zeebee 14h
all those months ago,
you told me that
i don't get angry.
i don't have a temper.

you're right, you know.
i grew up
a target of anger.
anger was in my blood.
and that blood was a scarlet crosshairs
painted on my back,
a poison to my fragile skin.

my household was
the veritable entirety
of the world i knew.
it was ruled
with harsh words
not the words that make you angry
but the words that you say
and regret
and can't take back.

i was raised in
an intimate relationship
with the red-hot eyes of rage.

i know angry.
i know the rolling boil of your intestines.
i know the pressure in your chest
i know it well.

i know how to cool tempers
(a survival skill for my emotional state)
and i know how to rile them up.
i know how to play
the heartstrings of your fury.
if you asked me,
which emotion i knew best;
which state of mind i could best harness;
i would answer, simply

anger issues are
embedded deeply into my dna.
i've felt cloth pull
under my fingertips.
i've seen spots in my vision.
i've known the rise in your throat
the frustration squeezing
and refusing to let go.
i've felt anger.
i've received anger.
i've survived anger.
i've seen anger tear my family apart,
i've seen it linger and remain
even after apologies
like an unwanted curse,
determined to ruin me.
determined to ruin us.

i don't have a temper, by nature.
but every now and then,
it rises up in my chest.
but i've been oh so careful.
never would i want my anger
to hurt others.

i have the bruises on my wrist to prove it.

you once told me;
out of all the things in the universe
you could have told me;
you told me that
i'm not an angry person.

i've never felt so relieved
because the very last thing
i could ever want
was my fragile existence
painted with the curse of anger.

i refuse to let
the very thing
that ruined me all those years ago
cling to me like a parasite
and turn on those i love.

so thank you,
thank you because you
spoke it into existence.
by telling me those words
all those months ago,
you, while not breaking my curse,
confirmed it was broken.
i'm an expert on anger, so who else would be better suited to tell you that anger will kill you, someday? it's never worth it.
I remember these times vividly
Times of happiness
Of sweetness
Of accepting our fates
Of dismissing each other's quirks
Of friendship
and of acceptance

Then, one day
Something happened
We were young
And both certainly dumb
Too little knowledge of being social and kind
Too much knowledge of being cruel and smart
We decided to play the adults game
Beneath our spin lights
And everything changed

Then, once that had happened
You began to hate me
Your anger swelled more and more.
You began to loathe me
Tried everything but murder
To get me away.

Eventually, you just ran
Left me all alone
"You're one of the only people I trust"
If only I knew what you really meant
"You're one of the only people I trust
enough to stab you in the back"

Years go by
You now live a few blocks away from me
New man
New house
New life
I often sit in the forests behind your house
Drinking in envy
At your new home.

I want you to know
Our son is growing up fine
I'm teaching him to be good
To be sweet and kind
I hope that guy cares for you
Cause I never wanted to
Our son doesn't know your name
And hopefully
He never knows my pain
A little poem about betrayal
Warning: This may not be for some people who have been through sexual assault and/or get triggered easily by such content.

I'll tell you a story,
But first you need to do something for me.
Fall for someone quickly.
Make sure the relationship moves quickly.
Never think steadily,
Offer your body readily.
Just to satisfy the one you love,
Before they leave you with a push and shove.
Keep yourself available to them,
Even though your morals wouldn't even agree to this on a whim.
Make sure they're happy at all times,
With your body of course for he doesn't want you for your loving rhymes.
Now you need to imagine this.
The relationship has fallen deep into the abyss.
They begin growing distant and you wonder why.
Maybe they've found another being sly.
All of a sudden a day comes,
Where for once in a long while they make you feel loved.
You fall into their sticky trap,
You're head over heels again upon their snap.
They tell you that they want to walk you home.
You comply but God you wish you would have known.
They tell you the backstreets are a safer bet because of your overprotective dad,
You agree that he's protective but what a good reason he had.
They lead you down one lonely road,
And pins you against an apartment building that's abandoned and old.
They cover your mouth to muffle your cries,
And their other hand slips into places the sun never shines.
It hurts so bad and your tears could fill a cup,
But they just continue and tell you to shut the f*ck up.
You try to fight because you're a strong person,
But they were so much stronger with a grip that only seemed to worsen.
They finally let you go once they're done,
But God, you feel nothing, for they had won.
This poem was written from personal experience. I took all of the dark energy and negative thoughts I still have and turned it into a poem of raw emotion. I hope this poem can help people who have been through the same thing realize they are not alone, and give people who haven't the insight they may need to begin to understand.
i'm afraid
after all of the changes, i can't be as i was
i'm afraid
after all of the downs, i can't lift you up
i'm afraid
after all of those storms, you give up on me
Throw your insults at me like I am being stoned.
Don't expect someone to jump in.
Long ago, I was disowned.
No one will ask how I am or have been.

I stand in the middle of the town circle.
The whole town stares at me, aiming their rocks.
At me, they all shout and call.
This whole situation is somewhat of a paradox.

If it were one of them up here,
they would scream for help.
They would want to disappear.
Just like I, they would scream and whelp.

But since it isn't them needing someone,
they are hiding behind a huge mask.
I have literally no one.
Alienation is a hard enough task.

