Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2014
you spoke to me words like poet-
made me second guess every decision that leaves my lips
and as the staggering giant that is my mistakes
shades the sunlight from my life
I still find a way to see the sun sometimes.
I try not to break-
try not to let the world see me shake
and tremble from my fear of tomorrow
but these nerves they get the best of me.
As I am slow dancing to Sinatra
I remembered the way you looked into my eyes
and the things you said to me.
How I wished the dance floor
was a time machine so I go back
and do it all over again.
Just you and I-
but I know the look in my eye
must still show you the same way I've felt
each and every single day since I met you.
Hands heavy from being the weight you carry
heavy in your heart and even heavier on your sleeve
I am blissfully naive and I wish I couldn't see
they way you look at me anymore
because it hurts too much
when I want nothing but to become one with the sky.
So fly me to the moon,
and let me live amongst the stars
because the look in your eyes
saved me from a lot of tragedy-
but don't let me be your downfall.
I don't want to be your downfall.
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2016
Died a thousand times
to watch you live inside of me
But with each house fire burned
We became nothing
but a cemetery.

Ashes became of bones
and I lost my place of comfort
but you conform to coincidence

and say it didn't happen
pretend it didn't happen.

Your eyes are the fire
that made this home a hell
And I'm having trouble
sleeping through this heat
when will you admit it to me?

You poured the salt
on these open wounds.
Drunken tendencies
leading you dependent
on a girl who never stayed.

Still you gave your words away
to a place that wasn't mine
and ever since
I've felt homeless.

You fueled this tragedy
with cheap beer
and desecrated the
aftermath of my remains.

and said it didn't happen
pretended it didn't happen.

Too hard to be happy
without a home
inside of my heart.
I guess it's time to start
rebuilding
But these bones ache
and this head hurts.
You're always
feeding the flames
You're always
burnt out.
I'm always
feeling the heat
Trust is a two way street
But ours was an intersection.
Too much stop and go,
Not enough direction.
So all we did ever did
was crash
And burn.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2015
1) You were always really judgmental of my friends, like there was a point behind your reasons for always being timid, there was.. I was oblivious and you told me things, the things you saw, that I should've realized a long time ago. I've been better since the alcohol left-
2) I never believed in the idea of love- always blinded by what I thought was mutual infatuation when it was really just my incessant fixation on the idea of.. You called me gorgeous the first day we hung-out and that was the first time anyone ever did. I fell for you fast and hard and that was the first and only time I ever have.
3) When you talk about the things that interest you or make you happy, your face lights up and your words become sonnets of admiration and everything you say sounds like poetry as it leaves your lips. I live for this.
4) I was kind of a child when we met, hardheaded and stubborn in my ways- never letting anyone close enough to scratch the surface but you made me realize that what was behind the surface was so so much better.
5) You made me love who I am, from my hip bones that beg to rip through my flesh to my nose and the way it sort of takes up half my face- you made me fall in love with myself again when I didn't think I ever would.
6) You give me a reason to have a lust for the life I live and I may be hard headed and stuck in my dark depths of depression but you're always there to lend a hand when needed.
7) Though you taught me only I can help myself back up, you will be there to keep me from falling down again.
8) The way you like really weird things most people wouldn't take a second glance at shows me that you find fascination in the beauty and the balance rather than just the image. You paint a bigger picture with your opinion and turn it beautiful every single time.
9) The way you get angry when someone wakes you up too early, or too aggressively- but you still find time to turn and tell me you love me.
10) This is the part where I start to cry because I was never really good with emotions and I'm spilling all of them just for you. This is the most naked I've felt even without a single piece of clothing on, but you'd still probably think I was beautiful.
11) I threw my phone across the room in a fit of rage but you held me anyway.
12) You always get more punch buggies than me- but on a good day I get more than you and can rub it in your face as long as I can, until the next time you win again.
13) I really didn't think a year could feel this short but with you I feel like my life here could last an eternity.
14) We fight sometimes and you always let me talk until I'm blue in the face which takes a while and even though you fall silent in times I wish you would scream or cry or give me something- you still find a way to calm me.
15) I love the way you're protective over me and sometimes I get overwhelmed by it but secretly it's really flattering because I've never really had someone look out for me. Ever.
16) You make me feel safe in a world that is filled with darkness and violence and tragedy, but you make it all seem so so far away when you're lying next to me.
17) When you are lying next to me, holding me close to your chest and kissing me on my head- it's almost therapy.
18) Though you tell me you love me with words, you also show me. Chivalry isn't dead ladies; yes my boyfriend opens doors for me- eat your hearts out.
19) You make everyday feel better than the last and you put up with my constant worry that someday you're gonna up and leave for no reason- but you don't.
20) I spent my 19th birthday with you and will now spend my 20th and every day since then has gotten better with you even when it seemed like everything was going to fall apart again- we kept it together.
21) You turned 21 last year but you don't really like alcohol-
22) You did what I thought was the impossible- made me believe in love.
for my boyfriend, who changed my life forever. 22 bc his birthday is tomorrow and he's turning 22.
Amanda Stoddard Feb 2018
i miss the way you would dance off beat and the feeling of your arms wrapped around my body.

I can't seem to turn it all off and I guess I don't want to.

You were the only person who ever made me feel something real.

but my trauma became too much and I ****** everything up.

Since when do I rhyme in my poetry? I guess it's bc that reminds me of you too.

this is ****, similar to the way I treated you.

I haven't been the same since you left.

I don't think I ever will be again.

but I was right about one thing, you'd be happier without me.
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2016
What a sad fate
  her name so common.
So the triggers
  lined inside
  of my eardrums
play a silhouette
  of my nostalgia
and it is never symphony
  only sympathy
  and infamy.  

It's played
  mirroring the blood
that runs from my skull
  tarnished and desecrated-
  mind now too hollow.
It was ripped clean
of your memory.

My retinas aren't safe
  from a women with
  such a common name.

What a twisted fate.
I fell in love with
a lover
who didn't
  love me the same.
But loved her till
  the death of us.

He.
Loved her.
  Until it drove me insane.
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2016
One year.
I read it on the page
twist it until it
cripples around
my tainted fingers.

I looked you
in your eyes
and asked you
why I should stay.

You could never tell me.
Still you never told me.

Actions speak
louder than words
but even your
voice was quiet.

Your hands were still-
Too strained
from words you
gave to her

and never let me breathe-
suffocating
under your insecurity.

She broke you
so you broke me
and I was left
with nothing.

I never had you
and you never wanted me to.

So I broke away
From what left me broken

you still think it's my fault.
I guess it's all just my fault.

For letting someone in
who didn't love me the same.
For loving her
Until it drove me insane.
Amanda Stoddard May 2016
I start to wonder if you're really here,
if these times you treat me nice
are because you can't do it with her.
I try to hide the fact it is ingrained inside of my retinas
and the words you painted on that screen for her-
I wish they were mine.
Subtext and undertones tell my mind
to be cautious of these nice words you feed me.
I'm afraid I'm just your comfort,
your backbone because she used to be yours
but she broke you and left you crippled
and now I'm afraid of being your crutches.
If she ever comes back,
I am worried I will not see the daylight anymore
worried your smile will be
the light at the end of my tunnel
and without it I will be wilting and withered away.

It would be nice to think it a dream,
it would be nice to pretend it's just anxiety
but I feel it in my gut when you're with me
the pangs in my stomach remind me
of words you never said to me
and feelings you've never felt for me.
It would be nice to think it a dream.

But the reality of it is
the weakness in my bones
retaliates on my strength
and my mind becomes the biggest
contender of my downfall
and then there is you
and then there is her
and somewhere in the middle there's me.
I'm never where I want to be
with you is where I want to be
but in your mind I'm the next best thing.

