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1.2k · Oct 2017
A Oct 2017
I’m doing fine.
I hugged an actor I like, and for some reason that stirred an emotion that I would classify as Foreign to me, happiness.
I am a passing fan and I know he forgot all about me by now, and yet meeting him made me feel like I could accomplish anything I’ve ever wanted. It’s silly, I know.
My cycle of self loathing is breaking and mending itself, and I’m stuck dealing with the shards and broken pieces that I pick up after myself, after my own destructive mind manages to break me.
I am scared- no, terrified, of the future. I’m scared of becoming a failure and I’m scared of becoming something I’ll end up hating. I’m scared of a stable life and a nine to five job. I’m scared of leaving my dreams behind in a desk drawer and continuing to live as a copy of everyone else.
Safe, in my comfort zone. Locking away my passions and dreams as phases of youth.
I’m doing fine.
I keep doubting every single decision I ever made. And I keep trying to cry out my fear and confusion to no avail. I keep drawing lines upon lines on a blank paper, somehow trying to see a meaning, or a sign, in between for me to keep going. To keep living.
I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine. I’m doing fine.
There’s a roof above my head and food on my table, there’s a bed for me to sleep on and I’m financially stable. So what is it? Why am I up at night feeling sorry for myself? Why am i complicating simple things?
I wish my brain would stop working. I wish I could play silence as a song. Loud and deafening. I wish I could stop my own mind.
I’m doing fine.
My friend is miserable and I am of no help, everything I try to mend ends up breaking. I’ve never felt so helpless. I love her to death. I love her more than I could fathom.  
I’m doing fine,
My soul is decaying.
I’m rotting away.
I need help.
1.2k · Dec 2018
Artificial Honey
A Dec 2018
I wake day after day with the same lingering dismay of what my life has become & of what is supposedly my fate

synthetic happiness works no longer
& I find the craving for death inside me growing stronger
old habits come again disguised as friends that like me better in cardigans that never let my scars show
this might all go away, maybe after one more blow?
songs and trees and mysteries are not enough to keep me intrigued and the bridge I walk by everyday is so appealing to take a leap and end it once & for all
The idea of living much longer makes my skin crawl
& so I am restless and I get into brawls & succumb to my sadness as it became my downfall
I can never quench it for I don’t have the gall as I hit my head against the wall

Artificial honey used to do the trick you see
a simple lick made me forget my misery
even though it sometimes made me jittery
it was also my only escape
It is my high and it leads me to my low but who cares! The tears always flow
wether I’m joyful or filled with woe
this illness sits on my shoulder like a crow
& I have to accept that I am shackled and it truly has me baffled that I can only set myself free by slitting my wrists or drowning in a sea.
Written in delirium under the effect of sleeping pills
427 · Nov 2017
A Nov 2017
If I were to die tomorrow, I’d embrace trees, for they never change as time flees.

If I were to tomorrow, I’d hope to destroy that sweet pain that I once called joy.

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d tightly close my eyes, for we live in a world where everyone is in disguise.

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d silence my mind, for it always seems to be working, on and on like tides.

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d stare up at the sky, imagining my place within it when I finally die.


Tomorrow is here now, it turned into today, didn’t I tell you that time flies? Much to our dismay.

Tomorrow is here now, and I stopped thinking about dying, for it seemed to be salvation but now it’s terrifying.
One of the drafts I found in a notebook.
313 · Sep 2017
A Sep 2017
The record plays, ends, and stops.
I still don't understand my teardrops.
Days end and start,
I still can't comprehend your depart.
the windowsill becomes hot, cold, freezing, and warm
I still longingly wait, with an outstretched palm.
for a return that is impossible, no figure will come running back,
no figure will hold me in their arms until they become slack.
I mourn in a black dress, and pray at night in white,
for the return of a laugh, a smile, a hug
that once chased away all of my fright.
and I know the truth, I know the truth of it all
I know that you're dead, not waiting in the hall.
Yet I can't help but pretend, can't help but wonder
Why was life so kind and beautiful before you went under?
275 · Jan 2019
Muse & Melody
A Jan 2019
And of melodies & songs I find most comforting, soothing when a wave of sadness comes ashore,
There’s a laugh and a cracked voice, there’s that & so much more I’ve come to adore.
When the scratches ebbed into my arms weigh a ton, and the burden of living becomes so much that I want it to come undone.
And then I cry at night, shed a tear or two, or laugh until I can’t anymore ‘cause my breath left me and my lips turned blue.

