Good,
evening, morning, or afternoon-
all poets and writers.
I have some news.

After camp I have recently been really struggling with A-LOT of my physical and mental health issues. (I also have to attend more appointments, and get more extensive exams-for better test results-)

I am really ill, in lots of pain, and need some time to recover.
ALL dates including those of the “Sea Blazer” is postponed until further notice. I WILL still write…I just…I can’t do what was intended, with how much Im hurting.

Hopefully you all understand, please help support me as I fight through this. thanks for all your support so far.

Love- Your writer:
Olivia
Willams.

Hit the breaks, no room for mistakes,
feeling like the world's about to quake.
Caught between the choices I've made,
lost in stormy weather on an abandoned lake.

No directions— no clear route to take,
so many choices — afraid which to make.

Poems DON’T bloom—
They rupture.
They ignite,
Like a fire in your soul,
Waiting to explode,
Like gasoline in a burning room.

Poems
Are those
Who land deeper than the largest crevasse—
Those that leave you glaring,
Wide—unblinking eyes.

Waiting for the next punch
To your heart,
Like music crashing into your body
When you have the volume too loud.

Poems are meant to claw,
To rip,
Open your ribcage,
To smear
Your blood—pain—EVERYTHING
In front of you,
To show you it’s okay
For ALL to exist;
To trick
Your heart
To love,
Hate,
To turn fear
Into fate.

There are supposed to drip blood
In words that were NEVER meant to be said.

Every line,
Something I couldn’t bellow,
So I sharpened
My words like a knife,
Till my words bled
Blood—
I could never give back.

I LIVE for blood,
I LIVE for pain.
I LIVE for the world to not
Care
What it’s left for me,
What the world’s done to let me decay.

Each verse of silence,
Each verse of pain,
Each verse of anger,
Of shame,
Or hate,
Of love,
IS YEARS
OF SWALLOWING
MY OWN BLOOD.

YEARS.
OF HATING MYSELF.
YEARS.
OF NOT TRUSTING ANYONE
Who said…
“I’m here,”
“I’ll listen,”
“I’ll help.”

LET THAT BURN.

YEARS.
OF PAIN.
YEARS.
OF SHAME,
FOR WHAT THEY DID,
FOR HOW THE WORLD
TAUGHT ME WRONG.

You call my poems BRAVE!?
…THEIR SURVIVAL.
THEIR BLOOD.
I WAS NEVER
ABLE TO PUT BACK
IN MY BODY.

Poems are my baggage;
Each weighs—
A ton.

What is a poem?
A POEM?
It’s the moment before you scream,
When you realize you can’t say
What’s digging into your mind.
It’s rhyming stanzas
Disguised as hatred.
It’s love
Dressed as rhythm.
It’s pain
Hidden
As syllables,
Each word—my teeth.

Poems are MEANT
To be messy,
MEANT
To be ugly,
MEANT
TO LIVE—

Even when others
Think they shouldn’t have ever
Lived that long,
When you’re told to leave it in your head.

You want a Poem?
SIT in my blood.
I’LL sit in yours.
I’ll comfort you,
If you do the same.
I’ll be there in your brightness,
And in your darkness,
With the faint glow of the candle
To illuminate
Your shattered
Ship.

Writing is a freedom;
It’s everything
Anyone could need.

A poem doesn’t need to be perfect—
…just…let it be you.

THAT’S what a poem is MEANT
To do.

I tried to follow the map,
It was a trap.
It soon vanished,
I have a clue.

If it’s who I think it is.
They’re coming back soon.  

Each winding turn,
Every breath burned.
Each demon,

The blood,
Visions.
All flooding.
My brain.

Each turn.
A major mistake.
I wish I could fix,
My head.
I can’t even go to bed.

The hallucinations,
Each time.
My brain is tricking me,
I know it’s true.

How long can I last?
Before I collapse?

There after me,
All day,
Every day,
Im never free.

Struggling-
They silence me,
With words.
Claiming Im trouble,
Claiming I’ll never be enough,
Claiming Im not tough enough.

They stole me map,
A bit ago,
Like a had suspected before.
Im losing my way,
The path,
No longer paved.
The road signs,
Lost in mist.
They programmed,
In place.
Like they ceased to exist.

For now— to stay alive,
I obey.
If I don’t,
They’ll surely come back,
Another day,  
To make sure I decay.

This spiral im in,
Each wave that comes,
I just need to wait
For the meds—
To make me numb.

Blood is red,
Roses are dying,
Everything hurts.

Pain amping up,
So now—
I’m sitting here,
Crying.

So many wounds— open scars,
Why didn’t I stand up for myself?
—have them put behind bars?

