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moss Oct 2015
sometimes
when my mind is
light years away, I feel as though at any moment
my physical body could be launched into space
so that I might be
whole again
moss Jan 2016
I'm sorry I can't start conversations
And that I too quickly finish them
I'm sorry that my prolonged hesitations
Can only be explained in a poem

I'm sorry I don't always smile
And that I avoid your eyes
I'm sorry that I take a while
Before I let down my disguise

I'm sorry that I act depressed
And that I always seem so sad
I'm sorry that I'm always stressed
Which sometimes makes me mad

I'm sorry I'm afraid of judgment
And of what people have to say
I'm sorry my anxiety is abundant
Debilitating me throughout the day

I'm sorry for saying that I'm fine
When I need someone to hold me closely
I figured you'd read between the lines
And see that I'm so lonely

So please don't stop talking to me
Even if you're always the first to say "hello"
Your presence makes me feel so free
And I don't want you to go
Please, don't stop talking... I promise you aren't annoying me.
moss Aug 2015
Sometimes I get a longing
to fade into the sky
to watch my skin turn pink and orange
and drift into the night

Sometimes I get a longing
to sink into the sea
to hear my voice become the waves
and crash along the shore

Sometimes I get a longing
to wane into the wind
to blow between the brushing leaves
and touch tree tops again

I long to be a calming force
but one that's violent too
I long to take just any course
of this life that I so choose
moss Oct 2015
There's a place I  visit in the back of my mind
It doesn't exist, but I think they call it "home"
Here I am not so easily bound and confined
And I am free to walk wherever I wish to roam

Wistfully I long for the refreshing rains
Accompanied by soft sunlight and a gentle breeze
That sweeps over the lush, green plains
And fills the forests of sky-scraping trees

The daisies and snapdragons blossom all year
Even when covered in a blanket of pale snow
The vibrant colors make the world seem so clear
And every surface gleams and glows

God's great palette paints the endless sky
Soaring beyond the horizon are birds in flight
The clouds are tinted, dipped, and dyed
And fade as stars encompass the night

If you're special, I might imagine you there
But I usually travel by myself, all alone
Where I can breathe in the fresh, sweet air
In the safest and most freeing place I've ever known

The only problem with my hideaway and escape
Is that it is indeed a hopelessly false reality
I plead to see its likes in any form or shape
But must abandon my grave irrationality
moss Feb 2015
His voice is the wind in the trees
It is the ocean crashing on the soft sand
His voice is the sweet, sweet breeze
Brushing up against my cold hand.

His life is a shining star
It breathes the life into my lungs all day long
His life keeps my hear in a jar
Holding all my dearest tears.

My love is a hurricane
It keeps me held down out of the fear of shame
My love brings me only pain
For my lover does not feel the same.
moss Dec 2015
Their freedom to tell their depths is now confined to a week.
But despite the propaganda, they are still afraid to speak.
On the outside, they are perceived as nothing but freaks.
On the inside, their lives are catastrophic, yet also bleak.

From their mountains of anxiety to their valleys of depression,
Nobody wants to listen to their pleading expressions.
They're forced to hold down their feelings with constant suppression.
So desperate to become invisible, it becomes an obsession.

As if their sickness was not as legitimate as one of the physical kind
Just because it plagues their body on the inside of their mind.
Behind their daily masks, they are continuously confined,
And the rest of their lives will be wrapped in a box and predefined.

They often wish things were how they saw them: nothing being real.
They use third person pronouns to describe how they feel
Because, whether they like it or not, they aren't made of steel,
But continue to futilely dance around the solar system's wheel.
I meant to post this earlier in the week, but I've been busy. Supposedly, this was "Mental Health Week" in case you weren't aware. It really bothers me that it's such a social taboo to talk about mental illness any other week of the year, and even during that week, it seems most people are just helping "raise awareness" by retweeting or sharing, but it's still always something that no one wants to admit that they themselves have problems with as if it's not as legitimate as some physical ailment like the flu or even cancer if you want to take it that far. The more people distance themselves from a problem, the more distant it will seem, and then the people who have those problems will seem more distant, producing the opposite effect that was intended. Good grief, do we need a special day/week/month for everything?
moss Feb 2016
I explain my metaphors with metaphors
I don't know how else to express
My thoughts that sit in clutter drawers
And leave my mind a mess