Only then there’s nothing anymore, no songs or melodies or laughs. Only the light at the end of the hall where I spent most evenings weeping & crying in haste.

As I lie with my earth-shattering problems all carved into the lines of my forehead and eyes, the ground finally engulfs me, there’s no more disguise.
And then in melodies and songs I found so comforting, there was you. Singing your head off and sometimes humming, or in some cases throwing a shoe!
found this old one in my notes
270 · Sep 2017
A Sep 2017
I am not pleased, by the way the world works, with its cruelty and injustice, and also, the shape of my feet.
I am not pleased, with how my friend is so great and yet her misfortune is greater, and the broken home that shelters also her breaks her on the inside.
I am not pleased, of how my eyes water when I say silly words and yet I cannot cry out my misery.
I am not pleased, sitting still and waiting for an epiphany .
I am not pleased by the way we all deny the evil inside us,
taking comfort in the idea of the light in us being so strong that if we saw it, it would blind us.
and yet I still wait for you to realize.
I am not pleased by the punishment life gives us for no apparent reason, and the boredom inside me that makes life so dull,
almost unbearable to be in.
and yet I still dance around and enjoy silly tunes,
in hopes of it easing my prominent loneliness and misfortune.
I hope you enjoy this ****** poem although its definitely not great
267 · Oct 2017
A Oct 2017
The dying embers of my youth are calling out to me. I am lost and miserable, watching life pass me by.

I am chained in a corner of this world because of lines from a book, they call it the word of God but from my experience I know that God never spoke.

And in these times I wonder, why am I still here? to suffer? to feel the joy that spills from the music that I hear? or am I here to make the stars feel less alone as they huddle and watch my misery unfold?

I feel suffocated and loneliness grips at my heart so firmly and painfully that I almost can't bear it. My words die on my lips now, and on my fingertips when I decide to write too.

I have lost my being in a whirlwind of what I see but cannot grasp, I have lost my being dreaming until I got slapped.

The dying embers of my youth shed tears at the loss of the fire that once burned within me. My soul is starting to get covered by frost and the coldness grips at me and my thoughts.  
I dream of a sun shining from lines on my wrists and oceans stirring from my tear ducts and I am weak.

I am nothing now but a broken soul that sees life as nothing but bleak.
Forgot this in the drafts by mistake. Enjoy.
261 · Nov 2017
A Nov 2017
I'm afraid.
The sky is the same color as it was the day before and night is never bright, the stars are not visible too.
It rained today and its unusual, it only rains a few times every year, most think of it as a blessing, it makes me feel blue.
I hate thinking about the future because it's terrifying to me, as all roads lead to Rome, I feel as if  every decision I consider or end up making will lead up  to me becoming a failure, I bring upon myself my own rue.
I am so scared and my opportunities don't vary, I have yet to discover the meaning of life and with every day I feel myself getting older and older, getting by aimlessly through life, breathing stale air and eating and sleeping, just stoic.
I feel myself getting older day by day, and I worry, I worry so much and live in the torment of my worries, my mind won't stop. there's no way out, I live in a prison of my thoughts, and my dreams are not of console since they die and rot in this place as I type.
What of beautiful life? What of music? what of joy and love and hearts being full to the point of combustion? what of smiles and arms that hug you and lend you comfort? Am I not worthy of them? Does this place take everything that makes me human away?
I am nothing, my destiny is like that of everyone else, and that's what makes my insides quiver and sends a chill down my spine.
It's not being different that concerns me, but being like everyone else makes me feel like I'm slowly killing myself, destructing and crushing whatever wild flower that might've slipped and grown through the cracks of my sculpted mind. I can't be like everyone else.
I am afraid.
This place feels too small and yet it feels so big, my everyday life is a big deal to me and yet it is a segment that will never occur again in somebody else's life. A waiter, a stranger, a passing account on the internet. Isn't that crazy to think about? How you mean so little to a lot of people and they won't ever know your name, and how important it is to you and vice versa.
I can't comfort myself anymore and I am so afraid, something within me wants to be immortal, and the other wants to be forgotten.
I worry a lot, I seek comfort in anything and yet nothing does the job.
I'm afraid.
Of my mind,
Of my worries,
Of my fears,
and yet I know that they will take over eventually.
just a rant to try to ease my fear don't think its worth reading since it has nothing to do with poetry but I needed a platform to vent. This was it.
258 · May 2018
What a mirror told me
A May 2018
Why should I believe that beauty is not skin deep when everything tells me otherwise- it’s all everyone cares about- it’s all they ever advertise.

