the past is fading
the future is grey
i am condemned to live in the present
too cowardly to pass on
we met at a gas station
but our spark
set the whole world on fire
and after i was scorched and spent
you doused yourself
and slinked away like water
And there it is.
Bubbling, broiling, red-hot rage buried below the surface.
It feels like magma in the pit of my stomach. It bursts and breaks, a tsunami encompassing my Isle.
No longer can I separate the self from the sea. No longer can I keep my head above the magma. No longer can I breathe my precious, stoic oxygen.
It rears its ugly head and I, perhaps missing the monster, dive willingly, confidently into it.
I hope you think of my lips when you kiss hers. I hope you see my chestnut brown in her sapphire blues. I hope you moan my name every time she tastes your nectar.
I like to write in free verse,
And my poems don't have much rhythm
I don't know iambic pentameter
And I don't really think about structure
I change my metre rapidly
Because I like to throw people off in
It'll make them think about
What the words mean
Instead of about the restrictions
I often decide not to rhyme my words
Because "love, my pure dove" is less genuine
Than "love is my poison"
Or "love is my jailer".
I know I won't get high grades for my art,
And I know I won't be very famous
But I don't care about likes or biographies
I care about writing my truth.
Dissonance is poetry too.
arcane antarctic anarchists autonomously attack anticlimactic antichrists
bewitching birdies belie broken bottles before bionic butlers begin breaking bath bombs
countless courtly cutthroat cockroaches' contemporary cash cows cause cutaneous cuts
digital destruction delete drab dairy dishes desperately digging down dire doorways
eerie eels eagerly enter erstwhile extant exhibits exemplifying excellent echoes
freaky fairies frustrate foreclosures for folks found furiously fighting fanciful fortifications
glorious gift-giver gaia glues grinning gaunt governors graciously, gunlike, glinting
haunting hellholes horrifically hang humans headways helping herald hera's hunt
intensely iconic imaginary intelligences interfering in immortal illnesses irritate irate inkers
jumping jakartan jailers joyously judge jammy jurassic jokers just joining june
kooky kakistocracies keep kiting kosher kindness, kalashnikovs killing kashmir kids
loose lost lovers look like lustrous lustful lemmings left luxuriously lake-locked
monstrous manatees merrily massacre murderous marching mailmen
necrophillic neverland nervously nets new newts, noxiously nabbing nieces
octagonal osprey offer ochre oceans offensive office offal over occasional oak oars
perfect plastic people precociously percolate perfume parties, perfectly pocketing potentially picked pennies
queer quotations quietly qualify quintessential queenly queries, quickly questioning quashed quests
rusty rehabilitated rentals rove russia, resting roughly round rocky road remnants
satanic siren secretaries softly surround sacrilegious sermons set somewhere special
tessellated tiles terribly terminate timely tweaked tokens, taking tidy torqued towers
ukrainian usurpers uproot uncomfortably undermined ulcerated ushers
vocational verifications veil violated violet, vying versus victory voters' versace venom
westerly worms wax while we wane, watching worlds' witch wars waste wanted wishes
x-ray xylophones X xerox xanax xenophobes, xenox xylitol xennials' xylems
yesterday's yellow yanks' yaks yearningly yawn yearlong, york's youngest yeoman yelps
zealous zyzzyvas' zombie zeal zigzag zinc zephyr zones, zygote zeniths' zoological ziggurats
This is a weird one.
People always tell me that my scars are beautiful. Or that they're proof I've pulled through. Or that they're so gorgeous that I should write a poem about them.
There's nothing poetic about hurting yourself. I sliced into my arm with a ******* push-pin because I had no other blade. I've cut with ***** pieces of glass before and narrowly avoided infection. I'm addicted to cutting because I'm so desperate for endorphins and I've become so emotionless and cold that nothing else gives me them anymore.
So stop. Telling me. Self-mutilation. Is pretty. Scars are nothing more than evidence of my disgusting addiction and lapse in willpower.
Whatever it's not a poem I just needed to discuss this
I mean, yeah, I cut myself, but it's not serious enough to hospitalise me.
And yeah, I hate myself, but I don't cut myself because of that so it's whatever.
And yeah, I get dysphoric sometimes but it doesn't happen very often so it's not that big of an issue.
And yeah, I get anxious every time I interact with other people but they're just nerves and I can manage them.
And yeah, I used to feel completely, utterly, hopelessly lonely but the pills stop those feelings happening as often so it's fine now.
And yeah, I wrote a suicide note once but I immediately scrunched it up and threw it away so it's gone now.
And yeah, sometimes I think about dying, but my stepbrother killed himself last year and I've seen how much it affected my family so I'm not going to make them suffer all over again.
So it's whatever. It's not that big a deal.
We haven't spoken in a long time.
