Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I can be many things at once
and create what i know is safe
except for protect myself against the truth
against reality, and what's humane
i can do what must be done
for everyone to feel secure
but i can't keep it under control
long enough to make things right
im keeping myself alive
but that's all i know to do
and all i've ever known to love
is what it feels like to make it through
i think i've ruined things in ways
i cannot go back to, or find myself again
it's an endless cycle of hoping i can fix things,
knowing what we have to pretend
Things continue shifting, different, unfamiliar;
and yet I've never connected more to the past
Smells, music, and the changing daylight
pulls me backwards all too fast
Floating through time, I am remembering life
as it felt when it still felt new
Unveiling the years for as cold as they were,
and hoping peace will follow through
Meeting the moments i feared to experience-
they lived relentlessly, testing, intolerable
Coming to the same realization again,
and endlessly digging through the inoperable
One day salvation will come as a gifted warm bath,
to clean her, and finally wash away all of our sins
To free us of what has always been too heavy
to have ever been made to hold within.
draft on here :) first i've made in awhile
Verbatim Lynnie Mar 2021
I tried to grow, but held on so steadily,
That I burnt my pain in a form of ecstasy.
A drug I took, to release my anger,
Went up in smoke, causing me danger.
And this smoke blurred my vision, got caught in my eyes,
I was incessantly nervous, trying to survive,
Throughout sixteen years worth of trauma, and despise
I reach eighteen, to finally realize,
It wasn’t my fault, and sadly none knew,
What I experienced, and tried to subdue,
And I blamed and blamed myself for it all,
Taking the guilt, and taking the fall,
To find a point in life where I,
Accept in growth, things must die
So the memories had to, despite the pain,
Of walking through a burning flame,
And trying to fight the agonizing burn,
That one must feel, in order to learn.
Verbatim Lynnie Feb 2021
The shame gets to me, creeping
                               guilt is killing me slowly, ever so slowly.
                       Bigger, bigger                                   Purging the pain
                  Smaller, smaller,                                         I'm going insane.
              A ring is my net,                                       ******* a gun,
              Shoot me, I ask,                                                 Turning to dust.
                   Smaller to skinny,                             bones into nothing,
                                      I beg you to save me, for death is
                                       creeping slowly, ever so slowly,             
                                            ­            toward me.
A poem about bulimia
Verbatim Lynnie Feb 2021
Wings clipped completely,
Trauma overtaking me,
I will never fly

Again.
Verbatim Lynnie Jan 2021
Weeping for a sorrowful man
Is weeping for a wilted flower
No amount of water, sunlight, or even love
Will ever bring back its glow.

What you will never understand,
Are these achingly long hours
No amount of worry, care, or even love
Will take away the blow

Through the skull, because life became bland,
And I didn't hold enough power
To care for myself, nor the worry, or even the love
And in due time my true colors flowed.

For weeping for a broken man,
Is like weeping for a dying flower
No amount of water, sunlight, or even love
Will ever make it grow.
Lost my last friend. Life hurts so so much.
Verbatim Lynnie Jan 2021
Fingers growing number, a twinge of sadness chokes my soul
Like the cold air of January, I fall deep into its pull.
It takes me on a journey, once before I have gone,
Where warmth's akin to weakness, and deeper I am drawn.
The naive wind for this adventure, whispers through my hair,
But I hope to forget, freezing what's no longer there.
"What was once here?"  The curious cold asked,

"The moment I share it with you, you will long for its grasp.
A comfort that is stolen, is one you'll never miss,
You'll soon forget the warmth, so the longing can't exist.
Rather just adaptation, adjusting to the pain,
And accepting that you will never, ever feel the same,"
It paused in my silence, but began to speak
Louder, its temperature brushing against my cheeks.

"I know your sadness is an attempt to move along,
In fear that a weakness means you can't remain strong.
But I assure you, my sorrow isn't easily forgotten,
Emotions are broken, twisted and knotted,
If I tried to lose one, and carry all the rest,
I'd be stuck and ever tangled with an ache inside my chest.
For pain isn't something one can simply leave,
Instead, we have to bask in it, and accept that we can grieve.
I understand the worry that a broken thought holds,
But to know a warmth, is to acknowledge the cold,"


Maybe it was right, I thought in the snow,
And went right back inside to grab a warm coat.
Verbatim Lynnie Jan 2021
She touched me. In something so indifferent to maternity,
an inhumane humanity drying me of innocence.
She took my body, now a stranger of skin, and made it
a mess of cells that collide in agony.
Broken, may I say, but a break that'll never heal.
Fingers I can't quite comprehend, lacking dignity wholly.
I hate her. I hate how I still feel her hands on me sometimes,
an immortal grasp at my pride. I hate her.
Verbatim Lynnie Jan 2021
This isn't my body. She stripped me of that right when she touched me.
This vessel I possess is proof that maternity can cruelly switch to molestation, and how disheartening the world can become once you meet its evils.
Brutality in the act is only half of it though, the rest is trying to cope with the loss of your own skin.
Not a body, just a brain weighed down by pounds of flesh that became property to an abuser six years ago.
I rarely feel human anymore, and that's if I ever did to begin with.
I am a thing. A thing designed to make other people happy, even if my own health, mental or physical, is compromised in the process.
The process, an activity ranging from starvation to downright ****** abuse. I used to starve sometimes for this woman just so I'd be praised, just so I'd feel worthy of living.
Losing sleep, losing my ******* mind, all for her to facetiously downplay the traumas she consistently constructed.
Carefully orchestrated, a symphony of horrors frequent to my mind, my body.. She stole my own life from me.
A part of me remains within her, and that sadly,
is what hurts the most.
My mother sexually abused me when I was 12, and then when I was 16. It is those parts of my life that I hate the most.
Verbatim Lynnie Jan 2018
Dead leaves passed the oak
Saying goodbye, their lives were
Just not meant to be-
Next page