safe to say it's sinking in-
reality has caught up to me
and I don't think I can be this person.
Wilting and withering at the thought
of those words not being mine.
You made it up to me-
but I haven't dove in.
Seems more like I'm jumping ship,
seems like I forgot to swim.
Save me
I'm not sure I exist anymore.
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2015
my pills smell like a hospital
this bookstore smells like my grandma
the faint reminiscence of old memories
cloud the only five senses I own.
I start to wonder if this life is becoming idle
if this IV lining my arms is broken again.
If I have enough will to stay.
These pills smell like a hospital-
and I'm worried you will find me there someday
withered from this world I can't tolerate enough to stay.
But these pills seem to help me stay.
Remind me why I'm alive-
this smell reminds me to stay away.
When the blade calls my name I don't listen anymore
when you call my name I don't listen anymore
I've been seeing your face too often
and not hearing my own voice enough.
I start to think nostalgia and you share the same interests
like you both started a google drive document
and shared the file with me and now it's all I see.
You can edit my life for me
and no matter what I continue to write
you change the font
and reformulate my sentences.
I wish I didn't exist.
Then I smell my grandma in this empty bookstore
and feel the pages against my fingers again.
I'm here whether I like it or not.
You were here whether I like or not.
Paying too much attention to madness
and not enough to bliss
I take up too much time thinking
and not enough doing.
25mg isn't enough anymore
and each time the clock strikes 9
my mind likes to contemplate quitting you.
But I smell the hospital again
convince myself to stay away from that place.
The pill hits my tongue and travels down my throat.
I don't think anymore.
I don't want to know.
I am home-
here in this bookstore
with the smell faintly touching my nostril
with the pills lining my nose
with you writing me apology notes
that sound too **** familiar.
I wish to erase you from my retinas.
I don't want to see you anymore.
I hoped these pills would help-
but they make things more clear for me.
You're face has been all I see
now I seem to be losing me
where did I go?
where am I again?
why are you the only face I recognize?
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2014
I can't stop picturing
what my life would look like
if in fact it turned out the way I wanted it to.
My self-conscious subconscious would love you better
and I would take back every ******* excuse
I left you with.
I want nothing but happiness-
and that can't happen without you
the gaps in between my fingers become cold again
and your eyes are the only warmth I've felt in a long time,
so fill the dark void I spent my days trying to pinpoint
and draw the line where I can reach you
because you're the only thing I'll ever hold dear to.
It may be drastic to say-
but I don't want to live a life without you
so carry me under your skin
and make a sonnet out of my smile
you're the only one who ever sees it anyway.
You are found in every crease upon my smiling face
my body feels you in every crevice
and even when the evening touches my hips
and curls under my bedsheets-
only to kiss my lips asleep
that's where I want you to be,
curled up in the places next to me.
When the darkness overwhelms my eye sockets
and the depth of depression crushes my nerves
and I can no longer stand the sight of you not there
that is where you will find me.
So run to me when everything is crumbling,
I will be your safety net.
When your heart gets broken again
from the smiles you attempt to mend-
I will be your super glue.
Always and forever,
can't be forever without you.
Amanda Stoddard May 2015
America.
Home of the brave land of the-
1,520 children who died this year from child abuse
and the 670,000 who lived through it
The 1,825 who are abused each day
and for every one report of child abuse-
two others go unreported.
So Josh Duggar can get away with molestation
because of the statue of limitations-
and everyone talks of "his recovery"
but his own sisters cries go unheard.

Oh America-
Where colleges would rather
cover up a ****, than catch a ******.
Where High Schools take pity
on abusers who play sports
or have a high social standing-
Where abusers don't get charged
because the girl they gang raged
was "intoxicated".
Where 4/5 of assaults are committed
by someone known to the victim.
44% of victims are under 18
and every 107 seconds another PERSON
is sexually assaulted
and 68% go unreported
and 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail.

America-
Home of brave land of the-
41,149 deaths by suicide in 2014.
where it's the 3rd leading cause of death
in youth ages 10-24.
Where 70% of youth in juvenile justice systems
suffer from a mental illness-
but instead of treating it
we continue punishing it.

America.
Where John Green can romanticize
the 2nd leading cause of death in the US
Cancer!
Speaking of cancer-
why haven't we found a cure?
America!
Where why would they find a cure
for a billion dollar industry
that's fueling our economy.

America.
where you have freedom of speech-
but jet fuel can't melt steel beams
and everything is a government conspiracy.
Loose change taught you more about 9/11
than the news.
Where 500,000 Iraqi civilians
have died because of the Iraq war.
and roughly 6,000 soldiers died in Iraq-
but that's not including those who died after the fact
brain intact with PTSD coming home to broken families-
and we still think war is a smart idea.

America!
Where those who are supposed to protect us
eventually just start killing us-
and getting away with it to!
Where protests turn to riots
and everyone that's a shade darker
is labeled "****"
But an "upstanding"
white male citizen
can get away with molesting his sisters-
I'm looking at you Duggar, again.
Where Freddie Gray can be tortured to death
but hey no one cares
because he had a record of selling drugs right?

America-
The land of brave home of the
genetically modified foods.
You know-
the food we actually have to re-modifed
so other countries will deem it safe enough to eat.
Where our fruit isn't even actually fruit
unless it's label ORGANIC.
Where there's a McDonald's around every street corner
and being Vegan in today's food industry is impossible-

America!
Where we were once a melting ***-
but everyone complains about immigrants.

America!
Home of the brave, land of the free.
Where ignorance and Justin Bieber
are more accepted than the LGBT community-
aren't you proud to be an american?
This is a themed poem. I understand we have it better than other countries in some aspects, but this is just based off of looking just solely at the united states. I'm in no way putting down the deaths of soldiers or Iraqi civilians. Just trying to raise awareness. I'll do an entire world one soon.
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2016
America.
Home of the brave land of the-
246,6660,710 white americans
living in this country,
which accounts for 77% of our population
but Black Americans
only make up 13%
and somehow in 2015
were killed at a rate 5x higher than whites.

Lovely, wonderful free land of America
Where 37% of black americas
were killed by police in the year 2015.
And out of the 102 cases
of unarmed black men being killed
only 10 police were charged
only 2 were convicted.
Only one spent jail time-
one WHOLE year of weekend come and goes.

Oh America-
Where colleges would rather
cover up a ****, than catch a ******.
Where High Schools take pity
on abusers who play sports
or have a high social standing-
Where abusers don't get charged
because the girl they *****
was "intoxicated".
Where 4/5 of assaults are committed
by someone known to the victim.
44% of victims are under 18
and every 107 seconds another PERSON
is sexually assaulted
and 68% go unreported
and 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail.
and I know I mentioned this in the last poem
but Brock Turner, I'm looking at you.
But not in the eyes-
I don't want you to think I want it or anything.

America!
Where said white male ******
only gets two-six months in jail
and a man selling CDs in front of a gas station
gets four shots to the chest.
But instead of asking
why he got shot,
they pull up his criminal record-
because you guys, I thought you knew
committing a crime automatically
qualifies you for ******!
But the white rapists
swim record gets pulled up
his mug shot gets hidden
and his social stature gets him sympathy.
But some people see Alton Sterling's son
distraught on a TV screen and feel no remorse
I'M NOT ******* AROUND ANYMORE.

America.
Where again
the people who are supposed
to protect us-
just end up killing us.
By us I mean people
and by that I mean "All Lives Matter"
because ya know
more whites get killed by cops too!!!

America.
Where white people make up 77%
of this lovely population
and black people only make up 13%
so it would make sense
that more whites die.
Even though statistically that's inaccurate
(please see first paragraph of this poem).

America!
That reminds me
We're home of the All Lives Matter movement
because white superiority
is being called into question
and we like to think white supremacy
doesn't exist anymore!

"Why do black people
have such a chip on their shoulder all the time?"
"Can't they just like, idk- get over it?"
They will get over it
When racism doesn't exist anymore
and they can do everyday tasks
without experiencing discrimination.
They will get over it
when people don't see their skin as a threat
and use the "n-word" like it means nothing.
They will get over it
when they can receive a fair trial
They will get over it
when systematic oppression
isn't etched into their amount of melanin
They will get over it
when justice is ******* served.

America-
where the idea of blacks being inferior
is what the constitution and this country
was built off of.
Where people like Tomi Lahren
obviously don't own a history book
because she likes to think
the civil war was fought
to actually end slavery.
Instead of beefing over turf.

America-
home of the brave land of the-
Trump supporters!
& as Trump Says-
Let's Make America Great Again!
I'm sorry, I'm having trouble remembering
can you remind me-
when this country was ever actually great?
It seems like he actually means-
Let's Make America A Grave Again.

Hey America-
I'm not ******* around anymore.
Amanda Stoddard Feb 2015
My palms become greased with worry and fatigue
that maybe this time you won't ever leave
but you eventually do-
and I'm sitting here wondering how the **** I got so exhausted?
How these hands have been gripping so tightly
to the bottom of my sweater
that they don't even feel like hands anymore.
I just wish you would ******* disappear
that this world could just exist without you
and these stages I have build out of my fears
did not become mountains for you to climb upon at will.
I'm tired of always looking over my shoulder-
worried that maybe you'll be there
and it's ****** up that I worry about that
because worrying is all you ever ******* did-
I just want to feel normal again.
I want to feel like this body isn't
the wreckage in Miley Cyrus' wrecking ball video
I want to be Miley ******* Cyrus
not the broken walls and concrete at her feet-
but you make me feel this way.
Make me feel like everything I will accomplish
everything I could potentially accomplish
isn't even worth it or even within my reach for that matter.
I got a 68 on my first test of this semester-
you took that score and ran it through my head
until my insecurities triumphed over
everything you caused me to say to myself.
I am done being a misplaced embodiment of past experiences-
I will not invite you out with me anymore
and when you beg and plead
and cause me to regurgitate my fears for you
I will push you to the side-
make a shrine out of who I have become
because it's not you anymore.


Dear Anxiety-
I'm done apologizing for who you turned me into.

Sincerely, You don't control me anymore.
Amanda Stoddard Apr 2018
I'm always inclined to curse at an idea.

These hands haven't seen the light of day in ages-  
I can read my past between the crevices.

Too bad it's in a language of anguish-
one I can't seem to decipher.

Will someone teach me?

I am stuck throwing profanities at entities
that will never be able to reply.
Guess I am selfish that way.

and my mind likes to remind of this
when my chest starts spilling out
this morse code that I am not capable
of translating.

it pulses SOS
the only cadence
I have been able to understand.

the rest is all just blur,
just foggy memory.

I am cursing at my brain's
inability to show me.

