Quiet. Sickeningly quiet.
Watching silhouettes pass outside
While the salt dries to the floor at my feet.

Why am I here, waiting?

Dependency. A cruel fate for a young millennial.
In this country, karma means nothing
Ethics are fiction, as I've found out.
Relying on the manipulative rich man.
He's different for everyone.
Where do you get your checks from?

I deleted all of my poems about you
I'm trying to forget the love I had and lost
The act done onto me tore you away from me
And it hurts knowing we both regret everything

I still cry over you.
I still mourn the love we had.
As pure as it was.
I never thought we'd be here.
Though another love has graced me,
I miss your unique touch
And the way you appreciated me.
Mistakes make us.
And break us.
I don't blame you.
I never did.

I can't listen to Van Halen
Or watch more of the shows we binged
Or even eat popcorn
Without thinking of you and everything we had.
Nostalgia plagues me
And keeps me feeling
Even though I shouldn't.

Concentration.
A game.

A game is about laughter,
Not frustration,
Not confusion,
But some games beg
For panic.

They'll ask you why you quit,
But they won't agree.
They'll say you didn't try hard enough.

Spoil sport.
Sore loser.

I am a sore loser when games challenge my patience.
When games remind me too much
Of life.
Or when that's
Exactly
What it is.

In one summer, I've become an alcoholic. I've become a reckless shadow of myself.
In one summer I caused the love of my life to distrust me. I showed him my weaknesses and he refused to forgive.
In one summer, I've proven to myself that I'm not strong enough to live. The once terrifying vision of a starile hospital ward seems welcoming now.
In one summer I've managed to convince myself I have nothing left.

The source of my sorrow
Has been resurrected
Along with the memories I had buried.
Everything before you was buried,
But the burn of whiskey
Has robbed every grave I created;
Truths brought back by the
Numbness of my lips and
Willingness of my neighbors ears.

When I started writing, It was because I was in pain.
I tried to be happier with my words but to no avail.
The few poems I had spat out about love or *** were forced,
Driven by guilt because I knew that I was not in a safe place.
I knew I had to save myself.

And then I broke free.

This dry spell I've been in is caused by a lack of pain,
By a better place that I didn't think existed.
The future became clearer and my present became brighter.
I could recognize the faces in my dreams
And I lost the edgy, creative side of my mind.

I learned what a lovely kiss felt like, metaphorically.

I'd been kissed. I'd been hit. I'd been in bed with man and woman.
I'd been in love. I thought I'd been in love.
I'd never been kissed by another soul. Another body, yes.
But your kiss went deep. I felt it in my veins.
I felt it in the split ends of my hair. I felt it in the stars above my head.

I'd been touched by an angel. I swear I was.

Gradually, I've been brought into the world
As a new soul without torment. The shadows remain,
But the lights in my attic rarely turn off.
I can see the pages that I'd stashed away with poems and stories
Scrawled across the parchment. I wrote because I was in pain.

I don't write because of you.

How do you remember me?
Am I the girl that cried on your shoulder?
Or the child that screamed at you because
You'd insulted me?

Do you think I am aware of what I've done?

I know I've made mistakes in my years.
Do you think I'm that ignorant?

I wonder because you're one of them.

A white noise in your throat

The palpitations drop and boil
Your stomach inside itself.

The motors and gears in your limbs
Rust and stick like someone spat
Their chewed gum into them.

Tears freeze in their place and
The burn sets in.

Save us.

You kissed the tears from my cheeks
Your own falling in time with mine;
Our hearts pulling, heavy and weeping.

I told you my story.
The storm and the eye in the center.

On this day in 1963, Sylvia Plath, a beautiful woman and well known poet, committed suicide in her apartment. A rare recording of her reading her poem The Disquieting Muses was released.
https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/10/27/sylvia-plath-reads-the-disquieting-muses-bbc/

When the spit leaves his mouth like acid,
Speckles my face with scars and tears,
Insults are last place in my minds marathon.

The self depreciation is a serrated knife,
Plucking at the strings in my chest.
And with each snap, I am closer to collapsing.

I didn't mean to let fear rule,
But the destruction and disappointment
That runs rampant around me
Is a plague among vaccines.

I'd see the smiles of betrayal
And greed in the most innocent faces.
Voices of cruelty and abuse
Echoing like music in a ballroom.
I stand in the center, surrounded by
Shadows and screams.

It's possible I could run,
But the ice of your heart
Beneath my heels keeps me
Frozen in my sorrowful doubt.

Heart beats irregular,
Figurative physical figments
Of our emotional imaginations.
Thrumming like humming birds.

