k - Hello Poetry

k Jun 2016

solitude

the heart condition where you can't remember what it's like to feel yours beating

k Jun 2016

Poetry

The subjects you wouldn't dare touch with the lights on

May 2016

timothy

2:59am

I can't sleep
Because the voice in my head keeps waking me up.
I can't think
Because memories play far too loudly.
I can't talk
Because people judge too quickly.
I can't cry
Because I have no strength left.
All that's left to do is to be silent;
Let people misunderstand you
Let them think you are who they want you to be
Not who you really are.

Silence doesn't mean you don't have an opinion. It just means that you are strong enough to support your beliefs on your own.

#people #night #silence #sleepless #misunderstand

k May 2016

after sundown

sometimes I lie very still; afraid to move for fear of the very fragile parts inside of me shattering into too many pieces to put back together this time.

Apr 2016

timothy

#2

It won't be all sunshine and rainbows,
You will be in the dark for days unending;
Your spirit will be crushed,
And your faith will be tested.

Your joy will be stolen,
Your peace will be destroyed;
Reality doesn't promise justice,
And yet you will be expected to be happy.

You will be lonely,
You will cry tears unnoticed;
Your trust will be crumbled,
And yet you will be expected to have open arms.

Happiness comes at a cost,
It is a constant battle to be fought;
Day against night,
Good against evil.

What matters though,
Is not that you take on the world;
You really can't,
Life shatters the toughest of us.

Fight for your happiness,
It's not a present but a reward;
The truth is bitter,
But it hurts lesser.

Unpoetic writing...

k Apr 2016

Untitled

There are two types of sadness,
there is the overwhelming kind;
it hits you in waves,
hard enough to make you forget how to breathe.
And then there is the other kind,
a sadness that is buried too deep inside of you to ever quite grab on to,
a constant aching reminder that you are one too-sympathetic-look away from coming apart entirely at the seams.
It is a quiet kind of sad,
the kind that is dull enough for you to grow accustom to, but painful enough to make you wish to never see 3 a.m.
And I still cannot decide which is worse.

— The End —