Why should I believe that this life is fair and that people around me don’t really care- for the shape of my face or the color of my hair- when all they seem to talk about is beauty as they stare- inside their screens and turn green with jealousy of a beauty they don’t think they behold- why is it always hard to love yourself? That’s not what I’ve been told.

Thelipsticks and the dresses never were pretty because whatever you do is never enough for people in this city- and as the days stretch out your meals shrink hoping your stomach would look flat when you took a drink- of that ****** tea that promised to make you thin as your bones grew prominent under your skin- and now you start thinking while throwing up in a bin- is this really worth it all? When did this begin?- it’s then that you realize it was the unintentional words of a friend- a magazine page- or a picture you pinned- on the wall of your room of a singer in Berlin-
does anyone care for what’s within?
Does anyone care for what’s within?
it’s all images and looks that define who you are- it’s what the boys look for when they go to a bar- it’s not the words or the beauty you hold inside- or the kindness you carry as you sit by a lakeside- wondering if you’re worth anything when all this beauty perishes  and dies.

It’s what’s inside that counts, no matter how many times you recount- the calories in your food or your weight on a scale-
It’s what’s inside that counts, even if you think it’s not and try to no avail-
To please all these people that only care about a sale- who are too scared of doing anything they love because they think they’ll fail- who are too insecure that they seek the approval of a male!

