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Brianna 2d
To love me is to put up with a messiness I inherited from my mother.
The displays of self loathing and self sabotage i work on daily.
The clothes I leave on the floor.
The coffee cups in the sink.
The bed unmade and the too many shoes.

To love me is to deal with an annoying amount of independence I inherited from my father.
The acts of self serving that I work on daily.
The know it all moments when I’m working on something or fixing something.
The confidence in my work ethic, my persona & who I am.
The laughter I have over everything.

To love me is to know the loyalty and respect I’ve inherited from my stepmom.
The empathy I still long for and work to find daily.
The care over details.
The nurture I give when you’re sad or sick.
The standing up for you but also putting you in your place.

To love me is to cope with the stoic coldness and wandering spirit I’ve inherited from my grandma.
The parts of me you’ll never fully know that I work to show you daily.
The look of dismay I sometimes don’t know is on my face.
The inability to stay in one place for too long without going insane.
The moments I want to run away and never look back.

To love me is to cope.
Cope with knowing sometimes I’m mean.
Sometimes I’m sad.
And sometimes I love fiercely and passionately.
To love me is to love all of me.
Everything I’ve inherited and everything I’ve learned and unlearned over time.
To love me is to be loved in return.
I am delicate
And fragile,
My heart,
Made of glass.

I will shatter,
And break
From the life
Of my past.

My skin,
Snow white,
Not a hue in sight.
For I rest wearily,
On this cold night.

But I wonder,
And ponder,
How we seem weak
To seek.

'How 'soft' could one be?'
They say to me.
In times of hurt,
And true defeat.

I turn to face
The ones of deceit,
As they look upon me
With disgust and grief.

'You are not as strong as you should be'
'Life is not full of roses and buzzing bees'
'It is indeed tough, but you must perk up'
'You must come into life , ready to fight'

How can one
Tend to agree?
On a life
In stone
And utter cold tone,

For one
Like a flower,
Will blossom
Like a tree.
Will flourish
And nourish
The ones
In need.

Will save the souls
That are lost at sea.

I am delicate
And fragile,
And that is who
I shall be.
Francis Oct 31
I love them,
They don’t love me.
Why would they?
They’re hot,
And delicious,
And I’m just…
******* them down to the bone.

Buffalo wings rip up my insides,
They’ll inflame my chest and belly,
Giving me heartburn,
As I power through my consumption of them,
And yet I still crave them on a frequent basis,
As if I didn’t learn my lesson the last time.

Bone in or bone out,
It doesn’t really matter at this point,
I gave up trying to develop a preference,
As I’m committed to my hankering,
And seek regular satisfaction,
From the sensation and flavor they provide me.

Eyes full of tears,
I power through the pain,
Believing that each and every wing is worth it,
Even if I know they don’t agree with me,
And know **** well they are not good for me,
It’s like hitting yourself in the face,
But laughing at the sound it makes.

Wings come in all shapes, sizes and flavors,
But I choose the buffalo wing every time,
For the mere fact that they taste the best,
Even if they end up causing the most damage.
They don’t even fill me up,
But they do make me feel like I’ve had enough.

How many buffalo wings would it take,
For me to try a new flavor?
Is it the saltiness that appeals to me?
Is it the spiciness that enslaves me?
Is it the drippiness that seduces me?

Why not something sweeter, like BBQ,
Or savorier like Parmesan Garlic?
Why not choose plain old wings,
With a little bit of seasoning to keep it interesting?

Nope, I’ll always go for the buffalo wing,
I’ll always have that craving,
Because sometimes, living on the edge,
Knowing the risks and going ahead anyway,
Makes loving wings all the more worth it,
Despite their destructive ways.
We know what this poem really is about. Come on, guys.
The door opens to world beyond
Say one final goodbye
We wish our time lasted longer
Your turn to be lifted into the sky
Always aware you were an angel
Now you have finally got wings to fly
About my mom
Success may adorn
your Universe,
like Stars.
But it's your
Beautiful Mind,
that sparkles
your Personality.
The Kimbeaux Sep 8
I am just me.
A single being.
A beginning and an end.

I am just me.
An individual.
My character and personality and morality belong to myself.

I am just me.
A human alone.
My heart is mine alone to own.

I am just me.
A person all my own.
My worth terminates in myself alone.
Feeling the sense of self during meditation. It’s just me and nothing else matters.
Cynthia Lewis Aug 19
I've been gone for a while
Not seen or heard
Hiding away from the harsh reality of life
I've tried to get involved and I've tried my best
But every time I try I only feel stressed
I'd love to be able to stay inside
Away from the pain and away from the sound of others bleeding my ears
Do this
Do that
You're doing it wrong
Try again
Yet every time I try I feel like a part of me is dying inside
I want to be free and I want to be me
But when I am true you say you hate what I have become
So what is it that you truly want?
Because each time I ask you, you simply look me in the eyes and say "I want you to get better"
Mainly focusing on a past relationship while I was struggling with my mental health
Caage Gaber Jul 4
Joy conceived in the vision
The Lily of the drought
Volunteer of the incision
And a seed of doubt

Black silky Intertwined threads
The touch and sound of care
Love, warmth, comfort spreads
Your intensity in all rare

Infinite options hang above
Spinning a smoky vortex
Simply what you hate or love
Discombobulates my cortex

Only clues to a mystery
Yet partials of a masterpiece
Less of shortened history
Wonder moves me not to cease
Someone asked me to write how I felt about them so I did
Carlo C Gomez Feb 26
alone and an imposter,
deep in syndrome.

she absorbs the frost of seasonal ghosts
and hopeless feelings
of death and darkness.

she only shows one side of her every time.
she calls a random number
from a bar in the middle of the night,
seeking to confess
or find solace in the voice of a stranger.

but any stranger might just happen to be
a lie detector.

still she lays bare all the duplicity
and fragmentation of self:

prescription bottles with two different names,
elaborate façades in Los Angeles
and in New York,
so complicated she creates
something she calls the lie box.

inside her purse there's a collection
of file cards. "I tell so many lies," she says.
"I have to write them down and keep them
in a box so I can keep them straight."

alone she waits for either
sweet apricity or identikit:
each a memento of her faces.

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