Speaking so sluggish,
Moaning.
We shouldn't have to try so hard.

My lips are my weapon,
My sadness- my shield.
I will fight for you.

A drug like lust,
Pinning me at the wrist,
Scratches on my thighs.

Love me.

Tossing me into the water,
Watching me drown in
Desire?
Passion.

Bruises on my heart and body,
Curiosity is ecstasy,
Painfully hard to dictate.

Simplistic and forbidden.

Strange how things are twisted,
Made better or happier
Like a girl who thought her life
Was crumbling. Her
Mind a whirlpool of lies
Inside of a hurricane of torment and insanity.
Her sleepless nights are simply
Airplanes that cannot fly.
But they are beautiful.
Bright yellow birds with broken wings and
Arrows through their eyes
Fly from sight.

I can relate. The urge and incessant need to run,
The cage stands around me, pillars of a ballroom
with no space to dance. The invisible song echoing.
My mind is a place of blazing meteors
And barren deserts,
Only occupied by an occasional mirage
That screams, “I’ve found something!”
The sound burns my throat, the voice of someone else in my body.
And suddenly I was weightless,
Barely a cloud
Near the ground, obstructing the
Paths that my eyes wander down.
Demonstrated by demons
And the flames flavoured
Like chocolate and ghost peppers.
Burning blisters on the insides of
My teeth, spreading through my bones
As a parasite would slither
Down my throat.
The trees and water signifying my survival
grows. A paradise in the eyes of a starved kitten
Lacking its milk from a mother flattened on the side of the road.
But the possibility disappears
As I walk, run, fall, cuss, crawl closer to my destination,
Forever doomed to walk among the shadows and blackness
Of the sky. Colourblind. I wander and trip over cracks in the
Sidewalk as my mother's back cracks in half like a twig,
It’s not my fault! I am still lost!
Or maybe I have been found. A picture, solid and graphic
I am here. This wasteland could be my home, my fragmented reality.
The tunnels deep in the blackened sand are the
Corridors of a haunted house, ghosts
Of long lost stories whispering sweet nothings
In my disjointed ear. I do not want to listen.
“Welcome home.”

Our analysis of the human race
Will forever burn itself into our minds.
The controversy.
The world itself and its ****** up society
Like a cold, smooth granite countertop with
Grey/ green mold and sharp stench from
Spilled milk. The rustles of a silent wind
Knock, KNock, KNOCKing on the windows at night,
The fear.

Is it something about religion, the fear?
My God is right while yours is wrong,
None of us steal, but a few of yours murdered, so
You all must be killers.
Do you cast spells, have you cursed me?
Ive had this stabbing pain in my side, do you do voodoo?
What if I knock, knock, knock on your door and
Shove it in your face because I am right and you are wrong,
Is this controversial enough for you?

Is it something about teeenagers, the fear?
Their whininess?
"They know nothing of the real world,
The hardships.."
*******.
"They're looking for attention, they are manipulative thieves,
Taking money from their parents,
Why can't they get a job?"
Because its *******!
There are no jobs,
School is based on answers, not trying,
Whining? Because we accept that the world will
Carve out our stomachs with spoons
And blame us for the red graffiti on the side of the train?
What about the adults and even some of our own that tell us to
Hole up and die because of the music we like
Because of our mental disorders,
“They cut for attention. Why dont you
Carve a little deeper and paint a pretty picture?
Feel the sting like being *******, motionless, next to a hornets nest.”
Is it controversial enough for you?

Could it be something about ***, the fear?
The clubs, the ****** and prostitutes,
The millions of dollars going toward their single parenthood every year?
The reality shows depicting teen pregnancy
Yet shunning *******?
It’s exhilarating, but it is a sin,
It is an instinct, but I am going to hell?
A boy tells his friend he got laid and he is the
Most popular kid in school, He receives a metaphorical blue ribbon.
His fifteen minutes of fame.
A girl tells her closest friend that she lost her
Virginity and she is known as the school ***** for the
Rest of the year, and maybe even onward.
Age thirteen after the first *** ed class,
"Momma, how does ******* work?
Do lesbians use ******?
Why is lesbian **** okay, but the other kinds are disgusting?"
Is that controversial enough for you?

Is it something about politics, the fear?
The money we do not have funding ****** in a war,
We have no place in.
Stronger guns with less of a kick.
The continuous binding of church and state,
Despite the promise from two and a half hundred years ago
That it would not happen,
Why can we not marry the people we love
Or cure ourselves of deadly disease without spending
What we do not have?
Is it controversial enough for you?

My emotions dry and crumble as leaves do.
The smell of pumpkin and cardamom
Reminds me of the day I cut myself
Deeper than I ever had before.

