Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
writteninribon Jan 2021
She’s been trapped in a memory,
Missing out on a remedy,
****** up off Hennessy,
She pretends to be what her friends believe.
Up all night, she dances with the devil,
But when she’s all alone she remembers,
She’s a lost soul – a pretender.
it feels good not to wear a mask when im with her. im consumed by all these happy feelings that i forget to pretend, and i think that's why she's the closest thing i could call home.
Felicity Paris Apr 2020
i feel so large
in a room of small things
the walls are all white
but somehow i'm abstract art
a sculpture with no visible meaning
sharp edges, dangerous to touch
i don't quite fit in with everything else
the white room
the white walls
Kelsey Dec 2019
I made them laugh
I made them smile
I found my purpose
For a while

But they kept laughing
When I said nothing to chuckle
Then they stared and they pointed
As my knees began to buckle

"But I was useful"
That's what I thought
But a delusional clown
Fits in with naught.
Finding your place in a work setting can be difficult, especially when you're so different from your coworkers.
Amarie Oct 2019
It seems that all people can really do these days is attempt to fit themselves into boxes. The flimsy kind, made out of cardboard and ready to collapse at any moment. Attempt is the key word here. People attempt to fold their bodies into these tiny compartments, but we aren’t contortionists, so we don’t do a good job at fitting all of ourselves inside the constraints of the brown-papered walls. So we take off pieces of who we are - for some only knicks of excess skin are removed, for others entire limbs are ripped off and left behind.

Scarring us, killing us. And we let it, and we like it. As cruel and sadistic as it may sound, we learn to crave the pain if it means feeling the relief of fitting in... We’re obsessed with boxes, we believe that without them, we would die when in reality, they are the things that are killing us - suffocating and preventing us from seeing the beautiful light.

But we, we are the ones to seal our fate - I mean seal the tape that folds the ***** and leaves only a crack to glimpse the outside world. The outside world, the fearful world, scary, brutal, dangerous, complex, repulsive, hateful; kind, inviting, simple, beautiful, safe. We’re so afraid of losing these stupid boxes that we rarely open them up to step outside and feel what it is like to stretch our limbs and taste clean air as the sunshine kisses our malnourished skin.

These boxes are killing us and we are letting them because we were tricked to believe that the light is darkness, up is down, right is wrong, pain is happiness, life is death. You’d think that people would want to escape these boxes, to fuel their desire for something better, but these boxes are the abuser in a toxic relationship.

And honey, it feels like there ain’t no escaping them because maybe they aren’t that bad, maybe they did some good, maybe they keep us safe, maybe this is as good as it gets, maybe I don’t want to leave these boxes because, after all they’re just human - the flimsy cardboard boxes were made by humans. The very thing that causes us so much pain was constructed by our own hands in front of our very own eyes. We made these boxes and yet we don’t know how to destroy them, how to get rid of and live without them.

Maybe the boxes don’t need to change, maybe we do - funny how the boxes get you to think that you’re the one who needs changing- but maybe we do. The boxes are a product of our own creation, and maybe if we change ourselves, the boxes will change too...

I don’t think that these boxes will ever disappear all together. No, they’re too much a part of us, a manifestation of our own flimsy knowledge and broken understanding packaged in the form of societal expectations and confinement to provide some structure in an otherwise chaotic world.

No, the boxes won’t leave, but maybe we can learn that it’s okay to leave them - it’s okay that parts or the entirety of us in no shape or form could ever possibly fit inside of them. That’s scary, there’s no denying it. To think that you don’t fit into something is terrifying, but that just means we can create our own space unconfined by stupid, flimsy, cardboard boxes.
Eloisa Jul 2019
Yes, you are indeed right.
I’m weird and a bit strange
unconventional, odd, different.
But no,
I do not want to cut myself into pieces to suit
to your approval of what’s normal
and what’s needed.
I do not need to edit myself to fit in.
I do not need to apologize for what
and who I am.
I am strong enough to live my life in my own terms.
I dance to the beat of my own music.
It doesn’t matter if nobody understands me.
I am just being me.
I am real.
I am beautiful.
I am unique.
I am a proud misfit.
~ A co-worker asked me a week ago of what I usually do during my free time and I  answered that I read poetry and scribble some pieces most of the time. Shaking his head, my reply invited a chuckle and an eye roll  from the others as well.
Sarra Apr 2019
You want to please them.

Fit in their box.

Though your soul is too big
your dreams too wild
your feelings too strong
your sight too vast.

Though your heart is chained
your mind  blocked
your senses numbed
your visions faded.

You keep trying.

You want to belong.
Anne Castillo Nov 2018
I often find myself choosing
The option that pleases people
Even if it doesn't
I rather not have the conflict
Of choosing something different
But because of it
I see myself
Burdened with lines and cages
Boundaries and limitations
Filled with unwanted self expectations
To fit in so I'm not left out
To avoid having to explain myself
Why am I like this
Why do I like this
And then ask myself
Why do I still feel unwanted
I put myself in this box
Even though I didn't have to
Now I will tear this box
And build a fort or castle
Just because I want to
mjad Sep 2018
It's become a routine
Letting guys use me
I settle for below my league
Or so my friends tell me
From mental disabilities
To family issues
They still get me on my knees
I don't want to be the lock
I want to be the keys
Choosing which door I fit
Not letting them unlock me
Grace Ann May 2018
Contrary to most Catholics my mother
believes in reincarnation
I clearly was a fish
bigger in my mind
longing for the ocean but trapped in the
needs of freshwater
But unlike my mind
my soul longs for puddles
I was a fish in a past life and I’m still
trying to get used to the idea that I am
now on land.

    --Is this homesickness?
I crave the unattainable.
Next page