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katharine elle Apr 2014
Harsh rain against pavements.

Almost holographic, blistering.

Like the terrorized Atlantic.

Steady darkness filled with melancholy suns,

Fades to bushed static.

As I furrow --
Of the heartbeat I cannot fathom to catch.

Sweet mouthfuls of berries — hooks, 

Something —

Melts in the walls.

And I, 

I am the arrow.
katharine elle Mar 2014
Dark circles
Aching feet
As I pace around in mystery
Heart torn into a hopeless rant of living

Heavy breaths gathered by minds filled with hollow care
Can't they see they've won
Because I'm barely there

They promised me acceptance
But all received was harsh fears
Fears of being seen
Fears of being lost
Fears of being alone

I now lay under a covered bed
Darkness surrounding my vision
If only the knew
If only they knew the amount of burden their poison words brought
If that had crossed their mind, they may have saved a life
A life that I now realize was worth saving
This is a poem about how I felt when I almost committed suicide. i was young and had many family and friendship hurdles. I would like this to be a warning to everyone that one hurtful word is like poison to another. And that poison spreads and destroys your life. Because you'll soon learn that the worst critic is yourself. So please, I beg of you, think before you speak. It could be the ultimatum between life and death for someone. x
katharine elle Mar 2014
She lives a life of pretend fantasies.
She twirls in her private kingdom of solitude.
Then, a door slams.
Screaming commences.
She stays in her land and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

She prances in her kingdom.
A crown made of dreams apparent upon her head.
Glass breaks and windows shake in fear.
She keeps prancing and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

She lies awake on her satin pillow.
A broken heart shatters in her soul.
Tears of silver stream as the door opens wide.
She closes her eyes and hums to herself.
She was used to the sounds.

Her eyes open once again.
She glances around and smiles for the first time.
This land she dreams of is no longer a fantasy.
She spins and twirls.
Her wide eyes gleaming with joy as she hums to herself.
She was not used to these sounds.
These sounds of pure happiness and love that filled her kingdom.
Her now real fantasy.
I wrote this at about 1 in the morning. It's content is about a little girl and her mother's abuse from her father. I hope you enjoyed it.
  Mar 2014 katharine elle
Sylvia Plath
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
katharine elle Mar 2014
They stand in a line.
Numbers pinned to their underwear.
They call and dismiss.
Examining each.
I grimaced at the sight.
This sight of flawed hearts.

The sound of clicking heels filled the room.
High hopes formed in their young minds.
The poor innocence unknowing of the pessimistic ending occurring.

Ribs peeking through their snowy skin.
While the girls slowly stumble and crumble apart.
The glimmer in their bright eyes diminishes.
Out of two-hundred, six are passed.
Those six are now lost, hungry.
In search of a happiness.
Only finding an abundance of broken, soft souls.

It's too late though.
It's too late for these innocence to be saved from this pessimistic ending.
This ending that only has left them as property.
Property's misguided roses.
This is a poem I've written that was inspired by a documentary about models i found on Netflix. Please, never say again "If i were skinny and pretty it would solve 95% of my problems." If you happen to believe this, I hope my poem may change your mind.

— The End —