Abuse beats me.
No, its not really a person. I haven't
Seen the shape of a fist purpled on my cheek in a while.
But Abuse beats me.
Its as if my mind is a dead horse,
It has been mentioned and disregarded and degraded.
When I exclaim again why I am going insane,
I am pushed and tripped,
Crammed into a locker my shoulders cant fit in.

My cheeks cant hold up my lips.  
They have lost their drive unless you string them up like puppets.
That's all a smile is. Hiding from hardships from behind my teeth
Like lies that desperately want to be told.
But no matter how many truths I tell,
They are dismissed as excuses.
What if I did see the beauty in things and
Know what it was like to inflict pain inside myself?
What if I did fight against the one monster we all fear, but
Revived it when I thought I had given up again?

"I feel the beat of my own words as they tumble
A stutter, a jump in the waves of thought that crash
Down, encircling my head, shooting an emotional gun
A bang in bed, so hard it breaks. The love causes a concussion."  

I am thinking too much,
I can't just let thoughts fall from my lips,
I wish I could speak out about emotion;
The path they've led me down,
And have people think they're beautiful and heartfelt,
But I don't have that capability because lately my
Mind has been overcrowded and empty,
I contradict myself like a wasp that has no sting.
What's the point?
I am a poet that can't write or rhyme,
I am a performer with no character,
An artist without a clear muse and so
I scribble on a page hoping to find
Someone who will respect my patheticness.
I listen to music, wishing that I could sound like
The people who know what to do the next day,
Because I have no clue.
Thinking that far ahead leaves holes in my vision
Because something is missing,
But I cant see far enough to find it!

My entire life has been a magnifying glass,
Trying to find my way, the right way, and society's way,
But I can only follow one path and that one
May not even be paved yet.
And as a girl who hated wearing shoes as a child
And who looks to her childish heart for guidance,
That may be a problem.

It seems that heads are rolling
And ideas are left to perch atop
These humanoid bodies.
Unnatural.
When did humanity lose itself and begin
To create the poison we consume?
The rotten images of walking ***
And fumes of chemical death?
These corrosive lifestyles spread like
Wildfire and teenage legs.
Soon, there will be nothing
But the empty heads that
Obsess over the next ****,
The next dose of whatever form of
****** is "The New Hot Topic."
And the rest of us will be left
Picking up the pieces.

A few forgetful moments
And I am littered with paper cuts.
Each tear is a page: a meaning: a reason.

I am encased with quilts and a
Bubbling love, but the chills
And demons find their way through.

I was told
Explicitly
To pull my head out of my ***,
Because struggling with education, depression, and
Harassment
Is inconvenient for others.

I forgot to reline the trash can in the bathroom.

Dear diary,
I almost hurt myself again today. Its been over ten months since I did it last, but you know what a ***** life is.
See ya later!

***** reminds me of rainbows,
And vice-verse.
My stomach is thunder.

I don't have enough tears to make it rain,
But I might **** enough.

What should I do with my life?
I make decisions and
Work my *** off more than any
16 year old I know,
And care for others in any way I can
In hope that they will return the favor when I need it,
But I'm still ignorant and selfish, says she.

Sometimes I wonder which way is up
And right. A nervous tick of mine.
A moody strand of my being.
Trying to connect to reality, but curving...

Restlessly bleeding words onto a page
And looking past cliches to realize
Just how beautiful they are
Can only mean one thing.

The monster is back.

Insults travel trough generations.
They embed themselves in our minds,
Echoing the same phrase:
"You are nothing."

Somehow the phantom voices
Hurt more than the bruises across our cheeks
Because the purple and blue fades over time.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But at least they heal.
Words are harder to forgive.

A creature that I live with every day
Creates something that I can not escape from.
Something that follows me and rapes me of my happiness,
Something that recreates the worst parts of my life
And forces me to watch, paralyzed in my own bed.

The Creature has dyed red hair, brown eyes.
The creature weighs 136.2 lbs and continues to gain more.
This creature is 5'8" tall.

This creature shares the same name.
The same putrid name as the girl who
Fell in love with someone who saved her life,
But had to convince herself to keep loving him
In order to endure the thing he said to her.
The same ugly name as the girl who fell in love with
Someone else, but ignored him because of her guilt
And then kissed him only five days after
The one who saved her dumped her on her 16th birthday.
The same name as the girl who forced herself to feel
Numb because everyone who surrounds her
Tells her not to feel bad because they have or had it worse.

The creature screams, trying to make her happy, trying to
Please her, make her leave.
SHE REFUSES. Every day, she lays down and can't get up because
Nothing is worth it. The creature ignores her pull.
She leaves bruises with her fingers,
But the creature is used to the pain.

