sadgirl: Favorites

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Michelle Garcia

I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.

I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.

You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.

The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?

Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches

Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings

The world does not understand love

nor the poets that create it.

#love #poetry #word #brain #mental #spoken #poets #heartache #slam

Jun 2017 sadgirl

A series of letters to misogynists

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Meg

A series of letters to misogynists

Dear misogynists,

Let’s be very clear here.
Boys are not ******* by nature. It’s not in their genetic makeup to automatically be mean-spirited or cruel. Being born with a ***** does not predispose anyone to being the kind of person whose hands make a welcome mat of my hipbones, who licks his lips as if looking at an appetizer, whose breath laced with tequila, privilege, and desperation slurs "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, baby?" from the other side of the street.
Genetics does not do that. Society does.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I know Title IX better than my own social security number. It is the reason I have to clench my keys in white-knuckled fists when I walk home from school. It is the reason I avoid eye contact at all costs because that "counts as permission." It is the reason I am told my mouth is useless unless he's the one putting something in it. It is the reason women all over this ******* planet get asked "Well... What were you wearing?" because apparently my outfit speaks louder than my voice, but you must not have met me because I can be pretty **** loud.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I am told "You know boys won't like you if you don't stop with that feminist crap." Who the **** asked you? If you think that passionately wanting equality and not being afraid to voice that is "crap," I don't want you to like me anyway; in fact, I want you as far away from me as ******* possible. I don't give a **** about your disapproval and I never will.

Dear misogynists,

Maybe you're right - "locker room talk" is as American as baseball, or apple pie, or roofies. "How could he possibly help himself? If he saw you in that dress, what was he supposed to do? NOT assume you wanted him??"
YES. That's exactly what he was supposed to do: NOT assume I wanted him, or anyone else in the room for that matter. Stop excusing ****** harassment because "boys will be boys;" my skirt is not an invitation, nor is anything but the sober word "yes" - and I include the word "sober" because yes, it does make a difference.

Dear misogynists,

So no. I don't give a ****.
And no. I won't stop with "that feminist crap."
And no. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be held accountable for their actions, just like everybody else.
And yes. I do kiss my mother with this mouth, but you can keep dreaming.

Signed, a Feminist

Slam poem

#feminism #slampoetry

Jun 2017 sadgirl

llllllllll

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Jay earnest

llllllllll

love is just a chemical reaction in the brain,

and *** dolls
are purely silicone.

humans are 90% water,
and 10% carbon.

scratch tickets usually yield bad results.

soda is bad for the kidneys.

exercise hurts the back after prolonged periods.

elderly men are going to die.

young men are going to die.

women are going to die.

this ant is going to die,

and he never knew love

Jun 2017 sadgirl

10 Reasons to date a Girl with Depression (A Slam Poem)

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Jenna Vaitkunas

10 Reasons to date a Girl with Depression (A Slam Poem)

A Response to Thought Catalog

Number One.
"She won't touch your stuff
because she doesn't want to do anything"
Which also includes leaving her bed
before six pm
meeting your friends
or seeing the movie you've been begging her to see
since the trailer came out last year

Number Two
"She'll probably forget you borrowed
money from her"
or to pay the bills,
or your birthday
or getting groceries

Number Three
"She's a cheap date"
more than likely because
she doesn't care where you go
but she wants to be back in her bed
the minuet she gets into your car
because now her insecurities
are buzzing in her ears
and clawing at her throat

Number Four
"She probably doesn't want to
meet your family"
sitting in her room terrified that
she's not good enough
that she will never be good enough
and they won't accept her

Number Five
"She will probably get drunk
and you can have *** with her"

Number Six
"You can get free drugs!"
she knows about her missing
pain pills and antidepressants
but she won't say a thing because
you love her, right?
it's selfish of her to think she needs those
she has you. right?

Number Seven
"She has poor memory
and a short attention span"
Unaware of whether its Monday or Thursday
or if she ate this week

Number Eight
"She won't talk that much"
instead she can soak up your words
and turn them against herself
until they infect her insides with acidic words
ugly/fat/ugly/stupid/ugly/useless/ugly/worthless

Number Nine
"She'll pamper you because
she's sensitive"
Here's the newest game you wanted
I hope it makes up for me not being good enough
Here's some money, go out with friends
I don't want to bring you down

Number Ten
"It'll make you look better"
She's a charity case
a lost cause
who lost herself
but she's *so lucky she found you
She's like an accessory
that you drag around
she'll make you look perfect
won't she?
It's supposed to be simple.
Dating the dead girl walking.
besides the fact she'll
bawl her eyes out every time
you grab your keys
or the fact you have to deal with
the burden of having to hide
your mother's steak knives
so you can sleep in peace
without worrying whether
you will find her lifeless body
on your bathroom floor
Number ten
You can romanticize
the pain she goes through everyday
while her hourglass hearts
last grain of sand falls to the bottom
but you will NEVER
be able
to say you were the hero.