In everything they do they are mere copies of people they think are greater- ones that if you dared to criticize they’d call you a ‘hater’.
Actually proud of the rhyme in this :) enjoy
251 · Jan 2018
A Jan 2018
It gets hard when I wake up, and the reality I've seemed to create in my head starts to vanish.
It gets hard for me to pull myself out of my bed, when sleep is the only comfort I find in life.
It gets hard to smile, it gets hard to breathe,
when your dreams get crushed and torn at the seams.
It gets hard to write words that explain, the turmoil in my heart, soul, and brain.
It gets hard to simply exist, when you become aware of your surroundings and all the hope you've managed to conjure up seeps outside your being. In helpless whimpers and cries of unfiltered despair.
It gets harder and harder and I'm tired of trying.
If this is my goodbye to you then please understand that I was dying.
i have nothing to share
219 · Sep 2017
A taste of who I am
A Sep 2017
My miserable soul has seeped through the tightly shut surfaces. Through my eyelids, through the wall I have built to shut off all these feelings and thoughts that I don't want. These thoughts and feelings that I don't want to acknowledge, these thoughts and feelings that make me who I am.
My soul is seeping through my tear lines and cracked surfaces of my hardened heart. The heart that was abandoned and left to fend for itself, the heart that doesn't fully know how to mend. The heart that only knows cracking bit by bit, inside the fist of this unfair universe, as it puts more pressure on its hold to break me.
My miserable soul is seeping through my calloused fingertips, as I run them over all the wounds I have inside and out. I feel my soul seeping through the place between my shoulder blades, protruding from my body and growing into blue wings that will not help me fly, but make fall to the ground.
My miserable soul is seeping through the cracked words I speak and the roots of trees that I walk by, my soul is seeping through the air I breathe and the dirt in the ground as I dig deeper and deeper, digging in hopes of calming myself and detaching all the sorrows of my soul from my flesh and bone.
My miserable soul is seeping through the raindrops that cover my glasses and the mud that's on my shoe, my soul is trying to cling and detach itself to me and I don't know what to do, it's pulling me left and right and I feel like it's ripping me apart. I feel as if I am just as lost as I was before yet something is so clear ahead of me that I sing to drive it nearer, that I cry to make it come closer, that I hurt to make it visible. That I simply do anything that proves I'm alive and human but it never appears before me. I'm grasping on straws and all there is left are my tear stained cheeks as I engrave paper with useless words. Words that make no sense, words I thought would guide me but I'm just as lost as I was when I first grabbed a pen to write as a child...
I'm lost all the same but then I was lost in this world I'm living in and now I'm lost in the confines of my own head.
215 · Nov 2017
A Nov 2017
Golden sunlight has lost its touch. And I, In return, have lost faith.
As complex as this universe is I could never find it within me to understand, the blues and greys and blacks and whites that base our existence. I could only understand the faint yellows and pinks and greens, from a distance while I drown in myself, while I dance in the murky colorless pools of what I am. Of all the words and actions and tears and smiles that made me who I am, to have made me flesh and bone and breath and brain.
And I walk, for miles, with each step a thought, as fleeting and complex as an electron surrounding a nucleus and as simple as the earth revolving around the sun.
I only hope to understand
One day
To find solace for a while.
i **** at this
207 · Mar 2018
A Mar 2018
The ride to and from school would be the way I truly kept track of days, not by sun and light, but by the small construction site inside alleys in a city of fumes and dead dreams.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have no great destiny to fulfill, that I might die after a mundane life with a regular job looking for happiness I might never procure.
I’ve come to terms with the way happiness only scratches the surface of my exterior, that I never feel it as deeply as I do my sadness, that cursed sadness that sticks to me like a pest. I can never outrun nor hide from it.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life might be a speck, a blurry head in a crowd, a pedestrian crossing a street, an observer.
I might never be meant to create the art I crave to make, or sing to crowds as I want to sing, or write in books for ones to read. I might never be anything at all.
And yet coming to peace with all these things has not made me happier, it hasn’t made me feel deeply and appreciate. In fact, I feel it hardening the fluid creativity I might’ve had inside me, I feel it turning me shallow. I guess my sadness is not something I can live without. I guess it is some sort of a bittersweet companion that I’m chained with for the rest of my days.
I can say that I’m okay with that.
I can say that I can go on normally now.
But I know the life I’ll lead and live would day by day shatter whatever hope I had, whatever aspiration I would want to reach, it would **** me slowly but I guess that this is life and it’s all just tangible, temporary.
I guess I am the smoke I see, from the construction site in alleyways in a city built  on hopelessness, I guess I am the smoke and I will age as the building is being built and I will one day fly away from here. Like the pigeons I see everyday gathering around in a land so dry to eat bread crumbs thrown by sad, helpless humans, all stuck in a trance of pleasing a god in their actions and pleasing people who’d curse you for being different. I hope when I die I turn into one of the white pigeons that only come a handful of times a year, I hope I could come to observe these people but never become one of them.