A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.

I love him. I will until the end of time. I feel his hand in mine.... His fingers like ghostly kisses against my palm. He read it once. He told me I would have three children, all with my eyes. Then he whispered under his breath that they wouldn't be his.
I told him they would be, but he only hummed in disagreement. He stayed silent about it for years.

Yesterday, he held my hand just like he is right now. His fingers lingered on the calloused skin for a moment. He looked surprised, as if he recognized the feeling. I told him I loved him. I said it all of the time and I knew he felt the same, but this time he didn't say it back. He walked away.
I woke up this morning to three missed calls: one from his mother, one from the hospital, and one from our mutual best friend. I recognized what those three calls meant. I climbed out of bed and walked to the balcony outside of my three story apartment. I was about to let my tears escape when I felt his hand in mine. I suddenly realized why those three children would never be his. His fingers were ghostly as he traced the lines of my palm.

I looked into the eyes of a simple sketch
And I saw the lines that I've followed and crossed.
The hand I've held and purposely missed
Is the one I've repeatedly loved and lost.

I'll hold out my hand for you and I can only
Pray that your graphite hand
Might someday take it.

When each syllable turns into a dance
across your lips,
I can only imagine what it would be like
If I took your hand and stopped you.
When each alliterative phrase swings from
My lips, My only thought is

"Stop me."

When our verses fall silent and the falling snow
Turns into thunder,
I can only imagine what it would be like
If you made my heart beat louder.

When I haven't written for as long as I have,
I begin to think of any possible inspiration.
I have kissed and made love,
I have argued with others and battled myself.

Since no inspiration has arisen, I find myself
Torn between searching the ends of the Earth
And giving up.

Words are the building blocks of the modern world,
And I am unable to use them like I used to.
I find my poetry becoming essay-like.
Robotic. Empty. Hollow. When I speak my poetry,
I lack passion. My vocal chords leave me flat.
It may be spreading to my mind.

I lack passion for words and emotions all together
I am purely physical. I express my emotions in
An ordinary way, but I would rather sing and write.
I am becoming lost.

Disappointment. I had never
Thought
Once
That it would go like this.

Death.

I never thought I'd have to
Think
About what I'd done.
How Id feel after I stopped
Bleeding
Breathing
Hearing.

How would it feel?

Trouble, love...
You drown me in
Quick
Beats;
Palpitations of my
Red *****.
My waters run for you.

Tied with
Ribbons of
Silk,
I shout proclamations
To the clouds who
Threaten to rain on us.

I thought to myself,
"I will think about my life."
Love was a cliche.

I want to write something for you, love,
But I am afraid that not even the sky
Or the deepest waters of the ocean
Can compare to your eyes.

I wanted to sing something for you, love,
But, again, I fear that no lyrics are pure
Enough to describe you.
No words are beautiful enough to pleasure
Your ears as your voice pleasures mine.

I wanted to touch you in some way, love.
A way that would create sounds from your
Chest as it rises and falls, a way that
Could let ecstasy fly throughout your body.

I wanted to be better for you, my dearest,
For you are the epitome of perfection
And imperfections that are, by definition, beauty.

I realized not long ago that you, a man with a sweet mind,
Thought of me as beautiful enough and created the image,
In both of our minds, that we are perfect,
And will forever be *one.

Lets be gentle,
slow,
loving.
Lets savor the
moment
and lose ourselves
in the way we taste
together.
Lets whisper
against our lips
as though we've
never heard
each other's voice.
Lets kiss in a way
that will bind us,
tangle us inside
a storybook.

I come here to be happy,
To find my place
And teach myself how to be
A true writer.

To me it seems
I try.
I try to speak,
Show myself,
Do what I am supposed to do here.
I am told to be myself,
There is no blending in.
And yet, it seems I have to.

No one cares. I cry
And they stare and walk past.
I had more support and reassurance
In the place where I was bullied and tormented
Daily.

And here,
Daily,
I am alone.
Cliques formed and I was, once again,
And outcast.

Sometimes I like to think to my self,
"Life will get better."
And then I realize the harsh truth.

It won't

There will be short periods of time
When life is great.
You'll get a new car,
Your significant other will propose,
You'll get promoted and make a **** ton of money.
But everyone knows that those moments will not last.

Depression will hit like a title wave and you wont eat for days.
Insomnia will cause sleep deprivation
And the purple under your eyes will
Cause people to worry if yore dying
And maybe you are: on the inside.

There will be those best of times and those worst of times
But if you have those Great Expectations,
You will get yourself nowhere.