If you don't understand my comparison
I'll just say it in a different way
My thoughts still shielded by a garrison
Suppressing things I need to say
moss Nov 2015
everyday his melancholy metastasizes
as he grow exponentially emotional
and their words continue to tantalize
until his feelings are unproportional
they are split up and segregated
happy to the right, sad to the left
and though they were once integrated
all that he feels now is depressed
moss Oct 2015
he perceived their silence as rejection
yet always craved affection
moss Jan 2016
an hour ago I was crying
and back then I felt like dying
now I somehow feel like flying
it seems by brain is slowly frying
what's going on
moss Jan 2016
just as the             caterpillar
is not aware of its miraculous
future, you too will one
day transform into
a lovely             butterfly
moss Oct 2015
He had mud his shoes
And I wondered why
He was singing the blues
When the sun was in the sky

I wondered where he had been
And what all he had seen
So many answers could begin
Why his shoes were not clean

I'm curious to know
I'm curious to care
But it's difficult to show
Through a quizzical stare
"Momma always says there's an awful lot you could tell about a person by their shoes. Where they're going. Where they've been." -Forrest Gump
moss Feb 2015
His eyes are galaxies
abounding with stars
shining so brightly
the blind can see them.

His breath ***** the oxygen
out of my lungs
suffocating so slowly
I forget that it's happening.

His heart is an ocean
the water after a storm
flowing with such beauty
the birds wish they had fins.

My love is a hurricane
falling from control
swirling with madness
lost in the darkness.
#love #sad #oxygen #darkness #dark #beauty #ocean #hurricane
moss Oct 2016
sometimes the only thing
that keeps me going is the sunrise.
most mornings, I wake up and my
first thought is that I wish I hadn't, and
nothing is going the way I wish it would.
but then I see the sunlight piercing through
holes in the clouds and all of the colors
fading together as if the brush strokes
had just been wiped away, and I
feel as if my lungs are being inflated with oxygen for the first time,
and I feel as if everything is going to turn out okay.

I feel like that when I see you, too.
it was supposed to be kind of shaped like a sun peeking over a horizon but that didn't turn out so well lol
moss Nov 2015
ninety hours and I still can't sleep
can't close my eyes, no not a wink
melatonin still does not seep
into my brain. I'm on the edge, the brink
of plummeting fully into this wretched insanity.
I am no longer inside of my body, though
it does not make sense. what is this calamity?
this beast that eats my sleep continues to grow
day after excruciating day.
attempting to live, I fill my veins with caffeine.
all my nights I hope and pray
for some powerful force to pry away this screen
that keeps me away from my dreams
where at least my pain isn't real
and at least people aren't deaf to my screams
when everything is what I deeply feel
including my heart dragging its feet along, loosely tied to my lungs
and my head. all I hear is thump-thump
the throbbing as I fall down the rungs
of a ladder I'll never be able to climb
and no one I know understands how
I spend hours under the moon, calculating the time
to see how much I might get "if I fall asleep right now"
but I never can because my mind is boisterously loud
and though I plead with it to just calm down
it's volume remains as that of a needy crowd
so in the sleepless noise, I continue to drown...
I have chronic insomnia, and the longest I have been without sleep is ninety hours. I did not, however, write this then because I was not even functioning, making that impossible. I wrote this yesterday when I was at about 34 hours.
moss May 2015
Nothing but your words
Float in my head

Nothing but your words
Heavy as lead

Nothing but your words
Hang by a thread

Nothing but your words
Fill me with dread
A poem about overthinking and social anxiety.
moss May 2020
I had a dream about you
last night.
you died.
in the dream,
I missed you.
I cried for you.
but I don't miss you
in my life.

