my apologies mean nothing

i told you how i felt, why i didn't do what you wanted
it meant nothing to you

because "no excuses", right?
if you were on this website,
you'd know i was writing about you.

but you don't know about Hello Poetry,
or that i even wrote poetry.

now, i'm left crying, wanting to self harm again
and you think i don't want you in my life.

it seems more like you don't want me in yours.

Warm bed.
Suffocation.

Lukewarm water.
Drowning.

Dishes upon dishes are stacked.
Tumbling.

Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.

Another day, another relative in the grave.
Salty tears can't turn back time.

I never caressed, I never cared.
But I did care.

Wet pillow.
Drying.

Cry.
Cry.
Cry.
Cry.

Take a watch and turn back time.
Where would you like to go?

Go back to everybody you forgot existed?
Or maybe spend more time with the people you didn't?

Help out your family more often?
Because you never did so before.

Never.
Never.
Never.
Never.

You can't go back, you know that right?
Why are you crying?

They're dead, they all are.
It's over now, forget it.

No matter how many times you say it, it's meaningless.
"Sorry."

You didn't bring your tie,
so you're gonna die.
And so it has begun,
the times of no fun.

Pride and Joy, we feign,
hearing speeches, in disdain.
Oh such is the pain,
of Mr Bart's reign!

I write because I hate the sound of my voice
My mind sounds better
I can scream
I can yell
I can do the impossible
in my head
My words can be read louder than any spoken word
So just shut up and write
I write because I can't speak
My opinions are usually seen as
minuscule, unorthodox, and pointless
but when I write
I have meaning
I'm attempting to cultivate the perfect group of terms to move an audience I can't see
To show someone a thousand miles away from me that there not alone
I write to express myself
I write to allow my emotions to spew on to digitized pixels on a computer screen
I write to appease my need to let go
I write because I know no one is going to care
I write because it's my life and I do as I please

Tempo grave, sempre sospirando

An inner nocturne
When I am writing my own opus
The ink stains carress my hand
Crossed out lines, struck down

I am my own symphony
The sad tones of E flat minor
Paint the walls of this chamber a naive black
It creases the sheet music that I play

The resonating chamber within its thorny grasp
Keep my hands from playing
As the melancholic tones
Play their song on their own


#


The piano plays
I         yet
  have
     to
       compose


The piano GLEAMS
Something


The piano SINGS
that    keeps    me


||: The piano LINGERS
From             choking
         myself


The piano SUFFERS
In an             eternal
         embrace

The   p i a n o   SCREAMS :||
The   p i a n o   CHOKES
The   p i a n o   DIES
the
      p i a n o

Of              needles
and             thorns

D.S. Al fine, senza repetizione

Doing homework left and right,
Ha! No, i’m not “fine”
Working my *** off all the time--
I’ve got no time!

No time for these video games
All the “kids these days are playin’”
I ain’t got the time of day
And i’m just here saying--

Why do we have to do this?
Do you understand the strain
The stress
You do daily to our brains?

And THEN
You accuse us of being lazy
Selfish, stupid
You’re driving me crazy!

Don’t we deserve at least
A little (grudging) respect
Being ABLE to cope AT ALL (not all of us can...)
What more do you expect?

Do you expect us to just be “fine”
Every time you ask?
Because we’re not
Not with all these endless tasks.

It ******* ***** TO BE A TEENAGER
In this day and age
And I, at least, would appreciate it
If all these people talking trash about kids my age

Would just stop
Because we’re not “in your day” anymore
And I’m not “fine”
And school, (to be perfectly honest) is just a bore.

I walk down the street, my hair messy
My makeup sliding off
My sweatpants riding low on my hips, dragging on the ground, collecting dirt
And a low cut tank top.
Tired, exhausted, worn out. Unattractive. And that's okay.
What's not okay is when a car slows down and yells
"Hey pretty girl! Where you off to?"
I freeze
Attention is not something I'm looking for
It's a bed that I'm seeking
A good night's sleep
But instead of a bed I find
A man
Yelling unwanted compliments out of his car window as I walk back home.

Should I answer? What would I say?
Should I be honest? "I'm going home. Off to bed."
I know what the response would be. "Can I come too?"
Or maybe I can say "I'm going to see my girlfriend."
I don't have a girlfriend, but for the next five minutes,
She's right up that hill, waiting in her room to see me.
No, his response would be "That's hot! Can I come too?"
Or maybe I have a boyfriend instead.
More effective.
More dangerous. More of a threat than a girlfriend would be.
No, to that he'd say "He's letting you walk by yourself?
Must not be much of a man. I bet I could take him in a fight."
Which brings up many more issues
(i can walk by myself if he were real he would respect me so thats more than you do if he were real he wouldnt fight some random ******* over me treat me like a PERSON god ******)
That I would not want to address with someone as dangerous
As a man telling me I'm pretty out of the window of his car.
Maybe I can say "Please leave me alone." Being direct is always the best option.
Unless he continues to follow me.
Or gets upset.
Or refuses to leave me alone.
Or gets out of his car or pulls me into his car or or or
I don't know. I don't want to think about it.

Or maybe I can just keep walking.
Ignore him, act like nobody said anything
Act like there isn't someone I have never met in my whole life
Yelling out of the drivers window of his car
Telling me I'm pretty.

There is no way out of the dangerous thing that is the male gaze
Once it begins
There is no easy way out.

My voice is not meant to be heard,
And although we preach freedom of speech,
I am constantly silenced,
Every letter I've carefully strung together,
Will never see the light of day,
Rejected if not misconstrued,
Many have taken my words out of context,
Blowing things out of proportion,
That sometimes I feel perhaps I'm the one lacking imagination,
Maybe I'm just purely feelings and emotion,
For which I constantly bite my tongue,
Keeping the pain within my lungs,
Hoping to ease the minds of those around,
Forgetting completely that writing is my sanctum.

@byizn