What is the language of anguish?
Can I feel it in the pulsating of my chest?
Does it whisper to me at night before bed?
Is that the reason I can't sleep?

I have been learning how to understand this trauma
through the stomach pains and pale face.

I am native to it,
born here inside of this suffering.

But still cannot seem to
distinguish the meaning.

How do you find a lost memory
when it is tucked neatly
in the lining of your suffering?

When can I put this to rest?
Will I find meaning here
inside the convalescence?
Or will it all be for nothing?
Amanda Stoddard May 2014
some days I want to die,
lay my intestines out on the line
amongst the shattered pieces of myself,
just for everyone I love to see -
to remind them just how fragile
my bones can be.

some days I love to live,
to dance in the rays of the sunshine
while my feet feel the earth
touching my heart one blade of grass at a time
knowing exactly what it feels like
to be truly alive.

and some days I feel both at the same time,
lonely and aware of all the tragedy
but the sun is shining and the sky is full
with clouds that kiss the blue, kiss my blue-
and then I remember you.

A person should never dictate your happiness,
but what do I do when your mouth is on mute
and the words you do happen to speak to me are short
and unaware of the intensity they have
on these fragile bones I possess.
I can't help but feel like every word or lack there of
is a land mine waiting for my approach,
so caution is my middle name
and I don't know how to explain
these thoughts that race through my mind
and compete in an anxiety induced triathlon-
except to say that I'm scared
one day you'll wake up,
and won't feel the same way..
Amanda Stoddard May 2018
I always write about the body
maybe that's because this is the only way
I am actually in control of my own.

I've always been the catalyst
to another's fulfillment.
Always an optimist
but treated the opposite.
this lifestyle's got me low.

So behold-
I have been holding my breath
since my skin was so delicate.
seems I haven't grown up yet.

Seems I never emotionally matured
into this body that reminds me
what loneliness tastes like-
it's diluted.

I have been biting the inside of my cheek
because the blood reminds me I am still living,

even when I feel dead inside.

Maybe taking control over myself
inside of these words
will be enough to make me sane
and will take away the mania inside of my veins-
but I still feel you crawling all over me.

This is a recipe for disaster
my lack luster infatuation
with a happily ever after-
you can see it in the fog of my eyes.

I am slipping into a delusion
of dissociation and depersonalization

maybe this is who I am inside
and maybe I've been wrong about me this whole time.

it's hard to know who you are
when half the time you're away from yourself.

floating idly above your chance at redemption
and recovery and autonomy.

the only thing left to cling to are these memories-
and half the time they're not correct either.

where's the ******* reset
button?
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2015
I trust that these hands will break-
that the crevice of your smile
will turn into a crack upon the impact
of my lips upon your cheeks
but do not cry.
For the only mark I have left in your life
is that of a scar.
Never the girl you marry,
only the one you admire
and aspire to one day acquire
but ambiance is a con artist
the way the room feels good and warm
doesn't mean there hasn't been tragedy there.
I am too hung up, to be so rung out to dry
and I hate this feeling that has been given to me.
The wind had sought my insides
and everything is a mess now.
Don't put a label on me
for that will only taint the way things are now
never deserving of more than the shadows
never in the spotlight long enough to be seen.
You are ever-changing and I am in need of consistency.
But I am no hero of this novella
this short-winded fiction novel
you write upon your lips as if it is just letters on a page
but to me, this is non-fiction
to me, this is everyday.
You wear this mask like it is a coat of armor
but I have hung it up once again
and you don't like that you see yourself in me.
Hurt is the only thing I seem to know
and they all run the other direction
when the walls come down
and my true colors are painted out instead
they realize the setting is different now-
the ambiance isn't what it was before
and this novel just had an uncharacteristic plot twist.
Now you have trouble predicting the outcome
you think too much, and don't feel enough
and that's been my entire life.
No longer the girl you put a ring upon-
just one you put a bet upon and hope you don't lose
and when you win, once you see how good it feels
you run fast in the other direction because of the obligation.
Intimidation tactics are found in the dark circles under my eyes
and trouble is etched in the curve of my smile-
I have yet to find someone who dies to keep me,
one who realizes I am a novel worth reading.
But I am only worth a few pages before they have had enough of me.
They try and try to rewrite what's inside-
but you can't taint print on paperbound.
Amanda Stoddard Sep 2014
I don't feel it anymore,
the desire to chase something not within my reach.
It's like I have spent my life asleep at the wheel
unable to control any cognitive function available to me.
I will not marry a man like my father
but the idea is merely impossible
when the hands that tore apart our family,
have similar finger prints to every man I've ever known.
You cannot find anyone who doesn't remind you,
at least a little bit of someone else you know.
Someone you love so dearly to hate.
I will not adapt to those around me
I will grow lonesome and on my own
because that's how it's been for 18 years.
I do not flourish in your embrace
I wilt and wither and crumble.
Wake up, realize you are dreaming
that the only reason you stay
is because you feel less alone.
note to self: stop writing poems every time you fight with your boyfriend.
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2015
how satisfying is it to feel nothing-
numbness living inside your bones
on the days when nothing else feels lower than you
when the ocean floor couldn't even capture your darkness.
how comforting are the racing thoughts inside your mind
that no one can know.
No one knows.
How the good everyone else feels is just a coping tactic
for all the bad they feel inside their bones.
A tragedy to deny yourself the liberty of lonely-
the hands you feel in the dark wrap around your throat again
and you don't say the things you desire in the end.
You become the end-
You become an end
the means to it just diminishes under your skin
and you are lonely again
all because feeling things has never been in your nature-
maybe just once.
But those times never turn out the way you want them to
and timing is the biggest ****-block you will ever know.
Wake for me
breathe in and out until your lungs forget what panic is-
until your brain forgets that you don't control your own breathing.
Put this life on cruise control and wait for traffic to *******.
Sulk in the fact you're stationary.
Convince yourself this body you live in isn't worth the trouble
that it will make a mess out of the remains of another
and leave you emotionless and empty
watching as the person you wish you could care about
withers away in the corner of your mind
all because you wish you would've tried.
Break around your edges and remove the dishonesty-
reality is the only villain in this movie
and you just play it at times you have nothing else to do
dreaming is your aphrodisiac
and waking up never feels as good as when you were a kid.
Built yourself a castle-
four walls and bridges surrounding the ****
you try to convince yourself you are
but your aura likes to paint a different picture.
Cast away-
remind yourself you are broken
remember how you got there.
Run fast in a different direction.
Choose wisely,
or don't choose at all.
Lose.
Lose again until winning feels abstract
fill yourself with the insecurity behind your eyelids.
Remember you will break someone
Remember they will break you-
don't forget to tell them thank you as you leave.
Apologize for the mess you made
but never be the one to clean it up.
Selfish is a second nature
and I am the mother of all mistakes again.
This self-assurance was short lived
and I'm on the brink of breaking for the 100th time.
Swoon me into sanity
and push me into the depths you like to call self-righteous.
Rebuild.
Remember waking up to the sunrise.
Remember the lowest you've ever felt-
run fast in a different direction.
Just Run.
Think of me when you do
because alone is not human nature.
Running has always been what I'm good at
and when I stopped I became stagnant  
then stagnancy became my state of mind.
So run.
and think of me when you do,
we will never become weak
as long as we keep moving.
So run.
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2017
I have broken down more walls
than I can count on these fingers
they are too busy clenched into a fist.

I have broken down barriers
in hopes of betterment and redemption
my arms have grown weak under this pressure.

I'm weighing the pros and cons
of survival on the tops of shoulders
so it's safe to say I'm grounded
safe to say these bones feel heavy

I speak only when spoken too nowadays
but the look on my face reads third person omniscient-
anyone can get inside my head
my body language is written that way.
Too fragile to speak up,
Too stubborn to sit down.

I'm tired of these walls
holding me back
and these barriers
keeping me on the outskirts
of my own life.
My mouth is just a drawbridge
these words drown
in the wading water underneath

I have broken down more walls
  than I have written poetry
only to realize I have built them myself
only to realize I have written them myself.
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2016
I walked on my hands
a while after you left.
Not knowing
what the ground felt like
underneath my feet,
they needed a break.
I've always walked on eggshells.

My palms are bruised
so still I sit-
trying to prove myself to you.

Am I not worthy still?
Seems my mind is fixated
on proving this simple notion.

You hated most things about me,
so I started to despise myself.

Clothes unworn
would hang in my closet
and I would wish
that they would swallow me whole
on the way to your home
but you would've choked
on the effort of comfort.
You would've gone numb
at my self-expression.

I morphed myself into her-
into them
into the bubble
you were drowning in.  
So I became a victim too.
I knew how to swim
but I needed my hands to walk with
and they were too sore
from trying to bend over backwards
while keeping balance.

I still haven't made sense-
not about what has become of us.

The wound is still there
and I would like to expose you to it.
Show you the holes inside my heart
that you punctured one year at a time.

Life without you feels void.
Life without you feels better.
Life without feels like me-
so why am I still crying?

He likes the hoop in my nose
and the dying of my hair-
he loves the fact I'm a mess,
and everything you were never fond of.
He loves the parts of me you forgot were there.

This love reminds me
I should forgive you.
But when the pain in my heart flinches
and his words poke at the scars
I know why I shouldn't.