I wonder
how you are.
but I don't wonder
what we might have been.
some short morning thoughts
moss Jun 2020
I feel sad.

not the kind of sad that makes you
cry for hours about everything or nothing at all,
but the kind that makes you
lay in bed all day,
staring at the popcorn ceiling
in numbness.

the kind of sad that means
yesterday I couldn't get myself to eat a bite,
but today I can't stop filling my mouth
to fill a void.

the kind of sad that means
I went to the grocery store just to look around
and asked an employee about a cat toy sale
just to talk to someone.

the kind of sad that means
I stopped taking my meds a week ago,
because what's the point anymore
when I still feel like this?

the kind of sad that means
I get high and look into my own eyes in the mirror
just to try to remember who I am
because I don't recognize her.

the kind of sad that means
I've been fantasizing about
reaching a blade into my skin,
just to feel anything,
for so long it seems normal.
and I'm not sure what normal is anymore.

I feel sad.

I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise
when I've tried every drug to fix it
over the last decade of telling myself
"just get through one more day"
every morning.
a little free form just to get my thoughts out
moss May 2020
I stepped on the scale the other day.
It startled me in an unpleasant way.
What the number was, I'd rather not say.
Doesn't seem like you'd care anyway.

But it bothered me, and I know why.
Not the weight on my *** or thighs,
But the weary look inside my eyes,
As I gaze in the mirror, pinch my flesh, and sigh.

Effortlessly, I lose my appetite,
Without putting up any kind of fight.
My insides grumpled through the night,
But I refuse to take a bite.

My therapist thinks it's about control,
Something deeper within my soul.
The hunger makes me feel more whole,
But it slowly begins to take its toll.

I learned to enjoy the weakening pain,
Feeling the blood slow in my veins,
Any movement, a forceful strain,
But it makes sense inside my brain.

Feeling cold in a warm room is a success,
But I am not quite able to express,
Why I keep coming back, why I regress,
When I feel the slightest stress.
moss Dec 2015
anxiety stampers on my stomach
worry hampers with my heart
in my throat there lies a hummock
slowly tearing me apart

as it sits there, suffocating
obstructing my wounded airways
my mental health begins degrading
and leaves me in a foggy haze
moss Mar 2015
She was in love
With old books.
She was in love with
The way they smelled
As she flipped the pages
And felt the air hit her face.
She was in love with
The rough texture
Of the paper worn over time.
She was in love with
The yellowed tint of the pages
And the crumple of water spots.
She was in love with
The broken and tattered
Binding that crinkled
When you touched it.
But most of all,
She was in love with
The stories that not only
The words written in them held
But the stories behind each
Coffee stain and torn corner.
The idea that this book
Had connected with
So many other people
Enchanted her,
And she wondered if
Maybe she wasn't as
Strange and odd
As people told her.
And she thought that just
Maybe she wasn't as
Alone as she felt.
moss May 2015
The words "once upon a time"
Begin a fantacy story
Who's seemingly shallow rhyme
Creates a deep allegory

The princess traped, endangered
Our deepest fears are revealed
Yet, saved by the kind stranger
Our wishes are to be appealed

The prince fighting, enthralling
Our search for love is now released
Always hopes for belonging
Our strong courage not so repressed

Then "happily ever after"
Soon ends our magnificent tale
But what is happy hereafter,
Far beyond this twisting trail?
moss Oct 2015
"there are never enough hours in the day"
a thought that consumes many with dismay
so many joys continue to decay
as we watch our lives waste away
one through twelve is where we stay
slowly vigor turns to grey
moss Aug 2015
One week left
'til school starts
One week left
'til I fall apart

Preparations begin
for sleepless nights
Frustrations give in
to haunting frights

Anxiety skyrockets
in my weary mind
Checking all my pockets
to see if I can find

Time

*Just a little bit longer
Of having sanity as an option
I'm not ready for school to start. Please notify me if you know where to find and how to hire a time lord.
moss May 2020
the orchid's leaves are dry and crumbled
like a page who's margins are torched
it's reaching stem has now been humbled
to a brittle twig, it's life scorched

for a time, it was forgotten
refound, but beyond salvation
its roots becoming rotten
doomed to damnation

