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Kimberly Aug 2013
What make you alive, you ask.
Answer:
Despite what scientists say,
What logic says,
It is not the organs or your,
Pulsating heart,
That makes you truly alive.
What brings life to a person,
Are their feelings,
Their emotions, memories, and dreams.
Feelings of lust and misery and jealousy,
And anything else one might encounter.
How they have lived,
What they have done,
And what they remember.
How vivid their dreams are and if they dream at all.
No, the heart and the body does not play,
A part in sincere living,
Unless the heart is capable of feeling.
Feeling is living,
And what is a person,
Without being able to truly live.
You are not fully alive if you're not truly living.
*Based on the movie "Warm Bodies"*
Kimberly Sep 2013
Every now and then,
I think about you and what you're going through.
You're the one that's always there for me,
Someone that understands and has been through a lot,
Quite like myself.
But honestly honey,
Tears stream down my own face when thinking about your problems.
You're such a sweet little girl,
Who has such a big world to take on,
But you're fighting.
Every scar,
Every breakdown,
Each and every hurt,
Those are battle wounds,
And I have faith you'll win the war.
I can't imagine the pain you're feeling,
yet I can from experience,
And that is the reason I feel so much for you.
I know what it's like to be in fear of losing someone close to you,
A parent, a father,
Someone who loves you unconditionally.
To try and savour your memories with him,
To cry yourself to sleep at night knowing he might not make it through the next couple of years.
I know what it's like to pour your happiness into someone,
That might not always be there,
Might not always show they care,
Whether it's a lover, a family member, or friend,
All you want is to feel like you're wanted,
Like you're loved and cared for.
I know what it's like to feel like the world is crashing down on you,
And sometimes it becomes too much.
Sometimes you just want it all to stop,
The stress, anxiety, depression, and life in general,
But again,
I believe in you,
And I believe you'll make it through.
Seeing you this way tears me apart and sends sobs racking through my body,
Because nobody should feel this hurt.
Nobody should be in so much pain,
Nobody should feel this alone.
Baby I need you to know that I'm there for you,
And I may not be much help,
But I have a shoulder you can cry on and the ability to give you a great bear hug.
I understand what you're going through,
As I have gone through (am going through) the same.
Please baby,
Keep your head up and stay strong.
I don't know what I'd do if I lost you.
I'm there; I'm always there.
*This is about one of my really good friends, someone who has always been there for me and now it's time for me to be there for her. To be her shoulder to cry on. Love you <33*
Kimberly Feb 2014
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself take in.
It was the fourth of October, 2008,
And you had stopped crying.
You were surrounded by those dressed in black, you yourself wearing a nice dress and his necklace.
Your brain was on high alert and yet you were calm, almost as if nothing fazed you.
Not the smell of the ground,
Freshly dug up in the cool, hard Earth of the autumn time,
Nor the sound of your own mother crying,
Allowing the tears to flow down her cheeks while she says a few words about her husband; now widowed.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself see,
The rest just a blur of movement and scenery.
You sensed the touch of your uncle's hands on your shoulders,
And could hear him sniffling,
Mourning the loss of his brother.
His grip was tight, almost as if he was afraid to lose you too; almost as if you were the only thing he had left of his dearly beloved brother.
You could taste the bitterness of the words your mom had said to you the day after he died: "daddy died", those words being repeated over and over again in your mind,
An infestation of thoughts and language.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field,
The rose you were holding in your small, fragile hands;
The rose you were gripping so tight blood started pouring from your skin as the thorn punctured your tiny little fingers;
You did not notice, you did not choose to notice.
You threw the rose onto the casket as it was being lowered six feet under.
The casket with him in it.
His hair was brushed back, his black and white suit on, and his eyes firmly shut...forever.
It's done.
He's buried.
The field he's now buried in is covered in a thick fog, similar to that surrounding your mind.
And as the car arrives to take you back home,
You can almost hear the wind whispering for you to come back and visit and although you've finally left the scene,
All you can picture are a white rose, a gold casket, and a large, foggy field.
Kimberly Apr 2014
I guess you never really know if love will work out or end up tearing you apart.
There are two types of love:
One beginning that lasts forever and one that ends with a crash and a burn.
There's smeared lipstick from pressing your lips to his so hard and poetry on pages covered in little hearts you doodled in maths class.
There's frilly sundresses and laughter and the simplicity of holding his hand everywhere you go.
There's looking at him like no other being on the entire planet and seeing his eyes for galaxies and all of the stars he compares you to.
There's love until the end.
There's also the love that's on and off until you realize it was never really on.
There's screaming and torn poetry and your mascara starts to run.
There's tissues and broken hearts and another girl he now calls his own.
There's that part of you that keeps running back to him and gets hurt everytime you attempt to flick your hand over the flame of a match,
You can't do the trick like he did and you end up burning every ounce of you that wasn't already in pain.
There's "I'm done" and "I'm fine" and "we're done" and all of you is ripped apart.