How your love tore me into bits
and now every time his love comes my way I flinch.
I'm supposed to be getting better-
but the thought of you still won't let me.
Even in the aftermath you still control what's left.
I sulk in the thoughts of you-
becoming bereaved.
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2016
My hands yearn for you to hold them again
seems I have become too complacent
inside of the idea you will come back to me.

I have yet to find the proof
lined inside of your eyelids.
Seems I don't even remember,
how they look anymore

Seems I don't even remember,
the sound of your voice
that lingers inside of this autumn air.

The leaves are falling,
making death seem so beautiful.

I am falling,
making love seem so miserable.

Here I go again-
lined inside of thoughts
that will never be congruent.

Consumed in all of these memories,
I have no idea what to do with.

Guess they will follow Fall's pattern,
perish until something better comes after.

Guess they will wither away,
inside of these winter winds.

I am tired of waiting for the Spring.
Amanda Stoddard Mar 2016
I lace my sneakers wishing I could organize my life this way.
My therapist is late again
And I wonder if I'll ever get my life to go as planned.
Racking my brain for organization skills I do not own.
Some things are destined for chaos.
The sun was out today-
But just as it usually does the rain came again
and so did my mania.
The sun controls my mood
and so does anything relating to warmth.
Controlling my emotions was never something I was good at doing.
The watch on my wrist is ticking down the seconds
until I have to stop writing and start talking.
I'm scared of how my therapist will see me now-
Scared of letting her down.
It seems the only one I do let down is me
because I'm always so six feet beside myself
But I like it here-
no one can bug me when I'm too busy sulking in my own self pity.
I start to wonder if that's what depression is-
or if I'm battling the idea of being okay with myself.
What does confidence feel like?
because all I've ever felt is confusion.
I've gotten to the point in my life
where not one thing makes sense to me.
Even what I write.
Every thing is all stream on consciousness
and not enough consistency.
My wallet is sitting on the table
If I wouldn't have glanced over
I know I would've forgotten about it.
Sometimes all we need is a second look at something
to remind you what can be lost.
I'm tired of turning everything into a poem.
My mind is on autopilot and I can't stop thinking in metaphors.
It gets really hard to write college essays
about History and the birth of America
because all I write is poetry
Plus, I haven't even traced my past back far enough
to recollect every event.
I wish I could.
Maybe then I could remember what you look like.
Maybe then I could deal with this life that has been destined to me
Etched out of stone and formed into skull-
it's funny how your structure can protect you but your insides are what kills you.
I'm tired of oxymorons.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2014
I have learned,
people leave you
cold and broken
like my youth
and the only thing
that will ever stay
in my life
is that pen
and that pad of paper.

because my sanity
means more to me
than pleasing others
and my sanity
can only stay
if that pen and pad
are next to me

so take away my
so-called friends
lost inside
never empty pill bottles
and always empty
bottles of sorrow
and remind me why
this is what i cling to.

this is my far few in between
this is my light
at the end
of a never lit tunnel.
This is where misery
and it's company
join hands and dance
in the moonlit
darkness of the past.

The only thing
I've ever held close to me,
was anger and resentment
for those who i'm supposed to love
I find fatal flaw
where there isn't any
I look for wrong
in those who try to do me right
which is why I write.
because the only form
of therapy available to me
costs sixty bucks an hour
and that hour
holds more secrets
than my mind
will allow me to speak.
So I bleed ink
and hope that some sense
of relief
flows through my fingertips
like the weight upon my shoulders

and the only thing
worth fighting for
in my eyes
are the things
that are fighting with me.
Which is why people
come and go.
But blank pages
are always meant to be filled.
Amanda Stoddard May 2016
I'm crying on the inside..

seems like the only thing I can control as of late.
I blink both eyes until I see stars
and hope I will see something worthy of myself.

My breathing has slowed...

this anxiety in my chest makes me aware
of the damage it has caused me.
Fourteen years ago I made some progress
and then repression became a warm hand gun
I liked to sleep with at night.

Someone took advantage of me...

and now my mind likes to do the same-
knows I am weak in this instant
knows I can break more times than rebuild.
knows I will sit here and makes these same analogies
until everyone tires of my poetry.

I tried to think of things differently...

but all that comes out are the same words
just in different order
and it seems my mind likes to run circles
around this idea of normalcy.
it also seems like it doesn't exist
because just when I'm on the brink of sanity
my mind likes to remind why it's never ******* possible.

Seems I'm too ****** again...

the only words my vocabulary seems to remember
are the ones people deem as less intelligent
and I start to wonder if that can be defined
by the numbers in my bank account
or in my gpa this semester-
if so, i think I'm doing aright.
if not, which is the case-
I think i'm growing stupid.


Meet in the middle again...

somewhere between empty caskets
and getaway trains
I'm not sure which way I want to go.
My mind says get me out of here
and my feet won't stop running towards the exit.
Conflict and inconsistency are bred into my family,
my genetics are lined so neatly with tragedy.
Seems I am ****** either way.


Breed me into existence
and I will breathe you empty in this instance....


These words forms paragraphs
I do not know the meaning of
and I share this to make sense of it all.
I fall into the seems of myself
and no needle can trace the mistake I have made.
The giant hole inside of my track record
cannot be redone with sharp objects-
believe me, I've tried.


End me here before the road does it for me...

I'm feeling exhausted from lack of progress
and this feeling inside of me now has no origin
no originality- it's just sitting there.
Waiting for me to understand why it is.
But I can't.
I'm not even sure why I am here
these stories are an accurate representation
of my current state of mind
and I'm not even using any metaphors-
this is just the way my mind works now.


I bred myself into bipolar
and made anxiety out of my animosity.
I start to wonder how much better
I would've felt if I had some stability-
probably a lot less crazy,
but look at all this mess I've made
and look how good it makes me feel-
look at the difference it's made them feel.

Turn this repression into progression
and watch it flip to poetry,
feed me-
I'm dying to hear your words.
Amanda Stoddard Feb 2014
in a life or death situation,
when the hands of time
are running you over
with a mac truck.

When death is arriving
at your door step
60 miles per hour
while the grim reaper
is in the passengers seat
grinning from ear to ear.

You get hit-
But somehow the graces
of destiny
or god
or good luck
help you survive.
But you need another's
blood to fill your veins
and make you whole again-

Is it then you will deny the blood,
of someone who doesn't
have the same values,
or live the same life.
Is it then you will say,
no that person loves another
of the same gender,
I wont do it.

And you die,
slowly and painfully,
from your own ignorance.

Is it then you say,
that person is of a different race,
I refuse to take that blood.

And you die,
slowly and painfully,
from your own selfish views.

When will people wake up and realize,
blood is blood?
People are people
love is love
and who the **** are you
to tell someone
they're not worth a thing
because you told them so?

You are not god,
you are not a supreme leader,
you cannot dictate
and enforce
your unorthodox hatred
unto others,
because blood is blood.

When the chance comes
that you no longer have life
and you're sitting alone and cold
in a bed with no one around
but your fragile memories
of family and friends
that turn to hatred and self-loathing
and you are all you have.

you will then wish
that you took the blood
you will then wish
you didn't hate so much
you will then wish
on every star in the sky
that you realized sooner
blood is just blood
and people are just people
and some of those people-
like you,
are unjust and just too ******* evil.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2016
She wore her heart on her sleeve like the latest fashion.
But he didn't believe in designer clothing.
Never checked the price tag because he never seemed to see her worth.
At least not for what it was.
She was always looking for the boy who was half-off his rocker and she clung to the kind she could save.
But sometimes you forget to look closely before you choose and just end up with damage in places you never expected.

She wore her heart on her sleeve-
It seems he made a mockery of the style she wore so proudly.
Too profound for him to handle.
Heart always guarded closely to his chest.
The price on his head was worth more than he would like to admit.
He never took the security tag off, didn't trust anyone enough to.
She tried to steal him away but the alarms sounded and everything went to **** again.

She wore her heart on her sleeve and she was once so proud.
Now she wears jeans, and sweaters that cover her skin because she is not proud of what she wears or who she is.
He made her feel like she needed to cover up in order to find the right kind of love.
Her mindset changed along with her style and you didn't see her heart much anymore.
He stole it away because she didn't think it needed the security.

Girl meets boy-
Together they are an item.
Apart they are just cloth
Two pieces not relevant unless put together into a bigger picture.
But times have changed-
and it seems they don't look good together anymore.

I guess they went out of style.
I guess they outgrew one another.
She decided it's time to stop selling herself short.
She decided it's time to stop looking for buyers.
An antique doesn't have to beg for buyers.
Buyers beg for it.
She never saw herself as an item alone-
But she always knew she was an artifact.
Yet to be uncovered-
She could only be discovered by someone who will work heard enough to find her.
Go find her.
Amanda Stoddard Aug 2016
I am scared of routine,
and repetition
even though my disorder
longs for it.

Makes it impossible
for me to live comfortably.
Because I want consistency
and when I get it
my other disorder takes over.

It's like a power struggle
between my mental illnesses-
and my mind is an episode
of celebrity death match
no one really wins,
we all just end up ******
and broken
and a joke.

Inconsistency
is like my consistency.

