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Ivy Swolf May 2015
It's exhausting being us. Half-lidded
eyes that reflect the darkness
between stars, impedimented acceptance
of where you are in life. Our adventures
are painful pursuits to locate
authenticity in a filtered world that
seems ugly every other day.

We move through life like a slow exhale
of smoke, hurt gathering inside our chests
lasting for months and years. This bitterness,
it burns. But we don't stop because
watching ourselves bleed is just another form
of living.

Life can be so full that it almost
bursts, or it can be depleted as a
vacuum ******* your epiphanies and
inspiration out of your body until
you explode in
self-doubt. You and I, we don't have
time for false apologies
at the rate of our inconsequential
breathing. We are not red-flags
in our own eyes, we are just
impatient for self love
to finally have a meaning.
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
Kiss the calamity on my lips
and leave your imprint of
atrophy like a stain on my skin.
What is really a love poem
but bits of broken words
you said in your sleep?

I hear music in the distance
that sounds like things I cannot
romanticize with justice. There's
deterioration in the melody, and
with every beat
your heart skips I get a closer look
at the fragments of you that fell apart.
Somethings are just too personal,
like what I daydream about 24/7, or
that fire dancing behind your closed lids
that warms your dreams when
another can't fuel them
physically.

The biggest thing about ourselves we
could hope to have is our
complex. And even that
is pretty small. The ground can't
handle the weight of our hearts
and we're just begging to slip
into the cracks of the
pavements to our proverbial
futures. You always did
connect more to torn and ripped
remains of poems
than fresh handwritten ones, with
evidence of my glistening
fingerprints
all over.

We don't die like stars, you say. We die
like heartache. Real, tangible,
and then just gone.
wrote this in pieces, first sleepily over strong coffee at 5am, then in a brainstorming session at night. had it on a shelf for the past few days because i couldn't think of a title and because i felt it was too unconnected.

enough rambling. thank you for reading, i really really appreciate it. -ivy
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
There are some days when
every encounter becomes a confrontation,
when every incident
feels like an army of arrows
piercing through the shattered remains of your armor.

These are the days where you must teach yourself
to breath deeply all over again,
that your hands weren't always
balled into fists, but that once
held the hand of another.

Sometimes there are days when
you are invisible to affection. You are a ghost
to the ones you crave to love you.
You are withering under a stranger's stare
and ****** you just want to be held
until the cavity in your chest feels warmth again.

You cannot bare to be alone because when
no one's around its easier to decay into
your own sorry nightmare, when all you want
is solitude to override the static in your head.

But just know
it's alright to feel like everything
is just a little too much.
It's alright to unclench your heart
and let your soul spill over
until the air around you is moist
with your tears.
Feel for those
who can't, because
if I could I'd do the same
for you.
tell me what you like, tell me what you don't like, or just say hi.

Ivy.
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
Sometimes time is unfair. When I said hello
the universe only gave me one moment
to express every facet of my soul,
everything I felt
and everything I wanted to feel
because of you.

I will never think of the perfect
thing to say under pressure, maybe
because I'm not clever enough, or because
or I don't know enough vocabulary words,
or because something in me
is lacking.

But even though I only had one moment
to catch your gaze, smile, and greet with
one measly hello
that couldn't possibly
hold all the overflowing
emotions clogged in my
throat, when you smiled
back

and stretched the seams of that moment
a little further

by saying hello in return,
I felt enough.
Dedicated to a stranger I wanted to talk to.
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
You're trying to come to terms with who
you are, but it's difficult when your soul
is a tempest and the wind keeps changing.

Maybe fate is cruel or maybe we are too
optimistic.

Everyday of the week a new door seems to
close right before your eyes; loss pierces every
nerve in your body like clockwork.

Everybody has felt this way one time
or another, they say, you'll get through it, they repeat,
you'll survive. But when the end of the week blends in
with the arrival of the next, you swear that
hopelessness hasn't been everyone's shadow
as long as it's been yours.

And maybe you're right.

You feel so much that it's tearing
apart everything you love. So kiss
your sadness
goodbye
because that is the blessing and the
curse of being you.
i realized that my poems were getting progressively more self-centered and that bothered me because i began focusing too much on things detrimental to positive thinking. phew. so, if you're reading this, and if you are remotely intrigued, i just wanted to say that i'm trying to approach things in a new way. or something.
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
You are not a torn up love letter.
You are just too good for words.

There are some things that can't be boxed
or labelled, actions and feelings so exquisite
that no language could do it justice.

But then you say it.
And I swear its a melody
and I would gladly be wrong
if this is the reward.

I think its unfair that people can only love
so much. They can love and love and love
but their hands turn to smoke
when they try to reach
too far, into the intangible mess of another's soul.

I know most people don't understand
how you can love so terribly like it's a war.

But I do.

And I will be the smoke that kisses your skin
after each battle.
We are all just moments
among the living, but you
are the breath of life
I fight for
even in my dreams.
xIvy
Ivy Swolf Apr 2015
You can taste
the psychosis on my
lips but there's no
guarantee that I will feel it.
There's an umbilical chord
holding me down to ***** reality
and depending on my
perspective
it either looks like a
dog leash or a
noose.

Inject a sedative with a rusty
needle at the end of my
nervous system. I'm immune; there's
misery mixed in with my
white blood cells that swallows
all sense of introspection. When my
soul plummets down like an anchor
and the floating stops
feeling safe, I welcome the chest
pains with open arms. The pins and
needles in my lungs are better
than burning them.

Look through my eyes
and sometimes nothing is real.
Live through my heart and
it hurts like hell when
I'm not drowning in air.
Think with my head and
either you will want to get out,
or it will kick you out.
x
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