The point is,
I guess you never know which relationship you'll end up in,
Because they both seem so similar in the beginning.
They're both just so ******* special,
Perfect,
But when you're drinking,
Thinking about all this in the later years of your life,
Every single word you read from old journals and such will be tinged with bitterness and shame,
Because you'll still be able to blame yourself for not picking the right one.
Kimberly Aug 2013
Get in touch,
With your inner dark fantasies.
Embrace the wild,
Embrace the crazy,
The insanity that is offered,
As an opportunity,
Whilst living a life,
As free and wondrous as this.
Make sparks fly,
And fires ignite.
Dance all night long,
And sing at the top of your lungs,
As soon as you wake up.
Run in the woods,
And let your sick laughter,
Be carried throughout,
The darkness engulfing the trees.
Open your heart,
As much as possible,
And get high off of love.
******* high driving you mad,
But somewhat brightening your eyes,
And making your dark fantasies,
As innocent as possible.
Kimberly Aug 2013
Do you remember,
That rainy day after school,
You walked me home?
How my mother didn't hesitate to invite you in,
And scurried off to make us cookies?
How we sat on the floor,
Of my attic bedroom,
And listened to the pounding of the rain,
On the wooden roof?
How you let me rest my head on your lap,
And played with my hair,
As we talked about our lives?
Or how you grabbed my hand,
Before I left to go get us drinks,
Pulled me close and kissed me,
Just like that?
How you started mocking me,
So I tackled you playfully to the ground,
And we started wrestling?
How just when I was winning,
You flipped me over onto my back,
And kissed me...hard?
How I pretended to be mad but you knew,
That I loved that kiss?
Do you remember,
Holding me in your arms,
That night my mum got into that car accident?
She was okay thank God,
But that night,
You saw me so scared.
Do you remember,
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
And wiping my tears?
Putting your forehead to mine,
And telling me it was going to be okay,
Over and over again?
Do you remember,
Cradling me in your arms,
Until I fell asleep?
Do you remember being my only hope?
My lifeline?
How crazy you made me and I you?
It's an absolute shame you moved so far away,
And even though we're still together,
Even though we write and text and email each other,
It's not the same,
It never will be.
Kimberly Sep 2013
Stop suffocating me and allowing this love to,
Tear me limb from limb.
Stop tearing into my soul,
And stop attempting to steal my heart.
Enough of this *******,
The kind that has me thinking about you nonstop,
All day, everyday.
The kind that actually brings tears to my eyes,
That soak the pillow at night,
And leave me numb and lifeless in the morning.
Do you not understand how much I hate you?
How much I hate what you do to me?
Just stop this madness.
You wreck me, inside out.
But you know what the most ****** up part is?
I despise you,
But I love you all the same.
What the hell are you doing to me?
Please stop.
Just s t o p!
Kimberly Aug 2013
I walked into your hospital room,
And looked at,
Your fragile body.
You'd lost much weight since I'd last seen you,
Your skin was a sickly yellow,
And you seemed weak.
As you were watching TV,
You didn't see my small nine year old self,
Peak at you from behind the curtain.
I saw machines hooked up,
To your arms and chest,
Wires going this way and that.
I heard the beep of the heartbeat machine,
Measuring your steady heartbeats.
Thrilled to see you were still breathing,
But still frightened as I knew,
Your time was coming to an end.
I looked at you,
But you didn't move,
Absorbed in a soccer game.
So I took a tentative step forward.
"Daddy?" I whispered.
Your head turned and instantly,
You smiled,
Your blue eyes glistening like your whole day was made,
Just because of my appearance.
"Come here." you said,
Inviting me to sit next to you.
You put your arm around me,
And asked me how my day was.
We talked about many things,
And got caught up,
Since the last weekend I had come to see you.
We continued watching the soccer game together,
Cheering our favourite team.
So we had father/daughter time in a hospital,
But it's fine,
Because at least I was spending time with you,
And making your last few moments on this Earth,
As special as possible.

+10+
Kimberly Sep 2013
I've tried everything I could,
Even tried a little harder,
But wasn't able to please,
Every human being on the planet that doesn't seem pleased with who I am.
My parents: I'm sorry my grades aren't wonderful,
I'm sorry I make mistakes,
I'm sorry I'm an embarrasment.
My friends: I'm sorry I take advantage of you,
I'm sorry I'm not easy to deal with,
I'm sorry I'm not perfect.
My teachers: I'm sorry I'm not a straight-A student,
I'm sorry I get lazy,
I'm sorry I lose focus in class and waste your time.
Honestly,
I could never get it right.
Nothing was ever enough,
For anyone.
Not even the strangers I walk by in the school halls,
or the cute boy living next door.
But I guess I'll have to face the fact that I'll never be perfect,
I'll have to realize that pleasing everyone comes after pleasing myself,
But what's the point when the only thing that'll make me happy nowadays,
Is the feeling of being wanted,
Of being significant and important to someone's life.