I hope that one day I would really be free.
183 · Feb 2019
A Feb 2019
I seem to loose the essence of what all of this is about.
it before gave me a way to express what I desperately wanted to shout,
or maybe this is just a common case of a poet's drought?
I can never be certain.
I am my own worst critic,
could you say that  I'm harsh or bad at doing my job?
is my self loathing so blinding that I have to look no further for the reason of lost essence?
I don't know what to think anymore
should I quit?
or should I try to live through this tiring phase?
I'm not one for holding on to hope for too long,
and neither am I one to pray.
i dont even know anymore. should i quit poetry?
182 · Sep 2018
Train of thought
A Sep 2018
you feel until you can’t anymore and you hurt until your arms are sore
Just as you walk out the door thinking of what’s in store your sadness comes back up from the floor and you are helpless.
The sky is blue and grey and pink and people around you always sing , of money and glamour and bubbly things and you are merely a shell. something so out of place you think you mistakenly fell.
Into this world of hate and gloom where money is king and there’s no magic broom, or a high tower for you as a room and it’s all just about the surface.
You paint a face and fake an embrace and love the need to love instead, you love an idea you’ve grown to dread and it’s not so scary to be dead anymore.
It’s not that you want to be alone
But with time you start to turn into stone
And think that your actions can condone
All the blood you shed and hearts you broke,
& all the painful words you spoke
As you watched them cut and start to soak into everyone you’ve ever loved.
This illness made you have them shoved.
So far away that night and day became one to you with time, trying to scribble it out into a poem that rhymes.
It’s far for perfect and it’s never simple as the corner of your eyes start to crinkle into a fake smile for the world to see.
Because you can never turn into what they want you to be.
And you never got out so much of a plea.
For a helping hand or a saving grace because this illness was a disgrace that you should hold until the grave and that’s why people called you brave.
and you were the farthest thing from it.
I can’t write anymore lol
178 · Nov 2017
A Nov 2017
I am looking everywhere, but there’s no use. I can’t stop peeking for a chance at ending my life.  
My curtains are thin, sunlight pours in way too early and it never gets dark at night. Passing car headlights project as lines on my ceiling. I count them when I can’t fall asleep.
My curtains are thin, I keep them closed to keep reality away. Sometimes, I’d shut my eyes and imagine being in a place far away, where nature is beautiful and people don’t judge as much. I’d picture a perfect world of opportunity and happiness, a world where I have never felt any pain at all.
And yet my curtains are thin, cutting my fantasies short and bringing me to my harsh reality again.
I watched a little bird sit on my windowsill today, peeking inside and flying away mere seconds later. And it got me to wonder if it felt my sadness somehow? If it felt my desperation radiating from the thick walls and glass that separated us. Oh how I wish I had its wings, oh how I wished I could just fly away too.
My curtains are thin, I can see outlines of shapes at night, and I can see my own silhouette when I sit up on my bed and cry.
Music doesn’t make me feel anymore, it just makes my heart heavier, I write but it doesn’t feel the same, and I sing but it is not perfect nor beautiful. I stumble through life but at the same time I walk on eggshells, feeling as if one simple thing will one day end up breaking me.
My curtains are thin, and I think that they listen when I confess to the silence of my sins.
My curtains are thin, and I pray they’ll flutter open the day I decide to set my soul free and stop trying to blend in.
171 · Apr 2019
Reality as I see it
A Apr 2019
the maid in our house raised me
and she loves me like her own I see
but when she asked for a raise
my father said she wasn’t worthy of such praise
And it kind of put me in a haze
for I see her working 16 hours a day
in freezing winters and in the middle of May
without so much of a complaint
no matter what she’s going through a smile on her face she’d paint
I’d come to see her as a saint
For she ironed my clothes and kept me fed
& didn’t mind my temper and some lousy words I’d said
She forgave everyone before going to bed
and never had time for a tear to shed
long mornings and short nights
She lived separated from our world and it’s heights
Thinking of the mouths to feed millions of miles away
So she worked till her feet ached without any dismay
My respect for her was always great but my anger is greater
Because what is this world where money and wealth kills us sooner or later
and we are never equal
because someone is a pheasant while others are regal
my paper planes don’t equate to your steel ones
and yet I should smile I say that money isn’t everything
While someone starves eating mud while you some show off their new diamond rings
so tell me how is that fair?
can’t god give everyone their decent share?
Or does he see their suffering and simply doesn’t care?
call it blasphemy, but I can’t bare to see despair
on the face of millions, because it’s something we can repair
Yet no one lifts a finger or gives a penny to spare
Because god did not make us equal
& that’s the truth when it’s bare.
My father didn’t actually say that but that’s just a reflection of how the society I grew up in find house workers less of a being than they are
150 · Aug 2019
A Aug 2019
We’re all kept on a leash
theirs just happens to be twice as long
While I suffocate to breathe

