my friend said she’s Quirky Angsty And different She’s not she’s insecure And I don’t mean any offence bu that statement But she thinks the chains around her neck make her appeal to her abuser And the fact that she’s never, really, properly drunk and yet pretends she’s wild and has lives lives she hasn’t She says “ if you ever need someone to be a crackhead I’m right here” She’s not She’s insecure She has sisters I have brothers And although we’re no longer defined by genders I think we are now She wants to be like her younger sister But she’s not popular like her She lacks for charisma But is sweet and kind She thinks “cage the elephant” is indie music And thinks listening to the strokes makes her cool And that turning of capital letters on her phone somehow makes her “not like other girls” She’s wrong I don’t do any of that **** and I don’t pretend to be quirky, angsty, and different And all the boys prefer me. And yet I’m insecure She should go back to fan-girling over Shakespeare And writing books and poetry for fun You’re not Quirky Angsty And different you’re just insecure Ok yeah good. ? ! Got it perf. Vibes. Cool,,, lel!’v
this isn't meant to cause offence just meant to make an observation on fakeness (As said by Hugo) but yeah. enjoy and don't take it TOO personally
ME: I’ve called you all here today to ask you something. BROTHER 1: [looking sideways at the door] BROTHER 2: Hmm. MOM: [smiling widely in that way that says she knows] DAD: [smiling widely in that way that says he doesn’t] ME: To be frank, I don’t think you all like each other very much. Is that true? MOM: [smile gets tighter, hand reaches towards phone] DAD: No, it’s not. [scratching side of head nervously] BROTHER 2: Hmm. BROTHER 1: You all bore me. ME: We know we do. MOM: [typing furiously] [silence punctuated by dog licking his leg] ME: So, now what? BROTHER 1: [rolling eyes slowly and obviously] What do you mean, now what? ME: Well, I mean where do we go from here? MOM: We don’t. We just stay here or nothing at all. BROTHER 2: Hmm. DAD: What else can we do? How do we know doing anything at all would be better? ME: I am tired of writing poems in my head about us. We have to do something. [silence punctuated by dog coughing] BROTHER 1: ******* and your poems. Do you want to hang out? MOM: I love you all but I can’t stand any of you. BROTHER 2: Can we be done now? ME: We’ll never be done. ALL: We’ll never be done. [dog sneezes]
i cannot post this on my poetry instagram bc my family might see it so have this… thing… idk
Sometimes, I think that getting a piercing would make me feel better as if-- poking and prodding my skin, my face, with surgical steel and permanent ink like I'm some eighth grade dissection lab, would allow me to remove and dispose of all the useless parts that make me from the ground up, like an architectural, design.
I really like Anne Sexton, so I wanted to try my hand at writing in the mode of confessional poetry... I wrote this earlier this afternoon.
Could you be different? Truly? Or have I gone too far yet again? My love, you are the stuff of dreams With your crystalline eyes and paint-stained fingertips Those delicate movements from roughly hewn hands pluck gracefully on my heartstrings That crooked smile, so clever and mischievous; it could get away with ****** You are not for the faint of heart… But then again… Neither am I
I can hear myself asking, panicked and shaky “Why is the room so small? Why is it so small?” The room I’ve slept in for four hundred nights Feels so unfamiliar, as if I’m seeing it through a new lens ****-tinted speactacles I rock my body back and forth, hush my thoughts And tell myself “it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay” But I hear nothing but protests An iniside rally, telling me that the world is ending “Your friends are leaving” “Your parents hate you” ”You are a failure” But I keep screaming “it’s okay” Hoping that soon It will be.