The reassurance that I'm not just some ******* up teenager,
Walking among the rest.
But hey,
We can't all get what we want can we?
Kimberly Aug 2013
The only lullaby,
In my tired eyes,
Is the bitter taste of alcohol,
The breathtaking smoke,
Of your final cigarette,
And the blood that,
Drips down your arm,
Until you finally pass out.
This lullaby is guaranteed,
To put you to sleep in no time.
Kimberly Aug 2013
I remember,
When I was around,
Eight years old,
I witnessed my mother,
Sitting at the edge of your bed,
Crying.
I remember hiding behind the door,
Sinking to the floor,
Crying.
I knew you weren't getting any better.
I knew you were soon,
To leave this world.
As I watched my mother,
Fall to her knees,
Still crying,
I managed to see your,
Still, fragile, weak body,
And convinced,
My eight year old self,
That it was for the best.
Kimberly Oct 2013
Nobody understands someone who might have a lot going on; who might be hopelessly depressed.
People that are going through a lot,
Seem to have lost the light in their eyes and love in their hearts.
They see everything for what it truly is, maybe slightly darker and don't believe in sugar-coating.
They seem cold and distant, bitter towards life.
"I hate this, I hate that", when in general you just hate life and the person you've become.
You cannot see the good in anything or anyone and seem to be weighing out options,
Seeking answers to what or whom is worth loving.
It's hard because you know you can't sugarcoat things and make everything better with a simple spell.
You can't change your perspective on life and what's around you; you just can't fix the way your mind works and how you think.
This confuses people; they judge you for it.
"She's just another god ****** pessimist"
No, not pessimistic , just realistic.
Something that can't be helped.
Kimberly Apr 2014
You saw her disappearing before your eyes.
You never thought things would get this bad for her,
But now when you lookat her.
All you see are skin and bones,
She's slipping through your fingers like tiny grains of sand,
Her eyes sunken-in and her voice barely a whisper.
She was slowly wasting away,
Escaping your grasp and losing herself.
She was nothing but a ghost,
A ghost with golden hair, wispy and soft,
And long eyelashes, wet with tears.
All you wanted to do was save her.
Make sure she was still going to be there in the morning,
Make sure she wouldn't vanish forever.
Although that's what was slowly happening to her,
She crumbled in your bare hands,
And fell through the cracks no matter how tight your grip.
She was tearing you apart.
One look at her and you knew she was so far gone,
Pale as snow yet red on her wrists.
She was flying away along with the smoke from her cigarettes.
She drank one too many beers and took one too many pills.
You'd die for her, die to save her,
But nothing you said seemed to help her.
You wanted so bad to save her,
To catch her when she falls,
But there came a day when holding her hand didn't seem real and you couldn't feel her anymore.
She caressed your cheek and you tried running your fingers through her hair,
But she was transparent and thin and waving goodbye.
And there came a day when she finally disappeared and sadly,
Despite all your attempts,
You couldn't save her.
Kimberly Aug 2013
I am sick of you,
Putting me up high onto a shelf,
And leaving me there,
Until you decide it's time to use me again,
Until you decide you need me again.
I am like a porcelain doll,
That no little girl would want.
A decoration that will just collect dust over time.
I am a tool.
Something you will use,
When nothing seems to work in your favor,
Something to distract you from your problems,
Something that makes you feel powerful,
In control.
I am insignificant until you want me again.
I have no purpose in life,
Until I am taken off of that shelf,
And played with,
Toyed with.
I am nothing but another one,
Of your childhood toys,
You eventually got bored with.
And I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of feeling this way.
Kimberly Sep 2013
Surrounded with normalcy makes you feel so fake.
Surrounded by people that haven't done what you've done,
People that don't know who you are or what you've been through,
People that wouldn't understand.
You go to school 8 hours a day, 5 times a week, for 10 whole months,
And yet the people you see everyday,
Your "fellow classmates",
Have no idea who you truly are.
They don't know you might be suffering with a disorder or 2 or 3.
They don't know that you've tried different ways of coping,
That you've taken pills for no reason and try drowning yourself everytime you're in the bathtub.
They don't know what's hidden under your bracelets and long sleeves,
And wouldn't think twice about it once you tell them your cat or dog did it.
They don't know about the feelings of panic inside of you,
The anxiety that clouds your mind daily and makes it hard to breathe.
They don't know how sad you can get in a matter of minutes,
How all of a sudden, "the best day ever" can turn into a suicide attempt.
They don't know how ashamed and disgusted you are each time you look into the mirror,
and how many times you've thought twice about eating dinner.
They don't know who you've lost and who you care about and who's there for you and who's not.
They don't know how hard it is for you to get out of bed some days and face the world.
They don't know about the smile you fake each and every day.
You sit there in class and people make you out for normal.
People don't consider your story,
Assuming you don't have one,
Assuming you're the same as everyone else.
They don't know who you are or what you stand for or anything in between.
They don't know you.

— The End —