Forgive me. I isolate too much.
I've been sick. I'm still sick. I'm going to be sick for a while.
But that's okay. I have hope that it won't last forever. Eventually I'll find something that works. One day I'll leave this self-imposed quarantine.
I apologise. I'm oversharing again. You always told me I did that too much.
How have you been? Did you get that degree? Have you travelled to Japan like you said you would? Did you learn to play the drums?
Have you fixed your relationship with your parents? Did you finally forgive them? Have you kept in contact with your sisters? Your school friends?
And have you solidified your identity? It's hard. The hardest challenge I've ever faced. If I can't do it, you must. Or else you will be miserable for the rest of your life.
But you must not close yourself off like before. You don't have to hide your emotions. To master them, you have to let them consume you and then climb out of the abyss.
You're strong. You can do it. I believe in you.
Write back to me. Let me know if you're happy. I hope, for both of our sakes, that you are.
To be opened 7 January 2029.
thaw my soul, moonshine
tease the fervor from my veins
ignite my spent wick
thaw my soul, moon girl
tease the fervor from my veins
ignite my spent wick
please help me
You pull at my soul
Like the moon
Pulls at the ocean.
Your gravity whips
My calm seas
Into furious tides.
Your glowing form
Guides me towards
I need you.
Stay with me forever.
I hope the sun never rises.
She makes me feel like a real person.
Everything is black
Til I bare and chuck it back
Then the colours intertwine
Body aching all the time
Know it just ain't right
But I must control my height
'fore I see space shifting fast
Not my first time, not my last
Bumped into my sister
And I told her that I missed her
Face that shifted, now a danger
Oh no! Looks like it's a stranger
You know I
Lashed the sun again
Saw a chunk come off and then
With the colours back once more
Placed the darkness in a drawer
1:29 PM WAKING UP
1:35 PM INSPIRED
1:36 PM EXHAUSTED
1:39 PM EXCITED
1:45 PM EMPTY
1:47 PM ANXIOUS
1:52 PM NERVOUS
1:59 PM NOTHING
2:03 PM ASHAMED
2:04 PM TIRED
3:27 PM NOTHING
4:05 PM DISAPPOINTED
4:28 PM IRRITATED
6:08 PM SAD ???
6:33 PM BORED
8:16 PM AMUSED
9:48 PM NOTHING
1:45 AM TIRED
3:19 AM GOING TO SLEEP
everywhere I go I see broken things.
i can't bear it.
god, i can't bear it.
i feel it burning in my blood.
i hear it screaming in my head.
i see it scribbled in my notebooks.
i exist to help others.
i need to.
they say everyone has a purpose.
i know mine.
i'm already broken beyond repair.
but that doesn't mean i can't fix anyone else.
So many people are broken. So many. I just want to help as many people as I can. Desperately.
I am stained with your colour;
Royal purple and blinding white.
I am smothered by your scent;
Marlboro cigarettes and cheap alcohol.
I am lost in your words;
Mellifluous syllables and sage proverbs.
You must be a sorcerer, for I have been bewitched.
You roam through my mind, casting hexes as you go;
I see you walk with that charming little gait of yours.
The memory of your face is hypnotising, infatuating;
Perhaps I have been cursed, but I hope this necromancy lasts forever.
Did I make the right choice?
About things I know
Numbers and mathematics but
People don't like maths
Sometimes I start to write
Before I know what to write about.
Ideas flash through my head like lightning
And I'm always too slow to catch them, but
I'm often left with a strange sense of sorrow.
Is it the idea, or the idea that I lost the idea?
I don't know.
I don't know.
angsty extended metaphor or me just rambling? you decide
How softly the leaves fall from on high
Only to slump woefully on the frozen dirt
How gracefully the sun sets
To cruelly envelop the world in ruthless gloom
How happily snowbells bloom
To selfishly die on the loving eve of spring.
WE WILL NOT FORGET YOU
There's poetry in scars.
Do not romanticise them, they do not deserve such compliments, but
There's a story there.
Often I stare at my own and I remember
What it was that drove me to put them there
What forced me to guitily indulge in my habit.
Scars fade but they never disappear.
They're a melancholy reminder of my narrative.
They are the promise of a sequel.
On the 1st of February, I learned that
My stepbrother committed suicide during the previous night.
It is currently the 3rd of February, and
I'm still in shock. He was just 22.
I wish I could have helped you when you were alive,
But even pills and therapy weren't enough.
We knew you were struggling, but we didn't
Realise how bad it was until it was too late.
I can't process what happened without writing it down.
I feel like I'm in a dream.
I think I'll feel this way for a long time.
But that's okay. We all have different ways of coping.
Time still unwaveringly, furiously, steadily treks on.