When things
smooth out
like cream cheese
on my favorite bagel-
I'm like **** this is good.

Then I start to worry
about when the bagel
will be come stale
or moldy-
and I don't wanna buy new ones
I like the ones I have ya know?

And the concern takes me over-
no longer even wanting to eat the bagels
because I'm scared they've already molded
even though they probably haven't
even though they're my favorite..

Should I be more poetical about this?
Should I outline this in a different
tone and texture to make
it sound like
I'm something other than I am.

I'm tired of doing all of that-
and I'm tired of using the word I
in all of my ******* poetry.

But it's always about me.
I am a self-involved writer
only writing from my experience
so why wouldn't it be filled
with every single part of me?

Love is something I have never been good at,
especially when it comes to myself.

Someone else tries
and all it does it make me cringe
and I wait for it get moldy and stale -
I'm not actually still talking about the bagel anymore
am I?

Am I?
Am I everything that I say am?
or am I just biting off an Eminem line.
Oh my god I've turned into
the manifestation of Jay-Z
overrated and boring
and attempting to stay relevant
via my love life.

I wish things wouldn't change,
I wish routine stayed routine
and things didn't get so complacent.
The spark always dies in the end
and I always end up becoming
a different version of myself
as soon as I fall in love.

I guess I'm always too scared
too reliant
and too worried no one will want me
when they see the real me.

But in this current scenario
I was 100% the real me first
and then we fell in love
and now I'm at like 75% and free falling.

All because I miss how things were
when friendship made us talk everyday
and we spent a good amount of time apart
so we actually had things to talk about
when we were together.
Now it's all the same again
and I worry about routine
and consistency
more than anything else.

This is what ruined me before-
comfort.
and I need to talk to someone everyday
or I will become too much into my own head
that I think myself into
thinking that everything is going wrong.

It's like I'm trying to find reasons
to not be happy
and I'm so scared of having nothing
that I end up giving myself it anyway.
That way I am safe and not worrying
about when everything will go wrong
because it already is.

I've never been so happy-
and it scares the living **** out of me.
I just want it to be like we used to,
I'm scared of you not trying anymore
because you have me-
it's happened too many times before.

Then you get comfortable
and then I don't matter
and I turn into a bagel
left stale in your bread bin.
I turn into something always there
but never paid attention to.

None of this has happened
but I feel it slowly in my bones
that history will repeat itself
and I will end up lonely
and in love
and hurting all over again.

I just want to feel like
I matter I guess.
Like even though you have me
you'll still try for me.
But we all know how this goes,
and history repeats itself again
and I end up a moldy bagel
waiting to go stale
waiting to be thrown away.

I'm mad at myself again-
so **** forgiving to everyone else

What did I do so wrong to me?
Why can't I let **** go.

Get it together.
You're all you have.
I know it's supposed to be bred,
but because I keep talking about bagels
I wanted to put bread instead, like a pun kind of.
it's a bad joke, but I'm keeping it.
Amanda Stoddard Feb 2014
I look at those with simpler minds
and simpler life's and think to myself
you have not seen circumstance
until it's hung around your neck
like a noose and your begging for freedom.
you have not felt pain
until you've quivered in dark corners
crying because anywhere
would be better than home.
and some may reply,
you have no clue what another goes through.
and that's the problem,
No validation, just excuses.

I have seen my life strangled from my eyes
by someone who was supposed to offer me protection
and I have been betrayed and abandon
and took advantage of by those much bigger than i
but somehow the only resentment i feel now,
is towards myself for keeping it all inside.

I am not willing to hide myself,
inside blind eyes
and unopened minds.
So I spill my guts through
stanzas and double entendres
because peace doesn't come with closure
and you can't even count on closure to find you.
So I lose myself inside the walls
of never actually saying how I feel
and behind doors that only peak into my subconscious.
My fingers touch these keys and my affirmation lingers
and the only time I feel at peace,
is hitting these keys.
My nirvana does not exist,
long ago, I had lost my happiness
and found it burrowed deep inside my misunderstood..
this is my sanity, this is my understanding.
Amanda Stoddard Mar 2016
My lungs are turning inside out again-
and this poem will be void of the use of I
because it is not known to me who that is anymore.
This heart is beating outside of my chest
and my eyes can not focus on one fixed point.
It is troubling to me
words cannot express how my body is handling this.
Situational irony has always been a good friend of mind
and my emotions are diminishing further and further inside of myself.
Repression is to what my mind is prone to.
Ever since the child in me grew roots
someone pulled them out as if they were weeds
so this person staring back at me in the mirror
has always been a figure unfamiliar.
Always someone who longs to go backwards
so she can feel the familiarity of childhood.
Instead she wears a face not her own
and a body who she has trouble looking at most days.
This week the discovery was made
that in order to purge herself of all of this negativity
some weight had to be lost-
seems she doesn't know what that feels like
she doesn't recognize what that looks like-
but she makes a direct correlation between
memories and loneliness.
These nights have been mistaken for sleep
and the dreams mistaken for reality.
It's no question that identity has always been misgiven.

She makes no sense of her poems
and these words she writes down like they're her last.
The shaky hands make it hard to type
and she doesn't last more than a second in self-assessing,
she knows all too well the deep cut of judgment
but clings to the idea of contrastiveness.
Hoping that comparisons will not be her downfall
and that these words somehow make sense.

Again is something she insists on typing
because repetition and consistency is what she longs for-
but it never seems to come from anything but her own mind
and a body that is too in tune with the chaos in her bones
she shakes too much, and feels nothing all at once.
Calamity and clarity are not words she knows the meaning of-
only catastrophe
she puts it on her shelf and is proud of how she ended up with it
worked too ******* the life of others
and no hard enough on herself
but she still sees it a prize.
Even if she's not the winner-
even if she doesn't reap the benefits.
Amanda Stoddard Jun 2014
Feeling things were never easy for me-
The ticking hands of the clock without you next to me
nudged my body into something I couldn't exactly stop.
My bones shake in your embrace and sometimes not in a good way.
My presence is something that has faded into your mind,
and my heart just a page on your drawing board,
always there to give you warmth,
whenever everything else seems bleak.
This is why I am no longer your fire pit.
I should not have to blaze for you to feel my heat.
I'm tired of getting burned by my own flames
because you fail to keep it consistent.

You shook me, figuratively of course.
But your words shattered what I once saw of you,
you had been the oxygen that kept me ablaze
until you completely blew me out.
Your words turned into a windstorm and I haven't been the same since.
I'm still trying to build the walls around myself
that once kept me alive and burning,
not letting anything close enough to touch me.
But time after time you remind me that wreckage can always be rebuilt-
but there's no promises all the progress you made rebuilding
won't come crashing down again and again and again
demanding refuge, demanding attention.
you are the wreckage in my bones,
and I can't seem to fix myself anymore.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2018
I watch the ache in my chest
for you
dissolve into a quiet whisper.

I rethink every decision ever made
as these memories are telling me a story
about my progress
as if it was someone else's

will I always stand inside the shadow of another?

will even my own not be enough company to keep me sane?

why do I love lonely but crave the embrace?

I'm watching my expression change,
with every single word I say
and every single thing I feel.

it seems it's all imagined,
the desire for infatuation
and lust and connection.

it's all just ego.

I am nothing but
a whisper in the ears of no one.

should I even speak at all
when my words don't mean anything to even me.

never have I been trusting.

and here I go-
coming undone again.

thinking the world of myself
but the world is ******
so that's counterproductive,
isn't it?

paradoxical contingencies
keep me awaking from these dreams.

go to sleep it's a nightmare
and wake up it's the same.

my vision is getting blurry
and my voice now shakes
from inadequacy.

I love every part of me
so how could this be happening?

my shadow laughs back at me,
reminds me I am the same girl I was
19 and addicted to things.

almost 23 and it's more of the same-
23 and I've lost almost everything.

so what's another 23 years?
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2013
My body aches for acknowledgement
and a mere sense of safety
and closeness.
I am like a small child
yearning for some kind of attention
some small sense of affirmation.

My mind wanders from time to time
into the dark abyss that is my past.
Parental issues
and every other issue for that matter,
but all that mattered when I was young
was being old
and when I didn't feel love
like I should've
someone showed me an alternative.
The lust I felt at a young age,
wasn't ideal.
Nothing was ideal for me
it was more so just, life.

Life took my sanity
and I fell victim
to a lack there of.
Falling accustomed
to being under the covers.
falling accustomed
to being under another
falling accustomed
to not wanting to be a child
but wanting to grow up
so I could say
stop it, go away.

