There's always that one person who will always have your heart.* I remember a song saying, and all I could think about is you. Unfair isn't? Unconsciously, I have given a special part of me without me, knowing. What is even funnier is that you're not aware of it. You've made me happy without you noticing. You've made look forward to things without you trying. The sad part though is that, you've also hurt me without you, knowing.

It started when you stopped talking to me. I don't know. Maybe I said something stupid and it made you feel bad. But I know the kind of person you are. You don't dwell on things so, I am not really sure. All I know is that you stopped talking to me. Well, you still talk to me but it was not the same anymore. What even ***** is that there were times when you pretended like I was not there. You would talk to other people the way you used to talk to me and I swear, I was tearing into pieces. Like, were you doing these things unconsciously? or, were you just like that? I can't tell anymore.

You told me to be this and that. I did not follow. This is my silent way of rebelling. I know you care for me and I like the way it feels. I'm sorry if I would intentionally do the opposite of the things I shouldn't. When you're around, I can't help but to be a baby. I thought you would take care of me. Apparently, I was wrong. I thought we have something. You made me feel like there was. It took me quite some time to realize though that it was over. Is everything just an illusion?

I miss the old us. The confusing and happy us. So now I know you weren't exactly what I thought you were. Because if you were, you would not change. How I wish though that you're still here. I miss having you around. I don't know what this is. But I just feel like I need to share everything to you. It saddens me. So many things took place already and I know you will be happy for me.

This is life. People come and go. Feelings don't, specially the real ones. Or maybe they do. Only time will tell.

What is this? definitely not a poem.

it was dark,
the things she wrote,
the thoughts she had,
the lies that marked her porcelain skin.
her voice screamed, "help!"
and yet the demon inside
ripped her voice away
piece by piece until only
death remained inside her mind.

her eyes couldn't see the lies
for the fog that was made of pure deception
clouded her mind and filled her lungs
with the lies swirling inside her.
the smoke became too much
and the demons would only let her see
the vein on her wrist and the
box of blades that were just
waiting...
and
waiting...
they were waiting for her to  b    re       a          
                                                     ­                        k
to be p    u  s  h      e            d      to far
to make her feel everything
and then nothing at all.

As she wrote desperately,
trying to find her inner peace,
she died, sacrificing herself to those demons inside
she found eternal silence,
one that not even the angels could hear.
My dear, didn't you know that you were an angel?
Why did you believe the voices that said you couldn't fly?
Why did you believe the god forsaken lies?
Why?

my darling,
you were my heaven -
hallowed be thy veins.
thy kingdom come, my affection won.
your love, though a hellfire, was heaven.
give me a chance to clear my head.
forgive me, for not recognizing
your voice among the masses,
as i forgive those who break my trust.
lead me not into isolation
but deliver me from myself.
for thine is the space
here in my ribcage
forever & ever.
amen.

- m.f.

There was a man
sitting at the end of the bar
so I bought him a drink.

“Thank you, miss,”
he said.
I smiled
and left the bar
being carried by gusts of warm wind.

I went to my apartment
and cleaned the entire place
blasting music
loud enough for the neighbors
to hear.

I drew large,
colorful
pictures
and taped them to the wall
by my bed
to look at from time to time.

I drank an entire bottle of wine,
white wine,
and went to sleep
wrapped in warm blankets
and warm thoughts.

The next morning
I woke up with a smile
taking up residence on my face.

Then I opened the door
and almost stepped out into the hall
before the cold, gray
ghosts
pushed me into the pool
of cold, ***** water.

I sat on the floor
wrapped in blankets
but unable to ward off the cold.

I banged my head on a table,
repeatedly
but didn't feel a thing.

I looked at all of the bottles
of pills
that I had collected.
And I contemplated taking a few
or the whole bottle.

But I didn't.

I downed half a bottle
of *****
and hated myself.

I looked at myself,
scowling in the mirror.
“Go **** yourself,”
I told the reflection.

All of the sudden
the warmth came back
and I put flowers in a vase
and gazed at them lovingly.

I smiled at myself in the mirror,
proud of who I was
and everything I had ever done.
I thought excitedly
about everything I would do tomorrow,
the next day
and the next day.

Then I purposely knocked the flowers
off the table
with my closed fist
and downed an entire bottle of pills.

we were held together
by name tags and aprons,
cold air catching in our lungs
and warm cigarettes burning
between our shaking
finger tips

"guys it's 12:05"
didn't sound much
like a fact,
more like a suggestion

there was no outward
celebration
filled with
champagne
high heels
and a television
but a pensive
awakening
filled with
eye rolls
dark laughter
and light sarcasm

I thought about how
at this time
two years
earlier
I was trying
on a variety
of fake smiles
infront of the
bathroom mirror
in Amy's basement

well it's been
a while since
I've felt the need
for red lipstick,
even longer since
I've worried about
the stains it might
leave on my teeth

I guess we let the seasons
change with a distant sense
of apathy but even when
we can't feel the change,
we know in concentrated
recollection that not a
single thing has
remained the same
still, we hesitate to say
that anything is different

The horse is dead.
Long beyond flogging.
It's skin was stripped by a couple of tanners.
After being treated with tenderness.
That horse was merely a hobby.

An old broom handle.
Minus emotions.
A head full of kapok.
And a heart made of wood.
Nobody could love him.
Nobody should.

He ran around the stables.
Knocking down the mares.
Where once he had just knocked them up,
As he was out to stud.

The rag and bone man came to call.
Saw him laying in the yard.
Left his calling card.
The child who once loved him so.
Decided she must let him go.
The rag man he received a call.
Collected hobby horse.
He gave her a bright and shiny quid.
Slung him on the back of his cart.
Stuck him in the shop window.
While his mares passed by and laughed.




By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)