

I want to be with someone who makes me feel like a poem.

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.

Anxiety in the streets, insomnia in the sheets.

Living has become this constant nightmare. I wake up feeling like hell. I feel suffocated and embarrassed. I carry on living two lives, one for the public and one just for me. Depression is the hell that eats me up. I put a phasade of a perfect girl who has everything put together.  

I hide and put up a wall that is so high that you will never see my pain or my thoughts.

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.

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.

Searching for refuge in this world of uncertainty. Now I know what it means to be on the other side.

i wonder
what
waking up to me
feels like -
sunlight
healing your skin,
or
saltwater
burning your wounds?Probably saltwater burning my wounds.

My heart is an open museum where people walk in and out for free. Exploring until they can’t find find what they intended for, so they walk away. And I stay with myself

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

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.

“What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them up like circus attractions
on the inside of our own chests.
We carry the weight of them,
and call it surviving.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the ones who grew up
walking tightropes,
is that we only look so graceful
because we never learned
how to climb down
and we call this
remarkable.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the illusion
is that I am as much lion
as I am lion tamer.
And I got good at inflicting pain
the same way I got good
at soothing it.
This, we call unfortunate,
but inevitable
and sure.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones
is how raw we all are,
just below the surface:
how the roar of the crowd
feels like a city burning;
how we love like immolation;
how we leave nothing but dust
in our wake.
.
We call this
poetic justice.
What they didn’t tell you
about us
is that we’ve learned so well
that we only have to be cruel
once.”
— The Gentle Ones

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

You’ve been so brave and
stitched up all your old wounds, be proud.
It’s time to go back to everything you loved, it’s time to pick up all those hobbies you regret stopping.

Have you ever sat down and thought " wow how am I this unhappy? ! "
You sit there not understanding. How am I actually genuinely unhappy like this ? Also , why am I still breathing ?

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…

you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him traveling away from you in his dreams
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
”
— For Women Who Are Difficult to Love