...

a girl cries on the kitchen floor
clutching the *** to her teary cheek
mind plagued by the sickly gore
she's too distressed to even speak

the tab of paper placed on her tongue
opened her eyes to the life that's lost
her emotions unhinged and free to run
the chemicals revealing the true cost

...

the orchid, wilted, a symbol for love
she's thrown away and betrayed
but too painful to be let go of
and too broken to have stayed

he gifted it to her in their last moment
of a devastating goodbye
she needs to reconcile- the flower is gone
but she isn't ready for it to die
there's no such thing as a bad trip; only harder ones.
moss Jul 2015
Sometimes when I look in the mirror
I feel like I am not what I see
The whole world might run in terror
If they were to truly see me

See, all I do is live in this shell
This isn't who I really am
I only need a dark place to dwell
This show I give is just a sham

I'm not a lump of organs and flesh
That eats and walks and ***** in breath
With this body, I can't seem to mesh
Maybe that's why I do not fear death

In my conscious mind is where I live
Trapped here inside my aching skull
If you would see what I have to give
I may no longer seem so dull

It's not my brain that's the hurricane
It's only me, a parasite
Here inside this host of cellophane
Always in invisible plight
Look at ME! No, not my face, not my mask, not my shell... please look at ME.

"Take away this mask of flesh and bone, and see me for my soul alone." - Hannah Baker (a character from Jay Asher's novel 13 Reasons Why)
moss Jan 2016
they are the decorations for baby showers
and the gardens that are filled with flowers
they are the calm aesthetic of quiet hours
and the bricks that build princess towers

they are the clouds that fill the sunrise
and the warmest, mid-day, sunny skies
they are the bittersweet goodbyes
and the scent of grandma's cherry pies

it seems that they are colored in pastel
but their tender act may be a shell
and you may not be able to tell
because they have you under their spell
People are so fake.
moss Mar 2015
you loosened your grip
let the blood run back
into your white knuckles
and you let it slip through your fingertips
you knew what you were doing
you told yourself it was for the best
you let yourself feel lonely
you needed time to rest
but now you're looking back
the past is always viewed
through the rose-colored glasses
that you wear upon your face
you long for what you once held dear
though you thought you had moved on
so take your glasses off
stare into your own reflection
remind yourself why you left it
because pedaling backwards
doesn't reverse your bicycle
it  only prevents you
from moving forward
#life #past #end #rest #lonely #bicycle #reverse
moss Nov 2015
I am not darkness, I am not light
I am not bound by day or by night
I am not evil, I am not good
I am not always quite understood
I am not sour, I am not sweet
I am not gullible for your deceit
I am not winter, I am not spring
I am no bee, but my knife will sting
moss Oct 2015
what's this liquid falling from the sky
with its pitter-patter, pitter-patter?
to the drought of summer, it says "goodbye"
with its splitter-splatter, splitter-splatter!
look and watch as the world grows vibrant
as it pitter-patters, pitter-patters!
oh, thank you, dear clouds, for being our hydrant
as it splitter-splatters, splitter-splatters!
watch as the parched lives are finally quenched
by its pitter-patter, pitter-patter!
the once dry earth at last is drenched
by its splitter-splatter, splitter-splatter!
It just rained here today for the first time in almost three months, at least the first time it's rained beyond a slight mist, and I'm so happy.
moss Aug 2015
5
monkey bars
they were all she could hold on to
when the ground crumbled
beneath her trembling feet

4
swings
they were the metronomes
that conducted her life
so she could stay together

3
slides
they helped her explain
what she was feeling
when everything was moving too fast

2
basketball hoops
they showed her how to do
what other people wanted
to get what she needed

1*
merry-go-round*
that taught her how not to puke
when things wouldn't stop spinning
inside of her head
Life is just a playground full of little children and their games.
moss May 2015
Why do I like poetry?
The answer isn't easy.
I've never been good at explaining.
To me, it always seemed so draining.