Fabrics on my body decide my worth
So I bury myself under a cloth
To spare myself from their wrath
When their leashes are loose and mine is taut

They scream at the audacity of my request to breathe
and continue to smother and punch and squeeze
To render me helpless (it’s really a breeze)
So I continue to suffer while they’re at ease.

The world is helpless & I am chained
My attempts to escape are all in vain
And I just sit around and cry
wishing I didn’t have a brain.
147 · May 2019
Pains Of Growing Up
A May 2019
I will not be this young forever
my bones are bound to weaken and tatter
yet here I am trying to mold myself into something you’d rather
instead of just being me

I remember my own incessant laughter
while I was eating myself up about turning grey
what will become of me then I wonder
will the tongues of people become a predator & I their prey?

I look at myself in the mirror & think
about the times yet to come where I lose and sink
with the weight of my existence drowned in pink
with a childish dream of a future where I sing

tears do not turn back time
regret will only sting like lime
on memories I try my best to suppress
of the times I killed my self
little by little,
just to impress
something I realized while looking into my bathroom mirror this morning.
130 · May 2019
A May 2019
what is life then?
If not *****, scarlet nights and cigarettes
Can it be music so loud that it vibrates within me? pumping through my veins,
Harmonizing with my pulse

isn’t life just one big song?
I hope mine isn’t mellow and quiet
I’d like to see it end with a Big Bang
Like the build up in a rock song that leaves me heaving

And yet I’m stuck in the beginning
Repeating every day
over and over
Like my life is a broken record
And the song doesn’t play past the opening sound
And so I find myself in a hospital gown
wondering why my song isn’t great
how it’s not getting better at any rate
while I ponder my worth under a fluorescent glow
******* to a bed watching my favorite show
grasping at straws with hopes of ‘you never know!!’
life passing me by at lightning speed while I’m going slow
Dragging my sadness that never seems to leave
and all existential crisis in tow
129 · Dec 2017
Bulletin board
A Dec 2017
The sky is light blue and is pleasant to the eye, hospital lights are harsh and white, almost blinding and intense.
I lived as a silhouette, a shadow of everyone else, shortened at noon and lengthening in mornings, depending on the light, and like it was my self esteem.
I loved in the corners, silently. Looking at people and trying to know who they are from the way their hands moved in a conversation and the tiniest smile they’d have on their face when they talked about their passions.
I loved with all my heart, from the darker corners, so nobody knew.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone came to hang their accomplishments on, I was the board that made everyone feel amazing and special, ignoring the stab of the pin and the hurt it caused when they put it on me.
I was a bulletin board, one where everyone looked at and felt motivated, one some would use for comparison, one that was always there, never changing, always being poked with new pins from all these wonderful people.
I was a bulletin board up until there came a day where everyone left, no one came poking and showing their pride, no one came to boast about their works. I was left and abandoned.
It was that day that I ripped them all off of me, hearing the tears and the echoes of the falling pins on the floor, feeling the tears that had fell from my eyes when I squeaked and rattled trying to break free from the wall, I was not a bulletin board anymore, I was a person with hopes and dreams.
And yet the pin holes never mended, they all sat gaping, never closing up, n filled.
The day I turned human my insecurities broke me apart, I was left a disfigured body and a deformed spirit.
Oh how I wish I could go back to being a bulletin board.
Just a little something that I wrote while feeling emotional
117 · Dec 2018
A Dec 2018
I’ve come to learn that I cannot pray
With a full heart that’s devoted, unsuspecting of faith.
And I’ve learned to accept that god might have mercy
But he also has wrath
And that’s what I see mostly.

Wars and death surround us so profoundly and yet we just pray harder
so we can sleep soundly

Uncertainty is deadly
I’m sadly inclined to believe so
At least in this place
Where it’s wrong to show ankle& toe.
Or have weak faith be the reason or your woes
Maybe God’s anger is why you’re not good at this and that
It’s also why you can’t find your ‘perfect’ match
Because your heart is tainted, and your mind too aware so they never fancy you as a ‘catch’
You’re not porcelain doll either, you’re full of scar and scratch
so start praying harder dear (there’s no future with Gyllenhaal or Cumberbatch)
and so you’re expected to bloom before you even hatch
because nothing matters more than finding a match
Or else you’d grow old and be trapped
with lonesome that kills and a reality that slaps.
“that’s what God intended”
Is what I’m forced to believe
so I can pray harder
and never have time to grieve

why would god mind if I *******
Or participate in a heated debate
About his existence (whether it’s real or fake)
And why he causes all this heartache
Because yet again
All I see is death and wrath
and sometimes I drown myself in a bath
To escape all I’ve come to hate
About this place and how people tell me my fate
Because anything different would make the Lord angry
Like raising your voice
Or acting ‘manly’