But I grew up quickly
and I learned just the same
that no one
not even you
can degrade my name.
The *****
the brunette
and the monster in my bed
are all what seem to run through my head
are all the reasons I wish I were dead.
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2015
I'm tired of written apologies you don't have the guts to speak-
Poets use words and letters and metaphors to explain how they feel
but you, you use a paint by numbers
and it seems to me I've ran out of every color
so now you're just a blank page staring back at me
tempting me to write my own apologies
because I somehow feel bad for you having to say sorry.
These days can become the flat tire on your car on the way to a funeral
but I will always be there to bring you light
even when you take your lack of apologies
and use them to knock out the lights on the ceiling fan-
I will wait in the dark until you decide to change the bulb.
But you never do-
so I'm left there picking up shards of lightbulb
as my hands bleed and spell out your apologies
and I look up at you and ask for help
but it seems you are stuck inside your own mind
your own world until the mess is cleaned up
and the light returns and then I'm stuck here apologizing
for getting blood stains on your t-shirt.
I understand dismay, and the ability to be distraught-
but I don't understand being someone else's peacoat
there to keep you warm until its no longer needed.
I just want to be appreciated.
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2015
I have mastered the art of invisibility again-
you don't see me the way you need to.
I don't show my emotions anymore,
hiding away this vulnerability
denying myself the ability to feel again-
you don't see this the way you need to
I don't want you to
see me.
Not like this.

I have mastered the art of hiding again-
alone in this spot I have found for myself
you're getting too close to finding me.
I don't want to be the one left looking,
I'm afraid I won't be able to find what I'm looking for.
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2015
I'm always biting my tongue
because everyone eats away at my words.
The bite is usually the only consistent
part of this life I live.
Sometimes the pressure is too much
and the blood spills from my teeth.
My jaw clenched and the taste inside my cheeks
reminds me my heart is somehow still beating.
I try to keep it inside but it seeps out
and everyone watches-
complains I am getting blood on their pride
so I try to hold back again
I am choking now
people question my struggle
so I must spill myself.

I speak-
say these words and the blood spills over
and every inch of my inner monologue is exposed
for the audience that is amongst me.
No one claps for me afterwards
they look down at the bloodshed
and wonder how it got there.
They blame me for biting down
on the same words they once shunned.

I stop speaking-
the blood fills my insides again
I am tired of choking
so I swallow my pride.
Awaiting the judgement day protocol
awaiting the lash of someone else's tongue
when mine is the sole contender of this downfall.
I spend my days trying to mend this mind built upon bones
the remains of what once was me, but no longer is.
I cannot find myself anymore
it went away with the bloodshed
I left it there on the stage
and everyone just ripped it to shreds.
So don't go looking for me
you won't find much
but an exoskeleton of what once was.
A shadow of optimism to shade the darkness
that is all you will see,
how can you shade the dark?
it can only happen with nothing,
which is what I am now.
So don't go looking for me
all you will find is someone too busy
biting away at what's left of her tongue
hoping she still has blood left to survive
hoping she doesn't get it on anyone's shoes-
we all know blood stains.
the title is basically saying even if nothing is said and I keep my mouth closed, I still lose.
Amanda Stoddard Jun 2015
What exactly does closure feel like?
I'm not really sure because
the days I felt my first heartache
like a bullet to my chest
I cried for a week straight then got over it-
I had so many friends, I never cared to love again.
I was never really sure how to close the open door
the day my grandma died my mind went blank.
So I drank away the pain until the images
of her cancer ridden body faded away.
How do you cope when at the same time
you see your grandmother die
you remember these horrors
from your childhood of someone ripping away
your innocence.
I haven't been the same since.
So now what's left?
I have left the one I love
with a heavy heart
and no closure to console me.
I just feel as if I am drifting
slowly and without a lifeboat
no paddle in merky waters
with a windstorm that won't quit.
But I feel at peace
like the calm before the storm
that realizes it will be sunny one day again soon.
So how will closure console this empty soul?
I've never really felt that feeling before.
Closure is a ******* step child to me-
just an extra sock that can't find a match.
A newly lit match burning out too fast
never to be used again.
A bowl filled with resin
when all you need is one ******* hit.
Closure is a seesaw with no one at the other end to help-
you're on your own adventure
and you only venture from the usual path.
It's a road you walk alone-
barefoot upon rocks that have been shaped from struggle.
Closure is the progression into solitude.
So how do I get closure from you?
How do these hands feel okay again
not holding on to yours-
how does my bed feel whole again
without you next to me.
I'm not sure quite yet-
but one day I will see.
Closure is an empty room
before a dance recital
it's a preconcert soundcheck
and everyday anxiety.
The nights are worse than the days
and I've come to grips with feeling this way.
I hope one day to feel okay.
I know one day I will feel okay-
because today, I feel pretty okay.
Amanda Stoddard Aug 2015
I'm waiting in the Starbucks line-
Homework due in an hour.
I realize my clothes don't match.
I also realize this is a lot like
what love feels like.
A letdown.
A constant urgency.
Insecurity that a deadline will not be made.
Making small stupid decisions based on your addictions.
Then the coffee I sip tastes like ****
all because the line to get it was super long-
too much ice and not enough coffee.
I drink it too fast and it makes me sick-
I'm thinking it was because of the pills
not so much the coffee this time.
And I continue to think about love.
How I never want to take that many pills again.
How I never want to play tic tac toe
with every negative emotion I have
I don't think I ever want to find love again.
Because this type of destruction should not happen more than once-
but to me, it's happened more than that.
Even the worst things in history are often repeated.
That's what being in love with you feels like-
A used history book too worn and used
to even show any inherent value-
But you love history and what it has to offer.
So you tape back the broken spine
in hopes of salvaging what you love so much.
But it's never enough to make it readable
it's never enough to use for notes later on
or to read your favorite chapter
and all you can think about is how wonderful it once was.
When you were pulling back each page
so filled with joy about what the next had to offer.
You had a lot to offer-
but all you saw was your broken spine
and torn apart pages.
I wrote my name inside the front cover
etched in pen so everyone would know it was mine-
but I guess my name faded and now it's all just smeared ink
you can't even spell out what it says anymore
maybe because I lost myself inside of you.
I'm again looking at how my clothes don't match
and how much time I took to put this outfit on
but the lighting in my room is dim
and when the actual sunlight shows more things
than the darkness of faded counterfeit wattage
you start to see the things you're missing-
like yourself.
You would like to send someone out to find you
maybe your parents or your friends
but they're all too busy in their own lives
so you look for yourself-
by yourself
and you wonder how you got this way.
How two nights ago you happen to be the same person
you were six years ago-
even the worst things in history are often repeated.
I'm starting to think taking this medicine
wasn't such a good idea.
But the only reason I did it in the first place
was because of how crazy I felt with you.
I didn't want to be crazy anymore-
I wanted love to work for once.
I guess you can't teach yourself something you've never seen
like how I taught myself to swim by watching my brother
and I taught myself how to tie my shoes watching spongebob.
No one ever showed me love-
no one ever put on that play for my young eyes to see
so now I'm searching and searching for something
when I don't even know what the **** I'm looking for.
I think I would rather look for myself instead-
I'm sure I never want to look for love again
but what happens when I try to love myself?
How can you achieve something so foreign?
God could be a fat, black, lesbian jew
and how would we know, we've never actually seen God..
That's kind of how I feel about love.
It could be a giant hurricane destroying everything
because that's the only love I've ever known.
I can read about it until my eyes are heavy-
I can watch it in movies until makeup is stained on my cheeks
but none of it ever means anything to me
in a world where I never mean anything to you.
Love is kind of like starbucks-
it's convenient because it's everywhere
and everyone is waiting in line to get a taste
most of the time it's not what you expected
and it's usually just bitter-
but sometimes you get lucky
and everything is sweet-
the way you wanted it to be
until it's empty.
I am empty.
you were never really fond of coffee.
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2015
I always write about my own reflection
and consistency-
but mostly how ****** up life has been for me.
It seems as if the only stream of conscious I know
goes backwards.
Can I write about other things?
Why don't I ever write about other things?
Like the way my skin aches for you-
the fact we awake at the same time every morning
I feel as if you were another part of me-
but we have all seen this already.
So can I write about the now?
Right here.
In this moment
the only thing I can think about is the past.
How my coffee was once so hot it burnt my tongue
and is now so cold that my lips don't remember the taste.
It's funny how things change form.
How something can taste so sweet, turn cold-
and leave you nothing but bitter in the end.
Now I'm thinking about you-
no one else knows who you is, but me.
The reminder of my past is mimicked in your tone-
the mouth that feeds your troubled mind
brings up feelings I would rather not replay.
Shady, in the shadows with ****** tendencies
that silhouette my smile
You shook my spine and struck my nerves
now I'm racking my brain on how to separate.
See, the past is the only thing I know,
The only thing that is to be known
for I have evidence it is there.
"I think therefore I am"
so the only things I know are in the past.
The here and now
is still the past once the moment is gone
and all these letters and metaphors above
are all just pieces of my memory now.
Aren't you tired of looking back?
Yes.
But it is all I know for sure.
You are not.
The future is not.

My hair is in knots again
I try to brush out the tangles
but the teeth are too weak
I try to brush the taste of you away
but my teeth are too weak.
It's been one week since I didn't have to think
about the wreckage you instilled in my bones
but here I am now
watching as my mind goes blank
and my coffee turns cold-
I should've listened when you said nothing
should've known that was the answer all along.
we learned about Descartes today in class, so it inspired this poem.
Amanda Stoddard Apr 2018
My body shakes
I feel it in the tips of my feet
as it moves into the base of my neck

I am paralyzed by a fear
that remains nameless-
a fear that is missplaced
by a juxtaposition of overlapping anxieties.

my body becomes warm.
I leave these bones that once protected me
and turn into ash.

how do you come back from a fire
lit by your own body-
turned into dust on your own accord?

what do you do with the remains?

