mikah

mikah May 2018

i am afraid to die
which is surprising
coming from a girl who
always says she wants to.

because the truth is
i don't want to die
unless i can do it
myself.

a stark contrast to the last diary entry, but such is life.

mikah May 2018

diary entry no. 2

i occasionally wonder
why i am here if
all i'm going to do
is die.

then, i touch a flower,
i see someone smiling,
i hear music, laughter,
and i remember why.

the confusion of being alive and remembrance of why it's important.

mikah May 2018

diary entry no. 1

one of these
days i hope to find
the yellow paint
that van gogh used.

i could use that
kind of happiness
right about now
even if it is artificial.

mikah May 2018

tales of a selective memory

when i was four, i got to be line leader
for my preschool class;
i was so excited that
i went straight outside without
my teacher telling me to, leaving my whole class
behind. my teacher got mad, and i
think that was the first time i cried out of sadness.

in kindergarten, i stole a rock from my teacher.
i didn't know it was stealing, i just
thought it was a pretty rock and i wanted to have it.
i later gave it to my best friend
because she was mad at me and i thought
that rock would appease her.
it didn't.

another time during first grade,
i called my teacher mom. she made fun of me.
***** you, mrs. brandon.

second grade was uneventful.

in third grade, i got scared by my teacher
during open house. i walked
into her classroom but didn't see her
until she popped up 2 inches from my face,
"Hi!" her voice boomed.
she was nice though. she taught us how
to swallow pills because we were curious of how
she took her migraine meds each morning.

i also argued with my third grade math teacher
over the spelling of marshmallow.
she spelled it marshmellow, and i hated her,
so i pointed it out
just to make her mad.

in fourth grade, i moved to another house
and saw my dad punch my brother in the hallway
of our new home.
in fifth grade, i said '****' for the first time.
in sixth grade, i cursed like a sailor
and tried to eat less.
in seventh grade, i wore makeup
and became sick in the head.

eighth grade was boring.
not that i can
remember any of it, of course.

i can very vividly remember
such trivial moments.

mikah May 2018

the isolation of my own creation

i don't think, necessarily, that i wanted to be
the way that i am.
i find it hard to leave my room most days,
spending my time speaking to a keyboard
(about
my
feelings)
rather than a professional.
and i'm sure the big wide world (is)n't all that
scary, (especially) nor the people in it,
but i cannot seem to find the
          courage
to leave my room
  (or
  speak
  to
  anyone.)
and i think people do want to know me (but not the real me),
i think my family isn't as bad as they seem
(when they aren't yelling anyway)
but i can't seem to let them (do i want to let them?) in.

and i know it's my fault
if i could just open my bedroom door,
open my mouth,
open myself up to others,
    ( i
wouldn't be so
     alone. )

mikah May 2018

mother of mine

when will you release my heart?
you clench it, squeeze it,
tear it in two different directions.
i can't tell whether you're
caring for or breaking it.

when will you be kind?
you used to take me by the arm
and throw me across the room
and now the only thing that takes a beating
is my mind. i wish the scars you left
were still physical ones.

when will you be steadfast?
it seems like in a matter of seconds,
you've gone from screaming at me
to treating me like someone you do love.
i just wish you weren't a rollercoaster.

when will you tell the truth?
you say you love me, that you care,
that you do everything for me,
but you call me a ****. immature. a failure.
cowardly. weak. invalid. a waste of
time, money, space.

when will you love me?
you say you do. you feed and clothe me.
you pay for school and extracurriculars.
is that love? is you
doing what you're expected to do
as my mother
love?

you ask if i will be happy somewhere else.
you ask why i am so reserved in your house.
you ask why i don't like to talk to you.
i can't respond because i know
the answer i would give
would make you
feel like a
bad

mother.

mikah May 2018

am i doing this write?

i like free verse poetry
if you couldn't tell
cause writing rhyming poems, for me,
never turns out well

it feels like i am in a cage
when i try to rhyme my lines
i have to write to a certain beat
so my verses are such confined

free verse poetry is seen as fake
in so many writers' eyes
but it frees my mind to release its thoughts
that might have been my demise

and with that in mind,
i don't think i want to rhyme anymore.
  i don't know if this is real poetry,
   i don't know if i'm a real writer,
    i don't know if i'm doing this right,
     i don't know if this writing is right,
but i know that i like free verse, and for me,
that's enough.

i know this poem isn't entirely true because i don't think really any writer sees free verse as fake, but in my mind, it feels like that, so i put it in this piece. remember that any poem, free verse or rhyming, long or short, ballad or sonnet, limerick or haiku, they're all poetry, and they're all art. thanks so much for reading!