So When will he shed light
And make a child of war’s smile somewhat bright
Because he abandoned them
Or so it seems
I guess he’s too caught up with my wildest dreams
& the length of my jeans.
109 · Sep 2019
A Sep 2019
it’s almost never ending yet I know it will come to an end
if its tangible it’s temporary yet I can never seem to mend
no matter how many nights I spend
with liquid pleas running down my cheeks
trying to inspire myself to be one that gets up & seeks
Yet I am lost in the middle
Life to me is just a complex riddle.
Times running out and I’m getting older yet I gain no value when my life fits into a folder
all my days are caged
All my smiles are staged
All my misery is contained yet it escapes sometimes
Hitting me as a strong wind hits its chimes

My sadness is unbearable yet I’ve not committed a crime
Why am I sentenced to fade into my blues until the end of time?
very raw and unedited yet life has been overwhelmingly closed to me & this is what I came up with to convey and escape. Hope you like it.
105 · Apr 2019
candle wax
A Apr 2019
I turned eighteen thinking I won't make it that far.
I'm not proud that I did because life is becoming serious.
I cannot see a future for myself beyond a grave,
I can't help but think that that's all 'm destined for.
Why do I keep lying to myself then?
clinging on to the dead hope of a better life someday
how many candles do I have to blow with closed eyes?
wishing I could rewind my youth to stargazing and parties and freedom
not looking from sidelines at what others enjoy
can I, for once, feel real change?
nothing half assed or false promises,
for I feel like my life has been getting by on that
But it's not enough anymore.

I loathe crawling into bed everyday wishing I had a life beside my own
one where I feel content and complete instead of broken and torn
my words disgust me now I'm afraid
I can't seem to get them out how I want to anymore
to tell you the truth i feel like I strayed
from the only road that led me towards expression

now I'm stuck in my head under the roof of my room
wishing my depression away with saltly tears for it is my doom.
im sorry i ****
86 · Dec 2018
uncertain farewell
A Dec 2018
I look at my dad and I know that he loves me in his own twisted, conditional way. I can’t help but refuse the love he gives for it is not true but can’t help but yearn for it at the same time.
You see, I’ve never been loved so I wouldn’t know how it feels.
And that goes for everyone I know as well.
We grow up and look and wish we were born somewhere different, somewhere less suffocating, somewhere we can love and feel freedom without lingering fears of getting caught.
Somewhere where our existence isn’t a sin.
Glimpses of said freedom is what makes us happy but at the end of each night we go back home and reality creeps in. We feel so trapped and restricted and all we can seem to do about it is cry.
We grow depressed, we dream of a day where our parents accept us. (For me it’s just the day that I leave this place)
I want to leave this place
I want to go and see the world and wear whatever and speak my mind
I want to feel as I am my own person
And yet I can never leave
And so all I can do is **** myself
Life’s a dead end anyway
I can’t seem to grow the ***** to take it back
And yet it hurts me immensely that it is in the hands of my father
In the hands of society
In the hands of family members and everyone else
Just because I was born with a ******* ******.
and so I will take my life someday
Not tomorrow or next week
But someday when I am brave enough and weak
maybe then my life will reach its peak?
I know for certain that even when I leave people will still speak.
i still can’t say goodbye even when I have nothing else to say
So until I finally do it
I’ll smile at you and tell you to have a good day.
I don’t know anymore
65 · Nov 2019
My House Has a Garden
A Nov 2019
My house has a garden I try to tame
I must’ve forgotten when I turned insane