I have turned desert
dried up and almost deadly.

I do not let up until the sun goes down-
it is the only time I feel a sense of peace.

but even then
I still manage to come back empty
and endless and neverending.


my eyes are tired now
not rational enough to focus on anything
my brain likes to make a mess of my reality.

everything is pixelated
distorted and surreal.

and I have not come back from this since

will you hold my hand through it?

But you can't
you've disappeared
inside your own mind.

will we meet back in reality one day?
or will we stay lost on opposite planes.

I miss when we met in the middle
and you spilled your secrets onto mine.

but I became desolation
and you became destructive-
things won't feel the same again

so neither will I.
Amanda Stoddard Mar 2016
Currently-
I'm sitting in a room drinking coffee too hot for my mouth.
I endure the pain, it is what I'm used to by now.

Currently-
I have like 10 thoughts in my head
not one of them relating to another.

Currently-
Nothing can hurt as bad as where my mind can travel
here in this room
when I'm trying to focusing on everything else
but all I can hear are whispers in my ear
and hands on my body as a young girl.
You found me then and you've found me now.

Currently-
My Spanish exam is today and I'm tired
of thinking about conjugations and commands.
Moriremos! Let's die.
Don't worry this exam will do it for me.

Currently-
See I'm racking my brain trying to understand you
why you did what you did
and why it hurt me so much
but I can't seem to find an answer.

Currently-
I'm thinking about when I was molested
and I think about how every time I write about it
and show my boyfriend he sometimes
thinks the undertones and contexts are about him
considering I only use metaphors to explain the situation
I'm never blunt in poetry.
Why does he think they are always about him?

Currently-
Two cups of coffee deep and my hands can't stop shaking
I got inspired by my own writing
which is weird.
It never happens so I'm taking it for what it's worth.

Currently-
my mind is running on 100 mg of Lamictol
and 5 mg of busiphrone so I start to wonder
if these thoughts have become synthetic.
Configured inside a laboratory filled with people
who have no idea what I go through on a daily basis
yet they are trying to figure me out
place me inside a box I don't want to be in.
Funny, my alarm just rang.
55 milligrams of small white pills down the hatch again.
This is all becoming too unrealistic.

Currently-
I'm thinking about all the things I shouldn't know.
How the girl that's ******* around with my friend
has ****** way more guys than she says
but I lied to make him feel better, it's not my place.
Besides it's none of anyone's ******* business but her own.
I think about how my friend found a lump on her breast
and how she didn't tell me about it
probably because my grandma died this month
5 years ago. Wow. 5 whole years. It hurts.
So does the idea of losing my best friend.

Currently-
Death is always on my mind
but in this moment it's more than it has been
within in the past couple of months.
But the coffee burns my mouth and reminds
me why alive can mean pain, but it can also mean
sweet taste and warmth.
Warmth, I think about your mouth
and what it could've felt like on mine that night.
I was too hurt to think about anyone
except the heart that was cracked inside myself.
10, 9, 8....  
I'm trying not to think about it,
how turning back time would be cool just so I could know.
But I don't, and I have a boyfriend- sort of.
Can't go there right now. Trying to write a poem.

Currently-
Everyone who has ****** me over
has become or stayed my friend afterwards
and I start to think about how ****** up that is
because they didn't want me as a lover
but were fine with just my friendship
it's painful knowing they all got what they wanted
and I was left with always wondering what if.
It's funny how I know things from the moment they happen.
"She has such a weird face" was actually code for
"I'm eventually going to **** her, I just want to make you feel better and like I won't but I will"
I'm still bitter.

Currently-
How should I end this piece
now it doesn't feel at all like poetry just a bit of rambling.
I feel the lining of my gums
how they are repairing themselves from the damage
of my mouth being ripped from words I wish I could say but can't.
But here I am, saying them anyway.
I start to wondering if anyone knows
these words I speak.
and how I sometimes wonder if I'm dyslexic
because I always spell words backwards.
like backdarws or fkuced up.
Even in another language.
Too chicken to find out, so I guess I'll never know.

Currently-
there are more than 10 currently's
but I don't seem to give a **** anymore.
I think about how the pain stops when I write
how one focus can make a huge difference.
I burned my mouth again
and it made me laugh for the first time
since Sunday morning.
It's not sweet enough.
Neither am I.

Currently-
I think about how easy it is to change my clothes and my hair
and how easy it could be to pack up and just leave.
But I have this overwhelming feeling that I can't
let everyone down.
The coffee has gotten cold
and my patience has run dry.
My heart is heavy with these words
I try to make pretty,
but there is no makeup for these words
no concealer you can use to hide the blemishes.
If there were they would be metaphors
and this poetry would be the final product.
But you can put a mask on the truth
and I don't think I would ever want to.

Currently-
I'm thinking about how happy you make me
and how dysfunctional things can be between us.
But I don't know how to be with anyone else
and I don't really want to.

Currently-
I'm thinking about my Spanish exam again.
******.
Amanda Stoddard Jun 2017
What do you do
when others become
the aftermath of what happen to you?

Is trauma better a closed door than an open window,
is silence the only thing that won't cause them pain?

How do you talk about it
when the words leaving your mouth
Are just as toxic to those you love
as the events that occurred were to you?

Is this trauma always a contest?

Does it always beg to discipline
a body demanding closure?

Will memories repressed
always lay into the place that once held your spine?
Where each moment spent remembering
chips away at your backbone-

soon enough there will be nothing left
and you will have to stand up straight on your own.

But what happen when you crumble,
and you take everyone down with you
Is their downfall now your fault?
Does this mean the trauma is now your fault?

That because you let yourself be honest-
it was nothing but a disservice to those who love you.

Is it better to struggle in seclusion
than let someone wither away
inside the hands of your abusers?
the same way you have for years.

Is the conversation
worse than the experience?

I’m still trying to find out.

Hidden between never open fingers
and vocal chords
scared shut

I have been battling
the idea of redemption.

Will those who know help me fight
or watch as I do it alone?
Either way,
I am rebuilding my backbone
from the ground up.

Chipping away at the parts of me they made a mess of
filling the gaps with concrete progress.

Structure can only be as solid
as the foundation it was built upon.

So here’s to hoping I harden.
Amanda Stoddard Mar 2016
Writing has become my safe haven
and my sarcophagus all in one breath-
these emotions are purged from my chest
so I end up feeling empty again.
I am tempted to write the same poem
over and over but I stop myself.
I wonder if things such as this
can be as good as they once were
but that is just an image in my head
that will never become reality.
This page has ruined me
for I was never the same before
it tainted my skin
and imprinted upon my retinas
the misconstrued intentions
of a golden thumbed wordsmith
all of which I am not.
The knife in my chest bleeds ink
but I think it's running out now-
there's not much left of what keeps me alive
and I am choking on these words you say to me.
My heart beats too often for your words
that I read on the page like eulogy
but my mind knows better
than to engrave your name next to mine just yet.
I'm not the only basket case in this equation,
not the only one addicted to the idea of
going backwards and starting anew.
Things cannot grow backwards,
flowers only bloom or die
they're only consistent if you water them
and these tears seem to have ran out
my mouth is too dry to speak
I'm having trouble keeping up with these thoughts.
They are like maps, drawn out in the back of my mind
but I'm not sure which way to read it-
my memories do not work on North or South,
not even East or West
they only know forwards and backwards.

These words don't seem to fit together
or flow in a way that they're supposed to.
The more I think too much about them,
the less they seem to make sense.
Amanda Stoddard Aug 2014
It's funny how conversation can change things,
and how the words that spill from my mouth
aren't the same ones you paint upon my skin.
The days that decay you are the same that betray you
and your lips quiver at the thought of it.
Would you still hold me close at night
if I would have never sparked the conversation.
If all my effort ran dry and you held the canister
would you use it to help me bloom
or would you let me slowly wither away?
I am done being the one man machine
for this two-way street.
It takes two to tango and I'm dancing alone,
drenched in sweat while you watch from the sidelines.
I don't think you know what it's like
or do you? and is that why you pause before every choice?
Are you too scorned by your past to realize -
I need you to try for me,
and maybe this is me being selfish
or spoiled or something
but I don't want to feel like one of the games on your shelf
I don't want to have to grasp you by the jaw
just so you give me something to work with.
There is no conclusion if your words are elusive.
I just want mid-day 'I love you' reminders
or appreciation pictures of us together.
I don't need too much, just a little is enough.
The hands that hold me up
consequently are the same ones that hold me back.
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2014
Someone once told me-
"you have too many problems for me to deal with"
and as the words made their way down my throat
into my stomach making a mockery of my digestive system
I was shaken.
The butterflies in my stomach wanted to fight back
tell them that "these problems are who I am so *******"-
but my mind shut out the butterflies and began thinking.
Tore apart who I was inside my own mind
my eyes began to water as they were looking into his
but I laughed instead of crying and didn't let my insecurity win
No, not that time- so I replied
"everyone has problems"

The boy I love once told me-
these feelings I possessed were more like a "burden"
rather than the blessing I made them out to be
and the butterflies began once again
demanding to be heard until the regurgitation made me listen.
I stood upright, cried until my knuckles bled
this was happening, all over again.
So I changed myself for someone who I thought
knew who I was and as the times changed
the darkness fell upon me much sooner than expected
and the love I thought I felt for him almost vanished.
But I realized I cannot push everything into someone
who doesn't want to carry the burden with me
and although the weight is heavy
I have carried it 19 years alone and struggling...
And yes, I now carry your weight with me too
on top of these burdens I own yours are not too far behind-
because with love comes sacrifice and strength
and I guess I'm just stronger than you.
So thank you-
for showing me the one thing I always really knew.
These emotions and struggles I possess do not make me weak-
I am not the burden or the nuisance around your neck
I am strength and the light that comes with early sunrise.
I am stronger than most and it scares people.

