Ah...
So busy doing something  
Never ends
   No breaks seems
    & u still creep in my mind
     SO this way I don't
    Over  react  
         Relaxed
Always better days
     To come

You always compared your head to an unsafe neighborhood, somewhere you shouldn’t go alone, but I want to reach inside and take out whatever I can find because I have seen the light in you and if you let me I will show you where to find it whenever you forget.

Wounds will heal
Over time
Even if it takes
Decades
But the memories that
Came from the pain
Last much longer
I know
I have scars
That mark the pain
Everyone does
But not all
Scars show
Skin is not the only
Surface you can
Break
Hearts
Can be slit
Just as easily
So be careful
Every person is fragile
Some seem more
Breakable
Than others
But not all
Scars show
A heart is not the only
Surface you can
Break

Confidence
Can be shattered
Just as easily
So be careful
Every person is fragile
Confidence can
Be broken
Faster
Than anything else
And it takes so long to
Repair
I know
I have scars
But not all
Scars show

I am
                             A dancer
                             A writer
                             An artist
                             A musician
A creator
                             But if you
                             Wanted
                             To see
What I create
                             A dance
                             A story
                             A painting
                             A song
I would
                             Refuse
                             Turn Red
                             Stall
                             and Deflect
Your attention
                             Because
                             I am
                            Afraid
                            My creations
Will let you
                            Judge me
                            Criticize me
                            Hate me
                            Mock me
They are
                            A piece of me
                            A thought
                            An emotion
                            A fleeting moment
And they are
                            Mine
So if I show you
                            I trust you
Please don’t betray my trust

People of all ages sitting in a circle staring at the ground, ceiling, etc. a few twitching.

"Hi, I'm Fred."

"Hi Fred"

"I started this group because I found that I was on Hello Poetry 24/7. I got an account and I loved it. At first I was only on a little, posting one or two poems a day. But I loved it so much I began spending more time on it. It became a problem when I was fired for focusing on Hello Poetry instead of the heavy machinery I was operating. I was drinking so much coffee so I didn't have to sleep that I couldn't think straight. I began writing strange poems about adhesive sloths and grapes. My wife threatened to leave me if I didn't delete my account. I tried to stay off it but, it didn't work out. My wife took my kids and told me that I was too irresponsible. I responded with a limerick. She was very mad and left immediately after. I really want to stop being addicted to Hello Poetry and when I asked I got an overwhelming response from people who felt the same. If everyone could please introduce themselves in a clockwise direction."

"Hi… I'm… um… kittylover682"

"Hi kittylover682"

"So… I used to have a name, but now I can only remember my screen name. In fact, that is really the only part of my identity that remains. I miss obsessing over kitties and petting them, but now I just spend all my time on Hello Poetry. I used to have such a kitty-full life! I had so much potential! i made friends with every type of kitty, even new ones, i never discriminated. I met persian kitties, and alley kitties and tabby kitties and I went and pet them and showed them love… then i got kicked out of people's houses for sneaking in to pet their kitties… but my point is, kitties were my LIFE! And now, my life revolves around that little lightening bolt and i can only seem to speak in metaphors. That lightning bolt is the death of my heart, the thorn in my side, the electricity that warps my body and it just… it is a storm inside of my life. The agony when i see that my lightning bolt is not lit up with a notification… it is an undying fiery hell within my soul. I makes me want to… to… well, it makes me consider leaping off of cliffs or in front of trains… but the only thing that stops me is the hindering idea that I may have to get off of hello poetry for a few moments to go do that so I remain, under my bed on my computer, posting poetry, reading poetry, commenting, liking, reposting… its a VICIOUS CYCLE!!! WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?!!!!”

“Hi I’m DaPoet”

“Hi DaPoet”

“Like, kittylover682 I had a different name, but this is MUCH cooler. I don’t think I have a problem, because who says there is anything wrong with being a poet? Also I’m not a normal poet. All of my poems are also raps. I’m here because my mom thinks I have a problem. Apparently choosing poetry over sleep and school is not okay. I don’t understand her ‘logic’”

“Hi I’m DYING”

“Hi Dying”

“No, that’s not my name, who CARES what my name is?! I’m only still here and not on Hello Poetry right now because my sister has chained me to this chair and bolted it to the floor. She thinks I need help but I AM DYING! I need to get on it! I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM! I’M FINE! I’M FINE! GIVE ME BACK MY LAPTOP!”

“Please calm down.”

“Shut up Fred!
There once was a man named Fred,
who got it into his stupid head,
that people needed to be cured,
of the obsession with the written word,
and as soon as I get unchained FRED IS GOING TO BE DEAD!”

“Okay… please stop creating violent limericks on the spot. We have all been there, there IS a way out.”

“I DON’T WANT A WAY OUT! I HATE TO SHOUT, BUT WITHOUT A DOUBT YOU ARE A BIG DUMB LOUT!”

“Okay, stop making really ****** rhymes please.”

“Well then… GIVE ME BACK MY LAPTOP!”

“Okay… let’s just move on. We’ll come back to you. Next person, please go on, I’ll duct tape his mouth shut. Silence is golden, but duct tape is silver, after all.”

“Hi I’m…Sally”

“Excuse me, could you put down your phone while you introduce yourself?”

“No… Oh my gosh, Poetry is Life started trending!”

“I’m sorry what?”

“My fourth latest poem started trending!”

“YAY!” *everyone claps and congratulates Sally

“No. No more Hello Poetry. We are supposed to stop obsessing over poetry and be cured from this addiction.”

“I don’t want to be cured.”

“I love Hello Poetry”

“Why don’t we change this to a spoken word club!”

“Yes!”

