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We dance in the ashes like
Literary scavengers.
In the ruins and after rages
We draw the shreds of words and pages
Around our naked bodies like Blankets,
A quilt of the quintessential struggle
Which all people suffer
I'm not sure if I posted this before,  but it's have been a while. I wrote this not too long after reading "the Book Theif" which was wonderful
Just because I tell you that you’re pretty
Doesn’t mean I’m taking you home

Beauty is kindness

Love isn’t defined by the size of your waist
Nor how long you can hold my gaze

Beauty is still kindness

I may tell you I love you
Years before I want you

Just be kind to me

Take a piece of me with you
In the dark days it may light the way

Now be kind to you

Love is within
Share it

 May 2018 Leila Whitney
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
 May 2018 Leila Whitney
The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.

From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.

The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.

Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.

The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.

The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.

Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.

Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.

Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.

Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.
 May 2018 Leila Whitney
 May 2018 Leila Whitney
oh how vast the sky is
the abundance of stars it contains
all unique in their own special way
but no star will ever be like you
for all those stars are forgotten when i
see you
you, and only. you.
She lingers,
She speaks-
She sings in my mind.
For she polishes these windows,
My eyes-
How divine.

Yet sometimes I’m a puppet,
Her precious marionette.
At times I want to cower,
Wish only to forget.

For those words she speaks freely,
Cage me up like a bird.
Making me feel less of a human,
A soul-
How absurd!

Yet even though I’m aware of this poison that she spews-
Sending chills to my bones,
Leaving me internally confused.

For I’m aware of her games,
Yet I’m completely content-
With knowing the consequences,
Still I don’t repent.

Yes, it’s killing me slowly,
Forcing myself not to breath.
Figuratively and relatively-
Casting my body out to flee.

For the porcelain in my sight,
Calls my name like a god.
My body’s screaming for mercy,
In and instant-
She applauds.

Released and freed,
She whispers in my ears.
Slowly and surely,
But she’s housing all of my fears.

For this voice that sang sweetly,
Praising me for the days-
Of vacancy of my body,
Turns my mind into a maze.

See her words create hallways,
One intertwining with the last-
Of memories from my present,
Being guilted by my past.

Leaving me feeling so helpless,
So alone-
So afraid.

But that same voice brings be comfort,
For all of those days.

Yes it’s confusing in a sense,
Perhaps even to the eye.
But for me this is a daily,
A struggle of the mind.

See my body is strong,
Yet I feel internally weak.
For these words that I’m writing,
My lips can hardly speak.

                     Alysia Marie 2018 ©
It’s been quite some time since I’ve posted on here, struggles come and go in waves and I hope that all can grow into a better being/version of themselves. For beauty in this world surrounds us, even if we don’t see it within the walls of our own mind.
What happens when the good girl goes bad
like the spoiled milk she left out?
Because I couldn't seem to get up.
I think it was something about acknowledging that I'm alive, I'm here.
Wouldn't it all be easier if I wasn't?

When the good girl goes bad
because she worked her *** off on that paper and only got a C.

When the good girl goes bad
because the world doesn't treat her right,
but I guess it must because that's
how come I'm the good girl.
Not my depressed sister sitting in her room;
not my other sister running around, destroying everything I had to work for;
most definitely
not my other sister who always seemed to be your favorite but is now smashing plates in our backyard,
'cause I guess that's what happens if you get too close to you.

When the good girl goes bad,
you get angry because
I'm supposed to be your perfect child
not supposed to be
your ***** up child
your lonely child
your lazy child
your anxious child
not supposed to be
your good for nothing child
your dysfunctional child
your doesn't give a **** about anything anymore child.
why don't I ******* give a **** about anything anymore?

When the good girl goes bad
your life falls apart,
because clearly
you had enough to deal with already,
because clearly
this is all my fault,
because clearly
you don't have the time to face your good girl
because clearly
that's all on me.

When the good girl goes bad
because you left her out on the counter all those years, sitting there to rot.
And though I know that you can't waste your time putting it away, 'cause you never cared for it anyway,
maybe you shouldn't have bought the milk if you didn't want to drink it.
And I know the milk should take care of itself
but I tried and that only works for a couple of years
before the good girl gone bad falls far off the counter, spills across the floor,
and the only thing left is to throw that nasty old milk away
because your bread, eggs, oil, etc. need your attention
and it's just too late for the good girl.

When the good girl goes bad
because she never asked to be the good girl
or maybe I did, I don't really remember,
but not like this.
I just wanted to be loved
but little did I know that
the good girl just sits there
keeping herself afloat,
but the boat can't guide itself if it wasn't given eyes.
The boat can't patch itself if you keep telling it its still brand new
when its really old, broken, and covered in holes.
You shouldn't put a boat in the water if you know its going to sink,
but I guess you only really need a couple good boats
so you can just toss the good girl.

When mama's little good girl goes bad,
she feels guilty
because she was told she'd always be
the good girl.
Though, its hard being the good girl when you don't have any windshield wipers for your tears at night.
But the tears at night aren't supposed to exist
I'm still mama's mother ******' good girl,
please pretend I haven't gone bad.
I added to what was originally posted. I was having some technical issues and decided to just post what I had before, but this is the full poem (5/16/18)
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