like princes in the tower.
Swiping the barcode
imprinted upon their foreheads,
placing them in playpens
--free range, of course--
and listening to the stories
that caused them
in this precise order,
To empty their lungs,
to rage against the machine
that first boiled blood
into the deflated veins
of their youthful tendencies.
Birthing a furlough,
wish for scream time:
babes in the wood,
before figureheads to die for.
She lived on
the outskirts of sanity,
took up jogging
to outrun the rush
of other voices,
burned a sick day
organizing her own criticisms,
shaved her legs and edges
for practice sake,
trimmed her disorders
as "normal" girls do,
bought a fancy dress
to envy but never wear,
made marks on the calendar
to believe she had places to be,
like the local
where they serve
a favorite flavor,
Inspired by the poem title "Outskirts," by fellow HP writer Amanda.
Art might be beautiful as long as it's true.
I might hope I'm Sylvia Plath.
But at the end of the day I'm just an emotional wreck hoping my neurosis sounds like poems.
Feedback is always appreciated! Thank you!
Stoical heart yet the urge to cry
Unable to shead a tear,
'Cause the biggest fear to open up and try
Made me to drown myself in my own state of anxiety.
Did the broken soul find a hug?
Not a single person cared to bug.
I am not what has happened to me
Bounded by fate or dejection
Choices and rejection
Part and parcel of life.
I am what I chose to be.
I'll break and I'll fall
I'll rise and fly
Till I find my wings soared high.
" What happens when people open their hearts? They get better.. " ~ Haruki Murakami ♥
None of us gets paroled
From the prison cells we lock ourselves into.
So that we all can fit together inside
These jigsaw lives that we lead
Which of course, eventually all blow apart.
We are merely the fragments waiting to be reassembled.
Every moment of thought is but a small drop in time.
Each piece fits the next piece.
Although we may try to avoid,
The murmurs of our own thoughts.
It is our hearts that yawn and awaken slowly
From their long winter night’s sleep.
You and I are mere mortals,
Who dreamt of a life without end.
We are the ones who make up immortality.
For the sake of seeking sweet comforts and sad joys.
This is the story we tell ourselves
Whilst slumping back to our cells.
Telltale signs of paranoia ***** at the hackles that run from head
down the spine
drown the mind
Psychotic neurotic autistic artistic
Imagination whirls like wind through the pines and
The hair along my spine
Slither within my spine
Wither, within my mind
Doctor Jekyll, Mr. Hyde
One coin, two sides
It’s me, your prize-winning, intellectual, “gifted” brain!
I’m here to tell you that everything you’re doing is wrong.
Remember that conversation that you thought went well?
You’re wrong. Think again.
Oh, and also, all of your friends secretly hate you.
You annoy them all.
In fact, the apparitions probably lurking around the corner hate you too.
And they have weapons.
Also, you should probably just give up on life.
I mean, you’re a terrible person.
Honestly, I can’t tell you a single good thing about yourself.
How do you ignore the fact that everyone hates you?
One more thing.
Are you suuuuuure your God is real?
Because I’m not.
And… even if he is, you kind of **** as a believer and as a person anyways, so you’re kind of *******.
Well, nice chatting with you!
Go on. Have a good day!
And don’t forget what I told you…
i miss the dogfight
of our teeth squaring off
in a shiny mirror.
you could call our canines
moon kernels or portents,
but the sentiment
is sharper. the poem
tautology to a bracelet
of crescent dents.
shadow, shadow, light.
a plane reflecting
other planes, an edge
biting an edge, biting
an edge, bitten.
the bracelet tautology
to a skyline sans sky,
one wedge of evening
held in your periphery.
i press my fingers
into a warm glass throat.