Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I'm a spectator, maybe even an occasional commenter,
But my borders limit me.
The bubble, it magnifies everything,
And shifts waves so that I see all in a different light.

It's truly beautiful,
But you have to understand how my world view and experience is different from yours.
An ant to you can be a world to me.
Often, its too much,
But you think I'm just being dramatic.

Its isolating, to be trapped within it.
I can't quite reach out to others,
So I'm always just at the border.

I graze my fingers over the surface.
Just past it, normalcy.
I'm so close
Yet so
so
far.
Your greatest poem.
Its okay if its not perfect yet,
You have time to make edits.

Don't mind the typos and awkward bits,
The "flaws" of it all is what makes it you.

It is to be dedicated to you and you only.
**** what others want,
This isn't about them.

This poem is constantly evolving.
It doesn't have to make sense,
As long as its truly yours.
I'm stale, spoiled, way past my due date
And yet I'm still here, in the back of the fridge.

I know the cold is meant to keep me around for longer,
But the prolonging was meaningless when my demise was inevitable.

I'm without purpose, without notice
I'm not quite sure why I'm here really.

I wasn't supposed to be around this long.
Just pour me down the sink already,
Theres no chance I'm getting better now.
I am the apple that fell off the family tree.
They say I don't fall far,
and its true.
Its impossible to completely rid of my roots.
But I still have the power to do what those stiff branches were too stubborn and fixed to:

Grow.
Grow from their flaws and generational hurt.
Plant the seed of healing which will grow with the generations to come into a new tree with deeper roots and riper fruit.

It hurts to detach myself from my history,
But it would hurt more to put my children through the same pain.
Unfinished
Nothing works,
I took all they gave.
Therapy,
Diagnoses,
Drugs.

And they took all I had.
Blades,
Technology,
Privacy,
My sense of self.

All to get "better."
"Better."

It seems that nothing works.
I'm just the same as before.
Or - I can't remember before,
I don't think I was there for that,
I was off where my own thoughts couldn't hurt me
(Maybe it got so bad because I wasn't there. I let go of my body and let It take the steering wheel and steer me towards my death.)

All I know is that right now, I feel like
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.

You were supposed to fix it.
What happened?
Why does nothing work?
All that I'm doing is losing its significance, and as I continuously fail at basic human interaction and my motivation to do anything that makes me noteable, I fear that I am too losing significance.
Just slowly slipping into the numbing, pulsing pain.
Just act like you never knew
Sleep to the sounds of hurt at night
And in wake have not a clue
Wear that bright smile
Like you always do
Keeping it in is most important
As long as it doesn't affect you.
About the bystanders of abuse
You are the main character of your own story, so you better start acting the part.

Love.
Hate.
Grieve.

Treat yourself.
Boast shamelessly.
Feel pretty.

Be childish.
Be emotional.
Be angsty.

Be human.
Be you.
Just be.
I feel that people restrict themselves from basic human qualities and end up feeling miserable. We don't have to be what the world wants us to. We should just be, shamelessly.
Next page