8 billion people in the world—
and here i am drowning in an infinity pool of self-pity.
i tell myself one day i will stop.
swim back towards the edge, gasping for breath, a new life to transform into.
and here i am drowning in an infinity pool of self pity.
The world is too heavy on my shoulders
sometimes, all you can do is feel small.
breath held, for the slightest exhale could be of the wrong tone—
silence speaks louder than words, so, silence.
but even that— sometimes too sweet on the tongue, too many tablespoons of sugar.
silence too sweet like sugar cane stinging the back of your throat.
Sometimes, I don’t have enough words to speak
i never got to love him—
i never got to love the man who would cause a botanical garden to grow in my stomach.
vines to grow throughout my lungs until flowers sprouted from my lips.
the thorns grew thick and wrapped around my vocal cords.
that’s why when you left i couldn’t speak,
i couldn’t say anything to make you stay.
therefore, i picked all the flowers, softly from my lips,
as a final farewell—
a few daisies to remember me by.
i haven’t posted on here in forever. but here is another poem on my never ending pain
It helps me feel better about myself by putting my emotions into terms that everyone will understand, for example:
My life is like a joke with no punchline.
Maybe more like I’m telling the joke, and I forgot the punchline,
so now we’re both sitting here awkwardly trying not to feel too bad for me.
It probably wasn’t even that funny anyway.
My life is like a poorly written sitcom that only lasted for a season because no one could emotionally connect with the main character.
Almost like there was no budget—
And it’s just me, sitting in front of a camera screaming.
My life is like going to get a steak and cheese, hold the mushrooms, and not only are there mushrooms, but they’re cooked into the meat so you can’t even take them out.
Alright, maybe my life isn’t that bad.
I don’t know how to say that I can’t get up in the morning.
That I am Jesus, my demons are his disciples, and this bed my cross— I am nailed to it.
Instead I tell you that everyday feels like a Monday, even the weekends.
I’m not great at anything, but if I was to pick my biggest accomplishment,
it would be that no one knows when I’m joking anymore.
I just hope that when it’s my time to go, i’ll be forgiven for making it so hard to know me.
sometimes i feel like a piece of paper on fire.
small smoke signal calling for help,
until i’m a burnt,
pile of nothing.
i haven’t posted anything in a while so here’s this **** poem
i look up at the night sky,
i see armageddon in the clouds.
and all i can wonder-
is the world is ending
or is it just me.
I've always known
That I'd die in a car accident
And beneath the
Silent flicks of lightning
A plaster sealed sky,
The world stood still,
Molded out of clay
And gasping for air
Like a drizzled flower petal
Suspended in time,
For a moment so fleeting
It nearly escaped me,
I hoped some drunken
Would smash right into me,
For once not because of the
Complexity and dismemberment of it all,
But because I was okay with dying
In some moment where it all made sense.