So as these problems shake me,
push me to the edge and tell me to jump-
I will clench my teeth as I clench the bottle
and I will clench my fist as it hits the wall.
I will remember the hole I just created
is a reminder I am strong
the bottle I just threw to the ground
is a reminder I am strong.
The silence of my cell phone
when everything is going wrong
and you have just too much going on-
is the constant reminder, I am strong.
Amanda Stoddard Sep 2016
The ambivalence
   trickles down my throat,
I feel it settling
   inside of my stomach.
Indecision makes it's way into
   every part of me.

I'm whimpering
from the devastation.

Painstakingly
stagnant.

Taking the necessary
measure so I can breathe.

Still it sits
   like acid
   inside of my stomach.
Awaiting the moment
   I regurgitate it all back to you.

Memorizing the pain
like warning signs-
   sketchy shadows
   in a parking lot
so I kept my doors locked.
Turned the radio down
so I could prepare
for anything that would
make me afraid again.

You are the locked door
and the anxiety
of not remembering
if I took the right
precautions this time.

Maybe I didn't
check my rear view
    close enough
and I have no idea
a car has been
   following me for miles-
checking my progress
   watching as I switch lanes
   making sure I'm aware
   of the imminent threat
   it poses towards my future.

You are the stove
   I can't remember if I left on.
You are the straightener
   that burned a hole
   through my carpet.
I was unaware
   of the heat-
   or the consequences
I just wanted to feel full-
   to feel pretty.

I'm always looking backwards
   at the damage
   that has been made of me.
Seems I'm always
   looking over my shoulder
expecting for you
to be standing there
   reminding me why
   there is nothing left of me.
The pieces I have
taped together have
your initials outlined
in the remains.
   I can't rid of you-
Or the inhibition
  or the hindrance
left inside of my bones.
I am a weak, frail
   skeleton of a person.

Now I always,
keep my doors locked.
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2014
There was a time where I was sick a lot
clinging to the pains in my stomach
only there because my heart made it so.
My mind was my own demise
and the sunken chest I hid inside
caged all the resentment
I spend years trying to hide.
And each and every time a surgery came
I hoped that maybe I would go under
and see my future more clearly
or go under and never come up for air again.
But I always woke up-
I didn't dream anything
it was the most sound sleep I've ever gotten.
Each time was better than the last
and even though when I awoke
the sickness plagued my body
until I could not breathe between the aches
I was alive each and every time.
See, hard drugs never did anything for me
neither did prescription medication
but really what's the difference between the two?
The only thing that made me feel stronger
was the alcohol bleeding through my veins
as if every single secret escaped my body
just in one night.
Until I learned the sickness that came after
was worse than the hospital stays
and the pills that were supposed to take the pain away.
The aftermath was deadly-
I felt it all in my mentality and found a safe haven
in the misplaced anguish
until it turned against me.
I had to live again.
Pushing through with every ounce of strength
that I could possibly muster
because dying sounded a lot worse
than living with this beating heart
reminding me the vices I cling to
are only temporary and so is this pain .
The ache in my stomach passed,
just like after the surgeries
but this time I didn't get to go home
I was already there.
There is no place to run away from this-
no way out of the dark tunnel you find yourself in
after the anesthesia diminishes your clarity.
It will always be there and it will pass
and your body will soon feel like yours again.
These arms that carry you to the backseat of the car
will still be there to carry you home-
Just wait.
Amanda Stoddard Aug 2016
My bones were broken when you found me-
spent time trying to revert this body
into something that looked good in a mirror
or sounded pretty to doubtful ears.  

My smile was on sideways
and my chest was too small
so these breaths became shallow
following suit, so did I.

Someone turned me into a shell
an outline
a well-versed idea of what they wanted.
Written in brail and felt upon my skin,
everyone could read the way he changed me
but the only thing I saw was silence.
My subconscious warned me about it
wanted love so bad I never listened.
That was never what I wanted.

When my mind was numb
on the idea of happiness
you showed me differently.

My smile grew with you
and everyone could see it but me.
You saw my chest was small
and helped me breath in deep-
helped me expand.

The jokes I sputtered
were your lighthouse
and the only thing
that mattered to me
was finding you
so I could finally come home.

You rebuilt my insides
before I even knew
you were capable of it-
before I even knew
that love was an option.
Helped me send out a search party
for who I used to be
before love had shattered me.

You recreated me into songs
and molded me into a melody
something that sounded like me
like the person I was before
the chaos and calamity.

The soundtrack
of who we have became
reminds me of where we started
and I dance in what it feels like
and I sway with the shimmering vocals
and I bask in the bass line
loving what it sounds like
to be with you
and not so scratched CD
that eventually became
too shattered in bits
too broken to read.

We picked up the pieces
we made artwork out of it
and laughed at the progress
and laughed until we both lost it
until we both found ourselves
and built these records back together-
orchestrated a love
out of the imprints
and my life was no longer silence.
Amanda Stoddard Oct 2015
It's been seven days since the imprint stuck to my skin-
the scars still hold true to the nature of which they were born.
They were strategically placed upon spots I chose
their insides ran from my fingertips like they were proud of it.
But I was not proud of it.

It's been roughly 91 days since the pills lined my throat-
broke through the shell I hid the dependency inside
decided to try and make myself better.
It was roughly 40 days in I took regret to my skin
these pills reminded me what blurry feels like
these pills made me forget what I actually feel like
but I'm scared of what my body will do without them.
Ten days after that the cycle continued- Day 50.
I was back on the same track I was on six years, 2190 days ago.
The small shell of who I once was cradled in the corner
turned to stone and built a monument of my dysthymia
the mirror didn't recognize me, I could not see myself.
I watch myself in the reflection and try to remember who I am
the swollen eyes do not feel like the home I've built for myself
and it's been 2190 days since I've felt this exact way
the thought of nostalgia suddenly makes me sick.
I am wishing for the days to blend together again
for them not to be counted on more hands than I have time left
this isn't is an introduction or a preamble to my story  
this isn't even an epilogue anymore-
I wouldn't really call it a eulogy either.

It's been seven days since I took to my skin
the same way I did when I was just a kid
overcome with the idea of dying inside of my mind
and watching someone else die in front of my eyes.
So what is my excuse now?
Just raw emotion cutting into me like it's a slice of birthday cake
but this is no cause for celebration-
blow out the candles.
Break me down and hollow me out
disinfect these wounds so they will heal quicker.
The mania and the downward spiral are no longer holding hands-
they are jumping ship.
Dive in.
haze, daze, days, etc.
Amanda Stoddard May 2017
I tried to call out to you
in my dream last night.
But you were lost
behind a fixation
I couldn't re-imagine.

Now I'm looking
at the way I'm coping
hoping to somehow
ghostwrite my way out
of this incessant grief.

We can't just spill loss
into a letter and hope
by some chance
they read it over our shoulder.

I am foreshadowing
someone else's demise.

I've spent a lot of time losing this year,  
and somehow this was the most difficult.

Somehow the idea
is worse than
the reality

Somehow these words
will not be enough for you.

Asking you to stay
sounds selfish,
but you leaving seems the same.

I can't tell if
this is a poem
for my best friend that died-
or to the one who tried to.

I guess it's both.
I guess I am both.

Somewhere between grieving
too late and too early
in the same breath.

Loss feels so much more
than empty,
I am a tea kettle
  with bad metaphors
left on too long
so I am just screaming.

This is an empty house-
no one can hear me.

My blood boils over
with emotions
never taken off the back burner.

This chest caves in
and I cave into
the mindset that
this scenario
isn't imagination.

This is real life
and death isn't
just a concept for me anymore.

It is object permanence.
Amanda Stoddard Mar 2014
I wanted to write a poem
but the tips of my fingers
froze on impact and touched nothing
but the memories you left on my skin.
My mind was tainted by the scars
left behind from the prison that is my mind.
I am kind hearted and gentle
but the tragedy that is life
feeds off my mentality
like the waves feed off the wind
And I can't help but feel like
i'm drowning in the chaos
that has invaded my mind
So I turn cold and emotionless.

The soft kisses from your resin stained lips
are the only bliss I have ever known.
Your kind words and gentle nature
the only love i've ever been shown.
Writers remorse is rekindled with tragedy
so what am I supposed to write
when the remorse turns to rebellion
and my heart's fire ignites with a passion
I never knew I possessed.
Nevertheless, I am content
so how are my fingers
going to consent to writing solemnly
when I don't think I have it in me.
I am happy,
and as a writer
that will be the death of me.
Next page