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I don't know how to tell you,
I don't want to disappoint you
I'm depressed Mom
I wish I could say it to your face
Instead of writing it down
I want to be able to tell you
Because
I'm sick of these voices
Inside of my head
Telling me how fat I look
Or how I'm annoying everyone I talk too
But I try to be happy for you
I smile but do you look me in the eyes?
Can't you tell that there's a war going on in my mind?
I know you see my scars
But you don't say anything
why?
I'm slowly killing myself
And I try showing you signs
So when I'm gone
Don't hate me because I didn't tell you
I just loved you too much
To say it out loud
I wish I could tell my mom that I've been contemplating taking my life for 3 years
 Jan 2014 Dakota Pompt
tdf
Sick
 Jan 2014 Dakota Pompt
tdf
So you're sick of me
Do you know what sick is
Did you hear the echo call you back
when you screamed at it to leave
when the reflection in the blade
dared you to lift your sleeve
and you can't talk of fear
when you know its waiting near
the room is getting suffocating
As you choke on your own thoughts
cause nothing here is touching
Except the demons you had caught
You might know what I mean
when I say I deserve to die
Cause you were the one
that made me believe
A grave is the only place I lie
I do not promote emotional blackmail
 Jan 2014 Dakota Pompt
JM Romig
I found the wood knife today
it was shoved in the box
squeezed between the wall and a stack of half-used notebooks.

I grabbed it by its rope-
still strung through the hole in the center of the blade -
played with the wood disks and tiny beads that dangle from both sides.

I held it up by the hilt,
the metal ring clinked against the wood disks - imprisoned.

Grandma made these puzzles out of found objects all the time -
Contrpations that were usually a clever a mess of metal and wood.
All based on designs created before electricity was a thing.
The knife was the sole survivor from a box of flood damaged puzzles
    
Smiling to myself, I held the knife behind my back, in my right hand.

"Sometimes, I wish you never even had kids"
I still recall her words to my mother
as I tip the knife and slip the ring down to the base of the blade
"Write?! Josh that's a hobby! You're twenty, what are you going to do for a living?"

I push one disk through the hole with my thumb
"What if you get this girl your with pregnant? Then what?"
I bring the metal ring up and over the tip of the blade by tilting it downwards.

"If your father had done a better job raising you, we wouldn't be having this talk"
with a flick of my wrist, I fling the metal ring
though the hole and off of the knife.

It's been four years.
I still remember how it goes.
Muscle memory, I guess.
Engrained in my mind from years of practice.

Sometimes I think of her,
and I wonder if I miss her
or if that's just muscle memory too.
 Jan 2014 Dakota Pompt
irinia
I’ve written on a flyleaf: I hate you, mon amour
with hard working passion I hate you.
Ceci n’est pas une pipe, your father have told you.

you’ve been so busy to cut the day off from the night
-quite an old fashion-
and just when the silence evacuates  its void to be the great pretender
perhaps Magritte had dreams about annihilation to compensate a ******
but I was dreaming of you sleeping with lions

I’ve felt your cage – the splitting of now and then into so many suspicions –
unbearable waking hour -  I wake up in the dark and I can see that I love you

when the hour gently subsides to the moon
and I can find no comfort in haunting memories
I pray to the air to touch my lips with your gaze
(for Piedad)

Us being sisters,
Oftentimes gave me the jitters.
I was down here, while you were high up there,
I feared, I would find myself nowhere.

We made our own selfish choices,
Our actions louder than our voices.
I watched you from a distance,
It hurt to just give you a glance.

I felt a wall standing tall between us
In silence, I decided not to fuss...
Then I saw you break free from your balloon,
Reaching for the stars...maybe the moon…….
I prayed, then whispered,  "Go, wherever your stars may lead you
No matter how far, your dreams are long overdue."

Sally


Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
*I bonded with my two sisters last November, and we had a great time..on returning home, I dug through my old journals and found this short poem from long ago,which I wrote for one of them...*

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