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  Sep 2018 lisa
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
  Sep 2018 lisa
Don't tell me I'm pretty
Tell me that I'm passionate
That I have drive
Tell me that I make you laugh
That I know how to make your day better
Don't tell me I seem nice
Tell me that I'm kind and compassionate
Tell me that I'm not afraid to dream and to dream big
Don't tell me I'm perfect
Tell me the you love me despite my flaws
That you want to spend the rest of your life with me
Don't tell me I'm beautiful
Tell me that you'll be faithful and forever true
lisa Sep 2018
I used to be so tired
Those days I often thought about my death
My fantasies involved the kitchen knife

I never had the courage to hurt myself
The attention it might bring, it scared me
The thought of people noticing me, even in death, horrified me
I thought, how embarrassing, how weak

I hardly ever cried back then
I was more angry than sad, more tired than angry
But I cried the day I tried to die

I swallowed as many pills as I could fathom
No one was home, but I still did it with an impatient pace
I was calm when I thought my final words to myself
And I sat in the corner of my kitchen floor,
Hoping that someone would find me despite not wanting to be seen
I wanted that


I puked it all out


I cried
I cleaned the mess
I went to bed

I lived.
i only ever talked about my suicide attempt with like 1 or 2 people, i forget but it's something that i remember vividly. at the time i had no friends to care about me, and i isolated myself from my family. i have friends now, and im very close with my family now. things are better now.
lisa Sep 2018
It's not your dreamy scenery
or the kiss she stained you with.
It's not the words she addressed to me
or the sketch accompanying it.

It's the genuine sentiment you symbolize,
that I both hate and love.
It's the arguments and the picnics
that you remind me of.

It's not your fault
You represent her petty little game.
That I still hold her in my heart,
It's not you I blame.

I've tried to rip you, burn you, trash you,
Yet there you sit on my windowsill
Teasing the memories that despite the time,
are vivid in my mind, still.

It's behind her.
It's behind me.
It's over.
It's done.

You're all I have left.
Please don't weather or tear.
Now that she's gone
and I am still here.
(olivia if you're reading this i hope you have a terrible day :) my teacher gave us a prompt on valentine's day to write a love letter to an inanimate object. this ended up being another submission to my school's literary magazine last year.

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