It's 3 a.m, she's wide awake,
Everyone else is dead asleep.
She tries to find someone to talk to.
None of her friends care..
The guy she likes isn't answering.
There's no one left.
So she sits in her room,
Drowning in her own tears.
She finds herself with a bottle of pills,
Takes one, two, four, twenty, fourty-seven, eighty-six..
In the morning everyone checks their phones,
She said good-bye to everyone over text,
But left a note for the only one who helped her.
No one could figure out why she took her life..
But the one who always helped her knew why.
My heart dressed in polka dots and dark shades
Hair and hurt sitting on shoulder blades
Across rose-colored skin,
I brush my fingers over bumps and scarred perfection.
Dance with me in a pit of quicksand, rockabilly babe
And help me understand that I don't need to be afraid
We are children with short attention spans
and short term parents,
and it's apparent, in this short span of time,
I love you.
Antarctic stares from Arizona eyes; white knuckles, heavy blue pores.
No, nothing changed you anymore.
Rapid touches to the abdomen, the sound of violins breathed in your mind
and he's not usually like this, you said, "He's actually really kind."
What didn't **** you, left you broken.
And you had misspoken, as your words slurred into tears that never fell,
after a fifth of alcohol and half a night of hell,
as you revealed that you thought without him you were nothing at all.
You whispered this
while I cried to you for the last time through a cellular call,
through an invisible, static, insurmountable wall.
And I disagreed because I had seen it all:
heavy blues and brave bloodshot brown eyes,
"Please don't, I think there's more to you than you realize."
I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."
Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.
Her eyes reflect a sadness
that I long to understand
so I'll swim in pools of hazel
float upon warm salty tears
that will flow onto her *****
be absorbed into her skin
catch a ride within the network
of veins leading to her heart
I'll immerse in her dark secrets
read the stories hidden there
maybe then I can unfathom
sorrows of my lady fair
Linda Pahl, 5/23/14
if i am smiling,
it doesn't mean
if i am laughing,
it doesn't mean
if i am having fun,
it doesn't mean
it only means
i'm too sad
to do anything else,
besides hide under
masks which include
fake smiles and
a happy soul.
It is 4:30 in the afternoon
And I tell you
This is my favorite time of day.
You ask why
So I point to the gold
Streaming in the window,
Bouncing off the dust.
And you kiss me.
Maybe 4:31 in the afternoon
Is my favorite time of day.
I can fake my identity and try to look happy,
but its all just a cover.
Take a swig from the flask and remove the last mask
only to find another.
There was once a time when I knew myself,
but now I'm not so sure.
All semblance of self-worth lay eroding in the dirt,
and its all thanks to her.
It's not really her fault, I'm truly to blame.
I grew selfish out of fear.
Afraid of being alone, I couldn't let her go
and now she's nowhere near.
A quick freestyle that I did.
there was always time
for laughter and making love
but never enough