hello, my friends. i would love to thank you all for enjoying my writing. A special thank you to Liam, because he always has lovely comments to post. you're all such talented people, and i am honored to read such lovely pieces of writing. i love how we all just come together on a big writing community and blatantly express our emotions within the art we know as writing. yes, i said writing is art. writing is a type of art in which there is no paint, no oil pastel, nothing. the art is in the beholder. keep writing, because we are the hope of the next generation of authors.


m.g.

I'm so scared of so much. Of life, of love. I let this fear get to me and then I end up doing nothing, being nothing. I want to be brave and adventurous and **** and carefree and while I may be able to pretend, I'm not really. I'm not any of those things and I hate it. I hate myself. I'm trying to better myself. My school attendance has gone up, I've been cleaning, I think I got the job I interviewed for. It's not enough. That's the problem. I push myself so much that I'll never be good enough. I'll never pass the bar, cross the finish line. And the sad thing is, I think I like it that way. It's not that I don't want to be an A+ human being, it's that I know I don't deserve to be one. And so everything is only okay. Sure, I cleaned the house last night, but eww, look at that. Such a **** up. Wow, you got 2 hearts on that poem. And you call yourself a writer. Wannabe loser. Didn't go to school today? How do you ever expect to go to college? Failure, dumb, *****, ****. I don't even know how I would deal if I loved instead of hated myself. I think that's why I date losers. They magnify the fact that I'm worthless, not good enough. It's terrible, but it's my life and that's that. But doesn't it make me mediocre for not trying harder to change it? And if I do try and change then I don't make it good enough. It's a cycle.

And I wanted revenge
something to make you feel
every ounce of pain you put me
through
and now here we are
you're falling apart
and that's when I realized
this isn't
what I wanted

Her face wears anger, daring you
to look into her eyes and offer “hello”
the only things left to lift her to standing
are guilt and tears held in place daily
by repeated phone calls to her children

Neighbors are uncertain what to say
everything changed when her husband died
tinnitus of lonely continually ring
guilty for feeling angry that he left her
she always drinks alone now

I brought her some dinner on cafeteria china
unbreaded fish that she wanted for lent
She thinks people are laughing at her.
her eyes are brown and mostly terrified
crying out for someone to see her

Standing there, in her soft, white sweater
head drenched in tears and apologies
anger exchanged for compassion
I hugged her tightly for a good long time
so she would know that I meant it

This, like you, is made only for 3:37am.
Not 3:36—not 3:38.
This costly minute
which slips under my tongue
and into my bloodstream.

It took only a minute.
It took only a minute.

Disappointing you
as only you can see me through
is the only thing I'm mildly good at
I hope if you think of me, you forget that
so I take this razor to my skin
I let myself feel the sting
regretfully, I let this blade
dance it's way across my wrist
my worries start to fade
finally, I have my fix.
in love, in lust, in hate
it carves a phrase
**** up
is what it reads
dear god I miss the old me
the one who would never harm herself
the one who was not a living hell
the one who would never punish a child
for the way her body was defiled
something that was out of her control
but she refuses to let go
so now she falls to her knees
as her every emotion bleeds
from every gaping hole in her body
her tears sting her arm so harshly
for as she loses her will to fight
an angel goes back to heaven tonight.