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meg May 3
The ocean has lost its place in my heart.
It has blurred with the lines of I and myself.
I sit down on the gravel that touches my toes
The gravel wraps itself around my body and rises above my head.

The earth swallows me hole, this is what I have learned.
I like to think that a long heavy slumber will calm my thoughts
like the rapids, on a dry coast.
Desperate to move, but getting absorbed by the sand.
Not so beautiful, but more deranged.

The smallest places are the most beautiful.
I could walk for hours on a dry coast,
feeling the toes of water behind the heels of my feet
and find a large castle, but it wouldn’t be worth it.

The places that remind me of how small yet large the work is make me happy.
Most of these places can only be visited alone.
If you go with others, the purpose is lost.

To live for solitude is to live for freedom.
But to do something for someone else is beautiful.
You can either scream in a room letting the noise bounce off the walls.
You could tell others to stay silent for the sleeping baby.
A baby who can be cured of their inherent tiredness with slumber.
We may live for ourselves, but we try to help others.

Although we fall, we rise in everything.
The earth we rise in?
It leaves its worries at the shoreline and follows you.
It unties your toes from the tide, but then it leaves…
it watches you crawl through the sand in every sunset and comes back when the sun rises.

But at night, you are alone.
You lose your grip on the sand,
but the ocean is empty.
It waits for you to breathe.
Water forms with your every breath.
We all unite and fill the oceans as the sun fills the sky
You will remember the night
Some memories just stay with you like the salt in the sea.
They stick to your skin and you carry them.

When you empty your pockets at the shoreline
You question yourself “when did the ocean become so blue?
wrote about my fear; the sea
meg Nov 2018
Sometimes I feel as if I am a
blind man walking across a tightrope.
Like I'm child in the world that is
dressed in a body too big for her,
in a world too big for her.

We are all susceptible to change.
Its hard to let go of broken things
that have strings tied to your heart.
If you cut them off, a part of you
will always be with them, and I
dont know how to feel about that.

I broke up with myself,
but she wont stop calling.
She wants me to believe in people
and concepts that I have waited so
long to let go, and I do not like the
feeling.

I hate the feeling.
Everytime I feel the feeling
I feel like taking a scalpel,
and cutting out the places
in my heart where the string are.
I know they will never go away.

My ex is guilty of clinging
drama to her life, like
candy to a baby, and the
truth is, she can't seem
to understand that love
is just as conseptual as
unhappiness,
we only love others
becaue we **** at
loving ourselves.

I guess we only start
to love ourselves
when we stop chasing
the people that don't love us.

Thats why people chase the strings they
choose to cut off of their hearts.
I guess all we do in this lifetime
is stress about not smiling and cover
up our mouths with bandaids
so people cant see through the broken
lies we tell them, so we reminise and
think of things that have made real smiles.

We only see half of people.
I will never know the story
of the perosn sitting next to me,
so all I can do is notice their
dreams and respect them.

We only see half of oueselves,
and I never know which parts are true.
All I can believe in is the
whispers of voices in my mind
telling me to be more than
everyone thinks I am and to not
lose my spakle, 'cause thats
the only thing that make me different.
inspired by Savannah Brown
meg Nov 2018
I don’t think I remember watching him die.
It wasn’t something I tried to grasp onto.
I didn’t want to remember seeing the life
drain from his eyes and his unhappiness
seep through his heart.

I tried so hard to just think of it as
what it was, so I constantly battled
every thought I had with,
"He died because it was his time”,
but my judgments run
after the concept of him
being in a white box,
sitting on a chair,
and choosing to leave me
and everyone else too early
like someone is chasing them.
That is terrifying.

I just try to forget.
“It was his time”,
but was it really?
He didn’t even see me
graduate high school,
or go to college,
or get a job.
And he missed it
because it was his time?
‘Cause if you lose your heart
before you lose your head
you were dead all along.
And I know that one day I
will stand in front of
that white room
and tell him that it was
only his time to go
because he wanted it to be.
And I accept that.
Because at least
something was done
and I didn’t have to face
the silence.

Now all I hear is silence
We cannot feel silence.
The way it sounds.
The way it persists
in the midst
of anything.

And silence begs
for our minds
and hearts to stop,
for us to sense
a second of peace.

And maybe he wanted the feel the silence,
so instead of holding it in his palms,
he held it in his heart.

I cannot feel the silence,
but I can feel tears and unhappiness.
I can close that white door,
it no longer leads anywhere.
might be many grammatical errors, but im trying to try something new with my writing style. any shared feed back would be highly appreaciated, thank you! :-)
meg Nov 2018
I don’t believe in magic,
but sometimes I feel as if
I’m floating on this cloud
of the make believe,
that floats around
and picks up people like me,
that just want to believe in something.

I don’t think there is any
specific reason for existence.
Maybe its coincidence
or some celestial power,
but I like to believe it’s some kind of magic.
Something that just hides in the shadows
And pushes things at specific times.
Like the rain and the tide.