I carry a storm,
In the pocket of my shirt.
A restless demon,
Clawing.
Ripping.
Shredding.
My body apart,
From the inside out.
Shattering bones,
Through every breath.
The taste of blood,
Of acid,
Is all I know.
Thunder in my mind,
And voices,
Is all that bombards,
My brain.
My hallucinations.
Develop,
I was told I'm faking,
But I'm not fine.
The demos echo,
They yell,
In that shrill voice,
I know all too well.
These echos send,
Alarms like a bell.
My heart is shattered glass,
Like a mirror,
Laying on the floor.
Cutting deeper,
With each bolt,
That sends waves into my body.
I wear this weight.
Like a second skin.
That’s underneath,
Hiding what’s within.
I struggle—I fight everyday.
What you don’t see,
Is what goes on,
Day to day.
The vomiting.
The pain.
The nausea.
The shame.
The anemia.
The dizziness.
The fighting for life,
It’s a lot of chores.
To stay alive— is a battle,
My body forces me to ride,
Like a roller coaster.
This fight in my pocket,
Is a storm brewing out of control
Who knows?
When my body,
Will hit a pole.
This storm,
Is making me lose myself,
More.

Long nights
roads are steep
I still fight
Even when I sleep

Even though pain hurts and I groan
I keep fighting
Never standing alone

I keep falling
But I still stand
No matter how rocky things get
On any type of land

Any type of hope
In any place
I still try to keep
A smile on my face

No matter how tough the trail gets
I still try
My very best

Bottled up feelings  
In the ocean tide
A little bottle
Riding the oceans
Falls and rises
It’s motions—
Rapid and fierce
Like a lion on the loose
The wave makes moves
Prieces like a knife
In the raging waves
Bottled up inside my Brain
Is all there hang onto everything that hurts
Till the waves knock me out
And I collapseright-then-and-there
Everything is all bottled up
Forever and always
Stuck in that little glass bottle
Stuck in those waves
I'll always be stuck
Left to decay--
In my own world
When I was betrayed

White brick,
Metal chains.
Locked In,
So afraid.

Metal clinking,
against concrete.
No escape.
Locked in,
It’s fate.

A small cot,
Made of wood.
In the corner,
White concrete floor,
I shuffle my feet,
Towards the door.

I gave up screaming,
long ago.
I gave up because—
No one could hear me,
Yell.
So now I sink low—
To the concrete,
And look out,
But all I see,
Is more white walls,
So know I doubt myself.

The metal chain,
Weighing me down,
Like a brick.

A chain of—
Regret.
Shame.
Pain.
Sadness.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Anger.

I’m stuck in this,
walled concrete cell.
With thick metal-
Bars
Metal chains,
Weighing me down,
Forming deep scars.
From those already there.

This room,
I’m trapped.
It has always lasted,
I’m stuck here,
Always tested.

I hope one day.
I’ll break the chains.
But Im still stuck,
Attached to this wall,
In this cage,
In this room,
Debating if I can ever change.

They warned me,
Life was unforgivable.

They warned me,
Life hurts.

They warned me,
I shouldn’t expect perfection.

They warned me,
I have to be stronger,
Than others actions or words.

They warned,
and warned me some more,
Everyday.
THAT day i decayed,
In silence.

I NEVER expected,
the world could hurt,
As much as I was told.
Those warnings,
Are so much more.
My limits were tested,
Far out of the shore.  

It’s most Important to head,
Warnings when they come.
Now Im on the run,
From life’s worst nightmares,
That send boulders,
tumbling down my path.

Im forever lost in regret,
Low self esteem,
Health conditions,
cluelessness,
Mixed with dreams.

I hope one day,
I’ll be someone great,
But Im lost for-now.

Even though,
They warned me,
Life would hurt.

I didn’t follow,
What they warned me.

I fight the nightmares,
Each night.
Sleep comes and goes,
Like a streetlight.

Writing is my true escape,
Once a lightbulb goes off,
I chase these thoughts in my head,
When I can't seem,
to go to bed.

Late nights,
Faint yellow glow,
Of my nightlight,
On my little wooden table.  
Soft Grey pj's,
Seeming to sink,
In my weight.
All these thoughts,
They link,
Making these poems,
Late at night,
I have no fright.

For--
Once I write,
I feel free.
Finally light enough,
To breath.

Finally free enough,
To fly.
Not scared.
Not anxious.
Not sad.
Not mad.
All things let loose.

the faint glow,
Turns dark.
The noise,
Slows.
And sleep comes,
And then it repeats,
As night turns to day,
sleep goes.