So why come after me?
What did I do?
I'd be much happier alone and hanging from a tree
rather than being the main attraction at the zoo.
I am only an author of a voice to silence your worry.
Listening is not my virtue, it's bloviating my lure-y.
An appeal to be appealing has left me reeling
For lucidity in a city that has forgotten who I am
Which is me.

I am only an author of a voice so silent, so worry.
I hate to live in my mind, yet it is the bosom I scurry.
From my mind's eye's teat I suckle with fury.
Silver-tongue, golden-throated, and nothing else
To be spoke of. With my chest swelling; pleurae
booming with the boon of pride to ensure he
is able to amount to another morning rise.
Which is me.

Since when have I become so masturbatory.
They say youth is self-absorbed and centered.
So full of themselves they think of fireworks and glory.
But what of youth misspent, snuffed whence
They were in the first chapters of their story.
The forgotten rue. The golden rule.
Somewhat few, follow that truth.
Which is me.

Which is me, the me I knew, or what others, to me, show.
If my personality is borderline, and that is disorderly.
How is my fin not to be written as a tragedy?
Will they paint my funeral with superfluous filigree.
Recite a remembered, and cold opened eulogy.
For a man they did not know.
For a me I did not know.
Which is me?
The me I knew?
Or what others, to me,
did hew?

"Debase me!" I say
Burn me alive, for I did not live.
I stole from you, my cherished youth.
I am only an author, let me rejoice in my depression.
My writings are not narcissistic, hardly a confession-
I am a writer that writes what he knows.
My Socratic allegiance agrees that God is wise
And men, surprise, know nothing.
And if men know nothing.
If men know nothing.
If Man knows nothing.
Why are we so full of discovery?

Man may not find themselves but in a quandary.
Mine is this, and it haunts me unjustly.
Which is me?
There's the positive, the plural.
The public, the private.
The reticent and internal,
But I am awash in my self without knowing myself,
Engulfed in my blood, my bacteria,
lacking opsonin.
I strike at my heart, my mind, and my tendon.
Uncertain of where I end or where I begin.
I am the stalking horse and predator
An author with no editor
Which is why my poetry is so sloppy.
If writers write what they know,
and youth is all for show,
where do those like me stand?
Are we plagiarists that copy?
Chameleons sipping coffee
Bloviating about the bouquet,
Abusing sophistry?
Do I mean to deceive, is it impulse,
is it instinct.
I must ask,
Which is me?

I am only an author of a voice.
Perhaps I am a mute.
So cut my chords, snip them clean.
Let me live a life serene, as I work and doddle
away with my pen mightier than sword.
Which is me? Who am I?
No Greek poets or philosophers
can define.
The one question begged to be answered.
I am me, who I am. Son of God.
King Solomon.
My sin is idolatry. The commonality of my age,
stuck in neutral of self-display.
The world fell into dismay,
split in two,
The Judgment of Solomon.
Will show which is true.
But even in this masturbation
Of rhyming, scheme, and infatuation
I've still yet answered the question on my heart
Which lettered the head of my distracting start
Who am I?
Which is me?
Narcissus drowned staring at he.
And left the Nymph alone, all alone
Lest I be as pretty, as the rippled reflection
in the Spring dew.
Let me hem, let me haw
Let me hew,
say what I saw,
and I stared at my reflection
staring at you.
Which is me?
Which is us?
This poem has turned
into an omnibus
for a worried mind
to letter and scatter
everything the matter
from a mind stuck
or struck
with ardent aim.
Which is me?
I sound with glee, an answer unto thee
I am an author with a voice.
Autobiographical, therapeutic, about my identity issues with borderline personality. Long, but will appreciate any thoughts or comments.
The clear horizon.
Just past the eye of the storm.
Contagious Infospores infect
the wild, wild internet west.
Apparently the worst is the best
that some can do.
The goal, to make truth suspect--
to interject
theories of conspiracies.
Connect, connect, don’t inspect
too closely.

It’s mostly
slander to create fear,
garbled and unclear
to avoid lawsuits
(which doesn’t seem to be working).
Fat toad preys on weak minds
who can’t be bothered to analyze
information and facts.
They prefer hysterical attacks.
It's easier to fear and hate
than digest cause and effect, and accept ineluctable fate--
than to consider responsibility,
mistakes and liability.
It’s simpler when it’s all a plot
by the powerful to persecute you
(as if they have nothing better to do).
And to remember that people whom  you fear and hate
are people not unlike you.
26 dead people didn’t disappear.
They are in the ground, and in the hearts and minds
of those who are living, here.
Alex Jones, internet conspiracy theory monger, is being sued for libel by parents of Sandy Hook victims. He has claimed that 26 people weren't actually murdered, that it's a hoax to take away gun rights. I'm not clear on how he explains where those 26 people are.
Sam 6d
People say hatred is wrong

That it means you're as bad as the very one you hate

But I beg to differ

Why can't I hate her for torturing me as a child

And trying her very best to make me sad

Why can't I hate him for doing the very same

For doing anything he can to made me feel pain

Just because he can't hurt himself enough

I've grown to hate myself

And as bad as that is

I just can't stop

I've grown up with such a toxic set of siblings

I might as well be the first to go

That's what they've always wanted

When they tried to strangle me

I still remember how it felt

When they wrapped their hands around my neck

It hurt
This is pretty deep but oh well.
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