Life is a Series of Unfortunate Events and everything
And nothing will get in your way.
And some day, As you Lay Dying
You may think that it just wasn't worth it.

And then you'll look back.
The negative things are always the most drastic until
The good things mean something more.
Remember your proposal,
Or the time you swam into the lake
And opened yourself to The Awakening.

Remember the times when everything was **** and you said,
this Pride and Prejudice is really getting to me,"
But instead of giving up,
You picked that title up and said,
"Maybe this will help. Maybe these
Tales of Mystery and Imagination
Will heal my wounded soul."

And so you....

Well, now that my life has turned from better, to worse, to the most amazing time I have ever had, I'd like to say a few things.

First off, I have nothing to say.
Second, I am happy. Don't ruin my mood.

Rumbling storms, scolding!
Why me? Tormenting my
Nostrils with something
Grotesque. I see a rotting
Corpse; she is me.

Reality shakes
And now she falls from ice clouds
Under my skin. Shivers
And small geese ****, the sickness
Consuming. I've lost the game.

Black hole, please, absorb this!
This horrible image,
This regrettable instance In which
I had lost myself to
Blindness.

Lover, Force me to look at you
And nit into the past that is
A marble statue with claws and teeth
That protrude like swords.
Tell me I can let go
Of the rotted flower petals
Covered in mold and betrayal,
They said they would stay
Beautiful!
Tell me I can rinse the slime
Of false hope from my body
And my intimacies so that
I may be pure for you.

Quicksand, drop this putrid locket
Into your depths and clog the clasp
So that no one will ever see the inside.
Obey Me!
Take my sacrifice, my past and
Everything
Corroded! Tell me
That I am able to forget
And be forgotten!

I've tried to get over being lied to.
I can't.
I've tried to get through the betrayals and blames,
I can't.
I've tried to get over that fact that I've been talked about and lied about,
But I can't.
I've tried to get past the reasons why I regret so much,
And I can't.
I've tried to get past the hypocrisy and narcissism
And I simply can't.
I've tried to get over the pain of knowing I'd wasted time
And could have had something that makes my entire life complete,
And can't.
I've tried to forget the dreams and wants I used to think were real,
But I can't.
I've tried to work my way through the conflict in my head, but I cant.
I am trying not to hate him, but I can't.

Vivid cultures dancing
like jellybeans in a frying pan.
Pop like a violin
flow with the rhythm of the sandstorm.
Spinach leaves sway in the depths of the ocean
like worms
hooked through one of its many stomachs
filled with plastic bottles.
****** honey bombs flavour
the ink that spills across
the landscapes.

I wake to see a hollow face at my left side
And I wonder if I've made another
Mistake when there are no
To be made. Maybe if I lift the truth, no.
I am faithful.
Suddenly the thought of  psyche
And the binding of public views
Overcomes the fear of there being no
Light left in the world
And suddenly the sun fell
Like the tears of a widow
After the sky said goodbye like
The waving of a handkerchief
As a husband goes to war
And when the sun said goodbye
And left everyone's skin to turn
Translucent and white,
Dooming the population to turn
To ash at the blink of a
Flashlight, the sky agreed with the sun
Left nothingness lying
In its place like a lover
After a night of ***** and regrets.
And as regrets leads to guilt, the
Mourning time resolves nothing.
Guilt leads to loneliness, and cats swell like a tsunami.
Loneliness leads to insanity,
Insanity leads. The march of war on foreign concrete.
Insanity leads you. Into the eye of the storm
As the water drains from the steel sink.
Insanity controls you.
Insanity is in you.

writing about #romance to keep from #triggers. lol yolo*

smiling like nothing is wrong when you dreamed about stabbing yourself the night before... #drama #fakebitches

maybe i would be better off dead... nah scars are cooler. #feelingencouraged #pressured

Previous commemorative
                          memorials of positivity
     drown in radioactive slime.
    
   Disperse chi like flooding water
                              Contaminated, laminated with oily tears.

*"How is pain controlled?

Waters black; time
Leads to chaos.

Fallen soldiers and their
Rotten
Bullet wounds weep.

Salt cauterizes gouges in
The pretty skin of paper
Dolls trying desperately
To be strong.

Impossible dreams of returning
Scars
And keeping the glow.

Forgotten
The dye seeped through
The palms of everyone
Who touches me.

Nightmares drown
(The happiness)?

And fear is unfinished.

Wishes.
Ways to project

The butterflies

And the carnal
Instinct.

A faerie dances,

Shackles lock
And *******
Occurs; a mental

State; reached
Toward any
Outcome.

Outburst of

(Final)

Findings: Salved mystery.