“Hi I’m DaPoet and I declare this a new spoken word club!”

“YAY!”

“No no no! I created this to-” Sally clubs Fred in the head with her phone and he drops dead

“YAY! FRED IS DEAD!”

“He was hit in the head”

“And we are now free”

“To write continuous poetry!”

“And become more obsessed instead!”

The end.


REPOST IF YOU REALLY NEED TO ATTEND THIS SUPPORT GROUP TOO LIKE US
PLEASE COMMENT! WE LOVE TO READ ANY THOUGHTS YOU HAVE!

Once upon a time, there was a
fat-***, rude, easily aggravated, and aggressive princess
who sat at the top of a tower,
waiting for a dreamy prince who would someday climb the tower
and rescue her
and not care that she was
ugly, loud, and half out of her mind.

One day, that day came,
and this boy of a man
climbed up the sides of the ****** tower
that contained the dreaming princess,
hoping to save her
and make her his.

Once he got to the top,
he tapped her window,
rap...rap...rap
"My dear, I have come save you! Come out!"
She stirred out of another daydream of a
hunky, sweet guy coming to save her,
only to find that it had come true.
She dashed across the floor,
with her fat chubby legs, her heavy panting, her sloppy, ***** and tattered chiffon dress,
and burst open the french window.

"Oh hey yea, sorry I was kinda busy back there, so what's up? Why'd you come knocking? Hmmm..? Where are you?"
She looked around, but couldn't find the poor prince.
Turns out, the prince had clung on the the window,
but once she flung open the windows,
he lost his grip and fell back down,
all the way down to the bottom.
She stared down.

"****! Oh well. At least he gets that pretty ***** at the bottom,
who has yearned for his attention for so long. He'll be happy. They deserve each other."
She shrugs, closes the windows, and watches as
the fair maiden at the edge of the tower
mends his bones and his heart,
while stealing it along the way.

The fortunate prince fell in love with the dear maiden,
and it seems that she had always loved him from afar but never dared to say a word,
and they both lived happily ever after.
Of course, all while the princess stared down with a knowing smile on her face.

How do I start this?
How do I express this to you?
Well, here's the thing.
I like you. It's simple at that.
Sometimes I'll joke around,
tie your shoelaces together, say mean things,
but deep down I really do love you.
And I want you to go and give your heart to her,
not to me.
Why?
Because she will be so much better for you.
She's sophisticated,
I am quite casual.
She's smart and cute,
I'm average and insane.
She's pretty and skinny,
I am fat and ugly.
She's the one that you stare at,
I'm just that thing, that accessory, an amusement for you to use.
Though some part of me wants her to break your heart and hand it back to you,
I don't think she will, not with the way she looks at you,
and the glimmer in you eyes as you look at her,
like shimmering like sun reflections on water.
Some other part urges me to lie to myself,
they won't be together long, they'll break up,
you can finally be noticed for once,
you'll be the heroine, be the shoulder he needs.
But that's the selfish part of me.
I realize, at least he'll be happy right?
It doesn't matter if I'm content
with sitting here in the corner,
alone and observant of the love that surrounds me,
while I stay here in my sullen pitiful sphere.
It doesn't matter.
It's the way your heart beats and the way your smile
inches across your face
instantly making it all the more beautiful,
that's what matters. You'll be happy,
with someone you deserve,
someone you need in your life,
a piece of perfection,
not a berserk,
ugly,
fangirly,
lovey-dovey
nerd/geek like me.
You two turtle doves are perfect for each other,
perfect looks,
perfect grades,
perfect everything.
A barbie doll to your ken.

So please,
walk to her now,
hand her your heart,
that full and crimson thing
that beats so fast next to her, and so slow next to me,
give that to her
while I'm not looking.
Give me some mercy.

Last of all,
good luck.
I hope she will care for your heart,
the way you might care for hers,
with adoration,
kisses,
caresses,
words whispered in whimsicality,
little pearls of treasures only found with two turtle doves.
Not that I would know. And I do hope I will know someday
what it feels like to be one of those turtle doves.

In another life, I was born a painter.
Gliding colors over canvas to imitate emotion.
Stepping back and marveling at the impressionism or the modernism or the realism of what I just created.
And people could look and gawk
and give gracious complements.

In another life, I was born a dancer.
Helplessly allowing melodies to transfuse my blood and move my limbs the way ocean waves move water.
Elegance in my bones, loveliness in my tendons, beauty in my ligaments.
Boys would leap toward me
and I would jeté toward them or grand jeté away from them.

In another life, I was born a singer.
A voice of gold and diamonds
that people love to eat
and bathe in.
Like summer sunlight in the springtime,
snow on December 25th.
Things people love to experience.

But, in this life, I was born a writer
so I live with what I must.
And I'll paint with my words-
give them color and life and realism, with just a hint of impressionism.
And I'll make my words dance-
across white pages, dressed in black, the smell of sweat and blood soaked within their skin.
And I'll make my words sing-
sing the ballad of my heart and the ballad of my mind and, maybe, even the ballad of the world.

Words are not inadequacy,
even in a world of painters, dancers, and singers.

A little girl at the age of 6 looked up at you.
She asked..
"Grandma, can I have a cookie?"
You smiled and said
"I guess."
That girl turned 13, and she looked up at you.
She asked..
"Grandma, can you take me to the movies?"
You smiled and said
"I guess."
When she turned 16, she looked down at you from beside the hospital bed.
She asked..
"Grandma, can you please stay?"
You faintly smiled and whispered
"I guess."
Today, that little girl looks down at you once more.
A tear rolls down my cheek as I look at your grave.
They ask me..
"Sweety, will you be alright?"
My voice cracks as I whisper
"I guess."