This probably sounds worse written than spoken but eh

#poetry #word #depression #thoughts #spoken #slam

Jun 2017 sadgirl

The Humboldt County Blues

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Sjr1000

The Humboldt County Blues

She's texting me from
old L.A.
Heading north on the El Camino Real
driving fast on 101

I'm heading west
from Paradise, Nevada
No work here
It's all shut down

Driving through
Susanville
Hat Creek
Shingletown
Redding
Across the burning Trinity Alps
the river sure is beautiful
My heart is soaring,
just missed that landslide
late last night

Meeting my life in Humboldt County

She, from the South
Me, from the East
We cross that
Redwood Curtain
Right into the heart of the Emerald Triangle

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County

They say the streets
are lined with
green gold

The family "grows,"
up in the hills
where everyone is welcome
to trim scene solutions,
the emerald gardens
with trees six feet high
Glistening buds as big as your fist,
Everyone is smiling
Everyone is high
sure I may reek
of that Marijuana resin
but two hundred dollars a day
flirting all the way
all I can eat
all I can ****
sounds a lot like heaven to me.

I'll be getting that 215
growing plants
as far as the eye can see
Another millennium
with back problems, insomnia and anxiety.
My fortune is just waiting for me.

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Like an old Woody Guthrie tune
you ain't gonna find nothing
without that dough re me

There ain't no doubt
that ****, so pure
will get you so high
you'll be wishing your still alive
No matter how high you get
There will still be reality.

Gotta get out of this indoor grow
Black mold growing up the walls
The floors are buckling
The ceiling too
The electrical is sparking
Another landlord on the hook
What's a boy to do?

The methamphetamine
The ****** machine
Trying not to blow my face off
with a butane tank
making that concentrated cannabis

Cold and wet
sleeping bag soaked on the beach,
A tent in the Devil's Playground
the homeless encampment
behind the Bayshore Mall
that's what I met
and don't leave your ****,
It'll be gone in a quick minute.

The gardens are beautiful
good chance I'll never see 'em
The man with the ball cap
The big *** truck
holding a shot gun
"Better move on, son,
No trespassing here. "

I'm just
another dread locked kid
on the Arcata Plaza
with a dog I can't take care of

Down in Eureka
on concrete Broadway
Fourth Street
Fifth Street
Old Town
Where the fights break out
The cops they have no patience
Another Drunk in Public
drunk tank
Back on those same streets
at one a.m.

Get too crazy
5150 for an overnight stay,
second floor in County Mental Health,
walls closing in,
Psychiatrist says
"We ain't got nothing for ya,
good luck out there. "

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Once here
there is no way out
Panhandlers
Hitchhikers
on every corner
No one's giving out
No one's picking up

I'm gonna need my family
to send that Moneygram
Get me on a Greyhound Bus
haven't heard a word from them yet.

Even the police say
No one's gonna accept me,
So they ain't gonna pay.

I've been
Trying to leave a message
for my sweet love,
haven't seen her for a month,
She headed up to Trinidad
with a would be spiritual monk

The Redwoods spiral to the skies
The ranchers own the green
pastured hills
The beaches are vast and empty
The ocean is wilderness wild
waiting for the tsunami
turn your back on the ocean
you may fall in
many have fallen
few survive
on the most exquisite
blue sky day
you've ever seen.

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County.

Inspired by Bruce Springsteen's Atlantic City.
For r who told me to write this a couple of years ago. I should add that Humboldt County is considered the Marijuana capital of the U.S., lures many young kids thinking their going to find riches and nirvana.

Jun 2017 sadgirl

I Can't Write This Poem

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Gibson

I Can't Write This Poem

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

Jun 2017 sadgirl

still you

Jun 2017 sadgirl

--nika

still you

there's a sense of loneliness that creeps up my heart at 2 in the morning. it is the loneliness that i have felt since you left without any goodbyes.

i look up and see nothing but the emptiness of a dimly lit and cold room - shivering, not because of the cold breeze the air conditioning blows but because of the lost of the warmth from your words and presence. maybe, you can drop a message or a note? something that can remind me of you, oh God, who am i kidding? everything reminds me of you.

it is the stuffed toy that still lies on a spot beside my pillow, hoping that somewhat it can give me comfort.

the glow in the dark stars on my cabinet; because you've always loved science, the stars and space.

my brother's bedsheet; just because coincidentally, he had to have it in your favorite character.

some poem that i've scrolled through; just because the words fit you like a puzzle.

just like that, everything is all about you.

you always seem to find a way to make it back into my life without knowing it, nor wanting it. because in reality, all these are just my excuses to remember you, even if you don't remember me at all.

after all this time

#memories #love #sad #sigh #always #loneliness

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Bang

Jun 2017 sadgirl

John Edward Smallshaw

Bang

We are being
itemised
stacked up
racked up
politicised,

some are being
radicalised
does that surprise you?

Jun 2017 sadgirl

$4.29 for a pen??

Jun 2017 sadgirl

Eric L Warner

$4.29 for a pen??

"That's outrageous!" He said.
"You're a ******* fool" I muttered.
That's pennies on the dream.
If you think that the four dollars
And 29 cents is for a piece of plastic with some ink and a ballpoint then you're probably just making a grocery list.
A pen is not for scribbling to do lists.
There is an app for that.

A pen is for unlocking dreams and opening windows.
It's for recording the nightmares and victories of a life worth living.
If you don't have PTSD from one thing or another by 28, then you aren't living right.

"You're a madman" he chuckled.
Maybe so.
But I think the price is worth it.