It makes sense. Your death means nothing to the businessman on a different continent
But still it feels
One day we'll come to terms with your death.
One day life will feel normal again.
We will deal with it accordingly.
But it will take some time.
We love you, Aaron. We'll think of you every time we close our eyes.
In loving memory of Aaron James Bowman, 1995-2018. You left us too soon. I hope you're in a better place now buddy.
While the sun ascends, she sleeps.
While the sky becomes tinged with orange, she dozes.
While the world fills with the chatter of a new day, she rests.
Quietly existing beyond the grasp of the day,
Contemplative in the isolation.
You will find her scribbling thoughts into her notebook at 1am,
Taking a walk at 3am,
Mouthing the lyrics to her favourite songs at 5am.
But the thoughts are of suicide,
The walk a distraction,
The lyrics a bulwark against the rope.
There is little poetic about the realities of mental illness. Don't romanticise it.
It wasn't the course material, I understand it still,
But I'm having frightening thoughts about ropes and knives and pills.
Counselling doesn't mitigate my anxiety or depression,
Although I've been to many different appointments in succession.
I've driven away my friends by withdrawing into myself,
I've lost half my teenage years, forgotten like the books upon my shelf.
I remember writing fiction, creating lands of mirror-men,
Today I can't imagine any unique storylines to pen.
I'm just a useless ******* dropout and that's all I'll ever be,
I used to get straight A's and now I barely scrape a C.
Eh. Infantile rhyming scheme but the content of the poem is more important than its structure.
How do you feel?*
Sad, I guess.
How sad, exactly?
I'm not quite understanding the way you feel. Could you elaborate?
On a scale of 1-10, I'd say I'm around 4 most of the time.
I see. Where would you like to be?
7, or 8 maybe.
Interesting. Have you ever heard of the word "alexithymia"?
It means you have an inability to identify and describe emotions in yourself.
Alexithymic people are often very logical, and are sometimes described as unempathic. Have you experienced any of this?
Yes. To the word.
You should look into it some more.
I definitely will.
Not really a poem. This is a conversation I had with my counsellor. I finally have a word to describe myself other than "sad" or "mediocre". It was such a relief to discover there was a word for it. I absolutely think I'm alexithymic.
What makes you happy?
Recently I've been struggling to work that out.
I don't feel happy very often anymore.
Just sad and anxious.
Just a plateau.
She has been for a while now.
Sometimes she forgets things she shouldn't.
Or she thinks too much about death.
But she's just tired.
She's staying inside more often.
She hasn't met her friends for days.
She gets a little sad sometimes.
Maybe she should text them.
But she has a lot of homework.
She can't concentrate.
She tries revising but remembers nothing.
Her grades are getting worse.
She's trying as hard as she can.
But she's just tired.
My niece told me to tell her a happy story,
But I don't have many of those.
˚ ✷ ✷ ✵
. I ⋆
˚ . ·
· . * ✹ ·
* wish .
* · +
* I *
✵ ˚ ✧
˚ ✵ knew ✺ .
. ⊹ ✵ * · ·
· + · ✧
· . * how
· ⊹ ✹ ·
✹ · · *
✫ · . to ⊹
˚ + · ⋆ . ✺ ✦
✧ . *
· ✺ ˚ ✺
✹ make ˚ ·
* ✹ ˚ you ·· .
✹ . ˚ ˚ * *
✧ ✹ ˚ . feel . *
· . .
· ⊹ · ✵ ˚
. ˚ .
˚ * . . ˚
I wrote a poem today.
I mean, it was at midnight and it was about depression, but
At least I'm writing again.
You see I haven't done this in 4 years.
I told myself I don't have the time and I'd get back into it eventually, but
It never happened.
I used to be able to publish multi-chapter prose in a month.
I know it wasn't the best, but
I enjoyed doing it.
Now I can't find the words.
I normally don't get emotional, but
I cried about it last week.
My depression ruined me.
I tell myself that I'm more than my mental illness, but
This ****** poem took me an hour to write.
I wish I could be awake 24/7
Just to be there for you when you need me.
I've slept through your crises twice now
And I can't imagine
You rightly feel.
I wish I could be awake 24/7, because
You deserve the world and I've given you nothing.
I see sunlight streaming through my curtains.
Specks of dust dance in the glow.
And I'm here, sedentary in my bed.
Why should I get up? It's cold outside.
I hear the hustle and bustle of the morning routine outside.
A soft laugh rings out, echoing, echoing, echoing.
I shiver, sitting up in my bed.
Why should I turn the heating on? It's a waste of energy.
Time happily skips along today.
Like a child, innocent and oblivious.
I crawl back under my sheets like a cockroach, resigned.
Why should I go to my lecture now? It's too late.
So I guiltily choose to sleep again.
I don't want another void day.
— The End —