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Rock bottom,
not  a
good place
for a
vacation home.
Karissa Olson Jan 2016
Quickly, my vision was blurred by pathetic wetness
But my eye rejected such an emotional mess
So it pushed it into a ball and rolled it off of the
Little eyelashes that cling the lower eyelid

That ball of pitiful water must have been frightened,
or unsure if it wanted to exist or not,
Because it crept down my cheek as cautiously
As the first drops of a rainstorm fall precariously
from the heavy clouds

Numerous moments,
eternal and tremendous moments later
That bit of liquefied pit-of-the-stomach emptiness
had finally reached my jaw in a ticklish sort of way

I let my gaze wander to the floor,
curious to watch the descent of
the salty despair which saturated
the length of my face from the clinging eyelashes,
through my rounded cheeks, to my tickled jawline

Reluctantly, it let go of the minuscule hairs on my skin
and gravity pulled it down as far as it could
as gravity never ceases to do
Suddenly it was a speck hitting the floor

Upon impact, it splashed up in such a way
that the floor must have pushed up against
that hideous piece of pure emotion,
rejecting it as my eye has done

To the floor's dismay, gravity pulled that drop
of soiled ocean downward one final time.

As soon as it settled, fifty more tears
much more sure, and fearless
cascaded like an avalanche without wavering
Quickly, I was standing in a puddle.
Karissa Olson Jan 2016
... like obscure fuzz is surrounding my body
its the channel on the TV
that is black and white static
with the sound of no sound
taking away my ability
to hear the cheery banter
of the normal, tranquil people
who must be here
somewhere around me.

The ever buzzing fuzzing
static anxiety takes away
my ability to see
the people and things  
that used to make me smile.  

And I can't hear myself think
Over the sound my heart
beating intensely in an attempt
to get the hell out of me  

Out of this corpse inside
the obscure buzzing fuzzy
static electri-city  
that shares a name with me.

This hostile prison
I live in. The bars made
of the absolute worst
possibilities encapsulating me

The bars of fear and the
fuzzy buzzing static
stealing my time and tearing
the breath from my lungs

It's called anxiety.
Karissa Olson Feb 2015
It isn't holding you back anymore.

Your troubles are not troubling today.  

Warm sunshine feels lovely on your face.

The weight is gone and you can fly.  

You wake up and feel ok

If you can imagine
you can make it happen.

The bad is in your head.  
Yet good is in there too.
The choice is up to you.
Karissa Olson Feb 2015
Am I too young to be this responsible,
yet worried and stressed and anxious?
I thought the crippling sense
of the entirety of life, love, death,
and all that lies in-between
does not infect a person
until her mid-life.

Here I am, creating ulcers
in my stomach and little else,
with adolescent acne on my cheeks,
a crush on the boy
in my spanish class,
and an analysis of
the inner workings
of the universe
consuming what little
thought space
I still possess.

Meanwhile those in mid-life,
with books full of
knowledge and experience,
cannot understand.

"Grow up,
be responsible,
fix the mess we left you,"
they chant every day.

Why can't they see in my eyes
that my attempts can

I can see your world
it is too big,
too complicated,
too negative,
I will not survive it at any rate.

The stress

The stress
is eating
me alive.

I am too young for this.
Karissa Olson Feb 2015
Time stopped, and they were freed.

It began, it occurred, it ended.

We met, we danced, I left.

He did not st-st-stutter that day.

We craved, raved, craved more.

Born numb, pure; died filthy, happy.
A running collection of my ramblings organized into six-word-stories.
Karissa Olson May 2014
A rose is soft
A rose smells sweet
A rose has thorns
A rose grows tall
A rose is pretty
But boy, I am no rose.

I am not a fragile flower
I am not so sweet
My thorns are not so obvious
And how dare you imply
That I am as simple as a rose

For a rose will die
It cannot survive the storm
A rose will crumble
In the summer heat
I am not so weak  

My skin is rough from work
Not soft like a rose
And I doubt you have ever
Brought a rose's petals
Up to your ignorant nose

A rose does not have blemishes
Or scars or character
Like I do. No a flower
Does not think for itself
I will never be like a rose for you

You call me rose
Because I am a girl
But a girl is not a flower
And this girl does not like flowers
So do not utter
The stereotypical words
You think (without much thought)
I must want to hear
If you do I will throw that rose on to the dirt and stomp on it.

I am not a rose.
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