I like to think that everything is made out of fantasy
and wishes and all magical things.
That my intuition isn’t what tells me to do things,
it’s the something between the sheet of real and make believe
that follows me to ensure my success.

Of course, that’s not true though.
There is nothing in this world except for me and what I am.
Nothing but me and my own fantasy and wishes and magical things.
Nothing but the sparkle in my veins and the dreams in my eyes.

I don’t want to live in a world where I have to make own magic.
In a world where I have to make my own sunlight
and galaxies in my eyes and drown in my own hues of make believe.

I don’t want to live in a world in which
I am the only enchanted thing.
But I guess that’s how everyone feels.
We all live in this twisted fantasy, this dark fairytale.
Maybe with our own fates in mind,
we will try to make our own magic.
i wish we could just have something magical in our lives, but i guess we just have to wait till we make it for ourselves.
meg Jul 2018
My heart won't let me forget
people that have made me happy.

It seems to extend it's claws
and force them up my throat,
begging me to mention those
who I have tried so hard to leave.

I don't think I'll ever forget you.
I won't forget what you said.
I can't forget the broken
memories you left me.

I stopped doing what I loved to
feed onto affection that I had to fight for.

I went so long ignoring sunsets
my toes tied themselves to the tide
so all I had left was a lost freedom
that followed and laughed at my own doom.

I've been holding volcanos
in my eyes and lava in my heart,
I won't let you break me again.

I won't give you a place in my life
if all you do is prance around in the
ashes of my broken heart, dancing
to the sounds of my tear drops against glass.

I dream of you, even though
you're lost in my memories.
Your lack of love was fabricated
by my broken heart and mended into
loyalty and hope that you could change .

I wish I could just slowly let you go.
I wish I could slowly **** you with kisses
and send you off to the sky.
Maybe I'd find you in the stars.

There is so much beyond our scars,
beyond the lines that tangle
themselves around and
over our bodies,we break so easily,
but that's only since we love so hard.

I'll still miss you every sunrise
and find you in each sunset,
but I'll whisper to the moon
I want to go to the stars each
night till I'm in space.
first poem i wrote in a month
meg Jun 2018
Do not respect be because I am a woman,
but because you are a man.

Because you understand that you are human.
That I am human.
That we are simple living breathing creatures.

That we all have cells.
That we all have tissue.
That we are all almost dead, 
and the most you could do is spare me.

You could stop pretending
to be this man.
You do not protect
this household.
Or me,
my life,
this heart.

There is nothing expected
of anyone in this lifetime
unless they want it.
The expectation.

Expectations
Do they comfort you?
Do they make you feel better?
Do they depict how you want your life to be?
Or do you think for once
you’re worth more than that.
meg May 2018
Sometimes I forget that
I fell in love when I was 8 years old.
Yeah, there was this girl.
She had these brown eyes,
and I loved the way my life
reflected off of them.
I loved the way she saw me,
but more than that
I loved the way I saw her.
She was just so different.  

She drank hot chocolate in the summer.
I’m not gonna say she was brilliant,
she just pretended she knew
what she was saying 100% of the time.
She couldn’t blow them away with her brilliance,
so she baffled them with her b.s.
and that was the way it worked.

She was great, something new.

But then I didn’t like her anymore.
She wasn’t 8.
She was 13.

Said she was never afraid to shine
‘cause the sun did it every day
and it didn’t care if it burned her.
But, everyone has a chapter
they don’t read out loud.
She was burning on the inside,
her heart bled and screamed
of the pain of not being heard.
Felt like no one cared anymore.

She decided
no feeling is no pain.
So, she wore a mask.
No one had to know.
And she always said she
was the one who was hurt.
And we all know the villain
is the one who plays victim so well.

When I looked into her eyes
all I saw was my own melted mask.
It had been on my own face
so long I hadn’t noticed
it stuck in front of my eyes.

I hated her.

I don’t know how she changed.
She thought she was ugly,
Too fat,
Too opinionated,
To loud.

She always wanted the cool kids to love her.
And oh, they didn’t love many people,
but oh, she wanted them to love her.

What was really surprising
was that she was me.
That girl.
That brilliant girl.
That brilliant ugly girl.
That was me.
She lied to herself so much,
she started to believe her own stories.
Her own fake beliefs.

I believe that there is nothing
expected of anyone in this life time
except their love for themselves.
To die unhappy with your own skin seems…
Devilish.
To live in something that you are,
that you don’t love?
How can you change
if you are not happy with yourself to begin with?
You are a lot of things
One of which is important,
why can’t you see that?

Yes, you have changed.
You have closed doors.
They no longer lead anywhere.

Acceptance of yourself
is right before you
on the edge of the world.
And you always ask,
what if I fall?
what if I die?
And to that I say,
What if you actually fly.
This was inspired by another poem, but I sadly do not know the name, nor the poet. I wish I could credit that poet, but I just don't know the name and the title. The last couple of lines in this piece are similar to those in the other. If you know it, please help me out, I don't want to take credit for something that is not completely my own idea. Thanks! :-)
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