I say my goodbyes everyday in case I honor them
I am a flower of youth yet I’m breaking at the stem

oceans are on a rise
Thats hope for a fast demise
Clinging to the thought of the end due to the melting of ice
Isn’t it comical?
At least it is to me
I will die with no chronicle
One of plenty fish in the sea

I’ll dance on fire
Let the embers burn and hurt
The soles of my feet are tired  
& blood is soaking through my shirt

A revolution is here! Hold your head up high!
The time has gone where all you do is sit and sigh
you will never know unless you try!
I attempt to join but this land ****** me dry
building dreams like a house of cards
Blaming you for them falling apart

My house has a garden that I’m trying to tame
I must’ve forgotten when I went insane
Inspired by recent events. I am not passionate about anything anymore so I apologize for the quality of this. I just wanted to let things out.
60 · Feb 11
To Be Happy
A Feb 11
Happiness is foreign
Dare I say bleak?
The path to it is harsh
The climb to it steep
A taste of it makes me worried
Fragile that it makes me unwell
I wish I could live without sadness
I wish I could be sound and swell

It’s a feeling simmering above my chest
Buzzing with optimism for the unknown
Knowing that it burns out quickly
Keeps me alert for what is shown
I’m starting to think of sadness as a clutch
Without it,  I won’t amount to much
and with that fizzled happiness inevitably gone
I will remain empty and hollow
with a bitter revelation;
“Happiness is nothing but a con.”
wrote this a while ago. Think I’ve lost all potential I had in writing. I am very empty and lost.
39 · Dec 2019
A Dec 2019
I’m scared of falling
off a bike
In an ice rink
And in the arms of a stranger

Would it take so much out of me to finally surrender to the ways of the heart?
I’d hate to go into a field blindfolded and come back with pieces missing.

Should I hug myself tighter to hold my broken pieces together? Or let the arms of another hold me to let them breathe
Would I loose too much of myself when I’m at ease?
Because happiness is short-lived. It’s bound to end.
will it be worth it when I’m left with a broken heart to mend?

I go round & round
The clock ticks on
I’m none the wiser
These questions make me want to test the waters
Or try the appetizer

For I have never known what love is
And I don’t think I ever will
I guess I’m back to bottling things up
forgetting to close the lid
32 · Nov 2019
Dear Aysha,
A Nov 2019
Things aren’t looking so great. I’m sorry you can’t change your fate. I’m sorry you hold a lot at stake. I’m sorry that you don’t seem to catch a break. I’m sorry to say that you don’t have what it takes to be alive.
I’m sorry that all you have to keep you going is the guilt of causing grief to the ones you love.
I’m sorry that all that you seem to do is lose.
I don’t know what will become of you in six years time. Quite frankly, I don’t see you living to see them. You have no consolation but a dear friend who’s just the same as you, you want to give her the world yet you can’t manage to lift a finger. You’ve lived to see another winter, you’ve lived to see 18. I think that’s more than enough, don’t you?
Time is a loop of events that keep reoccurring, not necessarily the same but they all make you feel the same hopelessness, desperation, and misery.
I’d love to see you yearning to live, not hanging to a hope of dying everyday.
Maybe that day will never come,
The light at the end doesn’t feel real.
I’m sorry that you still don’t have a proper way to cope and deal.
You hate to see yourself this weak and you often wish that were made of steel.
So life could cause you no wounds,
And you wouldn’t have to feel pain to heal.  
Be good, be kind, if you live to see this in a few years time.
But if you don’t then that’s okay, because heaven knows how hard you tried to be fine.
28 · Dec 2019
A Dec 2019
Air is overwhelming
when I try so hard to breathe
With not so much as a warning
My life’s passed me by like a sneeze

for the life of me I can’t remember
a time where I was at ease
A time where I lived for myself
not people I’m trying to please

I am a vessel
Empty and hollow
& it seems I’ve run out of tears
Why is it so hard to think of tomorrow?
Why can’t I just shift the gears?

I’m hitting walls left and right
My blood is warm
I’m out of sight
Isn’t it weird how it’s always bright?
When you’re drowning in your deepest sorrows.

— The End —