Well, you see,
Poetry is good to me.
I've never been good at conversation.
I always have too many hesitations.

I can express how I feel.
I am free to be real.
I've never been good at opening up.
My walls are far too thick to touch.

But somehow rhyme,
Puts a hold on time.
And I feel so liberated
And a little less frustrated.

Since I'm impaired in verbal communication,
It seems that poetry has been a useful innovation.
These words are easily writable,
Yet make me feel so much less vulnerable.

Poetry is a passionate way to express emotion,
Without causing chaos and commotion.
You can interpret poetry whatever way,
You feel most like this particular day.

Poetry is liberation
Free from condemnation
Poetry rids life
Of all its strife
Sorry this one *****. Oops. I dont even care. Whatever. Oh well... ugh
moss Jun 2016
I want you to know
But I don't want to tell
I want you to hear
But I don't want to speak
I want you to see
*But I don't want to show
moss May 2015
I always wondered why people frowned at me
Without reason or apparent controversy
Until I was told, against all odds
That supposedly my face is the cause.

"Resting ***** face" is what they call it
They say my eyes glare out of their sockets
And honestly this makes no sense
I have to come to my own defence.

Are you mad?
Are you sad?
Are you okay?
I thought she hated me...


Yes, it's true, I've heard it all
Somehow I'm the one who takes the fall
For any petty issue that's produced
From your misreading! It's no abuse!

What? No, I'm fine. I was just thinking.
Why are you always pick, pick, picking?
Just leave me alone. I've done no wrong!
What do you want? Me to burst into song?

Do you know how much effort it takes to keep
A smile on my face while I'm falling asleep?
If it bothers you, don't look at me.
I'm really not trying to mislead.

Look, I'm sorry if you're offeneded.
I just think it's time that this has ended.
I don't want to lose any more friends
Because the way my face naturally bends.

Please understand that I don't mean
The expression my resting ***** face puts on for me.
Haha! All my life i've had issues with people misunderstanding me because of my resting ***** face. My mom would tell a teacher that they were my favorite and they'd be like "i thought she hated me". Basically on an hourly basis i get asked if I'm mad or upset and you know its just so exhausting to have to smile all the time.
moss Jan 2016
sometimes I just wonder
if sunflowers feel sad
if they're hiding thunder
beneath their petals' glad

what if their color lies
and though they're bright and yellow
they prefer cloudy skies
and feel a little mellow

maybe that is why they wilt
because no one ever expects
their lack of joy fills them with guilt
and we ignore the effects
moss Jun 2015
all she ever was, was a satin soul
she hoped that, one day, he'd make her whole
before she was singed by the burning coal
before she completely lost control

her fabric wasn't ever truly real
it was only soft to touch and to feel
she only wanted the silk's smooth appeal
her forgery she was forced to conceal

she stuck with satin, closed within her walls
but always wondered what was down the hall
still there she sits, that little satin doll
and she will always be afraid to fall
moss Nov 2015
my mind is always filled up with clutter
like butterfly wings, my thoughts flutter
back and forth they go from this to that and back
overthinking leads to constant anxiety attacks
every minute, sound, every little noise
distracts me, breaks down my temporary poise
no detail ever escapes my acute notice
making it nearly impossible to focus
I cannot simply think of just one thing
for there are far too many connecting strings
that tie me to brand new topics that start rolling
as I keep the old thoughts still ongoing
sometimes I almost enjoy it
other times it makes me have a fit
but oh well, it's just me and my brain
until I'm kicked out by a migraine

so what? my head's a little bit scattered
but is that really always what matters?
moss Mar 2016
Like a 4th grade science experiment
Of a tornado in a bottle
She can't control her temperament
And her explosions look so mottled
Her colors splatter on the walls
When she finally explodes
She pours out like Niagara Falls
With soda and mentos
I was going through the notes in my phone when I found this from about a month ago.
moss Oct 2015
the sea shell spirals with complexity
ridges, holes, and scars
proclaim its years of inner ebony
it represents what we all are
once very much alive on the inside
but after having traveled so far
our first instinct is to hide
and now collected in glass jars
we are no longer full of sea and sand
weighed down and covered in tar
we've been stranded on the land
she sells sea shells by the sea shore
moss Jan 2016
there are seven billion puzzles
on this third rotating planet
each one has their troubles
in this world that we inhabit

these seven billion mysteries
hold secrets left unshared
they all have their histories
but their futures make them scared

and these seven billion riddles
leave you speechless, without answers
with pieces missing from their middles
we're unconscious of their cancer
I always found the idea that everyone is a puzzle that can never be completely solved to be both a beautiful and a devastating concept at the same time. People are fascinating.
moss Feb 2015
She was a volcano waiting to erupt;
She was a hurricane barely kept off the shore.
And when she fell to the ground,
And shattered into a thousand shards of hurt,
They did not understand why
Because she had become so good at hiding.
They told her to keep it together
And she followed their orders well.
She kept her feelings hidden from the world.
And after a while, it became too hard,
So she started to keep her feelings from herself.
And after a while, she became confused.
She didn’t remember how to feel anything;
She didn’t remember if she could.
And everyone else thought she was fine.
They applauded how well they thought she was doing.
But they did not know what they had done.
They trapped her in a cage and bolted the gate,
Not caring if the rusty bars tore her flesh,
And she sank along the wall as she tried to catch
A gulp of air polluted by the words of others.
She listened as they chanted their rhymes
About stick and stones as she thought about
All her broken bones.
They didn’t understand why she was lonely
When a swarm of people came at her
From every side of her body.
But she felt like a whale in a school of clown fish.
They told her to be herself
But she knew deep down that
That was the last thing they wanted her to be.
She let them pour her into a mold
That they wanted everyone to fill,
But when she got worn out of being numb
She couldn’t remember how to feel.

She tried to feel something, anything,
Even if it was pain,
But she couldn’t remember how.
It had become too late.
moss Sep 2015
Tell me, tell me
What makes you tick?
What makes your mind free
From everyone's tricks?

Show me, show me
All of your scars
All that you want to be
And all that you are

Let me, let me
Know all about you
Hit me with your debris
And make my feelings new
moss May 2015
the lightning flashes
then followed by the thunder
foundations shudder
moss Jul 2015
it is in the silence that we hear
our innermost screams
so we keep our heads busy with noise
anything to avoid the dark abyss
that we all know will come upon us
when we think everything is calm
even though we know it never will be

the storms inside of us
will continue to rage
until the day we die
moss Oct 2016
The clouds are passing quickly
Too fast to say hello
The world is rushing past me
And I'm still stuck in slow-mo
10/12/2016
moss May 2015
Deeply she fell
Under his spell
The wishing well
Just couldn't tell
Or hear her yells
Right through her cell
Within it dwells
Her living hell
moss May 2015
summer is my freedom
stress and anxiety leave me
my mind breaks the chains
School needs to end like right now. Three more weeks...
moss Aug 2015
< sunset >
bring me your celestial wonders of light
show me your colors of pluto and mars
quickly before the sky fades into the night

< swing set >
sway me so high that I fall into the clouds
launch me up into the moon and stars
quickly before we're covered by darkness' shroud
moss Oct 2015
the flock of ominous black birds,
in a plethora of numbers beyond words,
lands in swarms on swampy, dark mud
as the dead yellow grass is washed away by the flood.
the sky is heavy, low, and gray,
with a gravitational force of depression and dismay.
our vision clouded, we no longer can gaze
upon the warmth of the sun's sweet rays.
moss May 2015
It's been asked before
But nevermore
Why does the caged bird sing?

He's been locked away
No sight of day
Why does the caged bird sing?

His vision's blocked
Out of sight, he's locked
Why does the caged bird sing?

No soul to hear
His voice so clear
Why does the caged bird sing?

But oh how his song
Is out of tune, it's wrong
Why does the caged bird sing?

Maybe what he sings
Isn't what it seems
Maybe it's only screams.
"We think the caged birds sing, when indeed they cry."
-John Webster
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