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Arke 1h
the vines began to creep up
we didn’t know when they first started growing
little green buds buried deep below
I tamped them down with my feet
like weeds, they'd regrow stronger
they tied themselves around my ankles
robust enough to immobilize
converting my legs into a mess of thorns and trunks
my body paralyzed at the centre
the branches took the longest to grow
when the first one shot through
I thought I'd be upset, but felt only relief
the black flecks of my eyes became the dead of winter
not a single leaf could ever grow on these limbs
but as the roots thickened, I began to forget
what it felt like to ever walk or speak or love
I knew thirst and hunger, the need to grow
taking no comfort in feeling rooted
but not remembering how to move, either
drowned in my own thicket
I needed to be felled to bud anew
Shannon 1d
My baby.
You’re wondering about the type of women you want to be. It’s a sad and soggy Sunday and you sit by the railing while it’s raining and the wind sighs at your presence.
You long for love, and peace, and mystery and excitement and you long to be wanted for who you are not who you could be if you were small.

My baby.
Everything you want isn’t everything you see.
Damaged isn’t pretty, my baby and maybe it looks it but the pain, oh baby the pain is like nothing you’ve ever felt.
And maybe you crave the mystery, maybe you crave the smudges mascara and the hunger pains.
But honest to truth my baby
Being this ****** up ain’t cute
Being this ****** up isn’t safe.
Being this ****** up makes you wonder what in the world is.

My baby there is nothing like the ache of being empty,
The sad and solemn nothing, the pitiless void that seldom empties but when it does you put stars in his eyes for he is the only other person with the key.
And a lot of the time the key doesn’t fit your locks,
The walls you’ve put up are brick.
Solid.
And for every brick you stack he takes one away, eager to pull them down he tries and baby one day you might stop building.
Maybe it’ll be on a soft and sunny Saturday when both of you are laughing and you see it within him.
You’ll stop building and he’ll smile knowing that
Yes.
Finally.
Free.

My baby your walls are thick and strong,
Most of the time,
Sometimes they fall but you pick them up and rebuild don’t let anyone see the truth.
He knows.

My baby the boy you love will never quiet fill your cup and it’ll break you but it’s not his job to.
You have to try too.
Because baby I know you hurt and I know you just want out of the cruel ******* world but now no.
Now you have someone to love you.
To love you for who you are and not who you would be if you were small.
Someone who loves you so that to go would be to take a piece of him with you.
Maybe that piece is the spark you fell in love with.
Baby no now you have someone to live for.

My baby I know you think smudged mascara and running away is desirable and makes them want more but baby.
On the good days you feel like a well oiled machine, task after task focus, seem well act well everybody laughs, smooth machine yet still lack the basic humanity that should consume you.

My baby on the bad days, broken down, some days you manage to trudge your way out of bed and into the daytime, empty but there,
Worse, the days where you can’t get up. Where you open the window and stare out into the garden you’ve always seen and you let the sadness and elusive sleepiness win until you’re exhausted with sleep.
Days where blades help you feel and help the anger inside you escape when the blood bubbles through your torn skin.

My baby the overthinking will drive you crazy, where the concept of an ear is weird even when he whispers sweet nothings into them and tucks that little stray piece of hair behind them.
Where *** is a mechanism by which sounds so wrong but feels so right but baby do not use it to cure the sadness.
It will always win.  

My baby home is haunting.
The ghosts of who you used to be haunt you, taunt you, and the love you used to feel is gone. Home isn’t home. Home is a house in the hillside.
Home is the space between his arms where your head rests against his chest and he breathes in to smell the coconut in your hair, home is the way he stares at you and smiles, home is the way he plays video games with you in his lap, home is his dilated pupils, home is the weird way you hold hands on the train, home is short jokes and home is when he looks at you as if you
You
You my baby
Are just absolutely spectacular
Even when you feel like a fleck of dust on this pointless world.

My baby though he is home, mental illness and distress isn’t pretty.
Panic attacks and **** crying in public isn’t pretty. The disability of breathing isn’t pretty. Being perched over a toilet bowl isn’t pretty. Not eating for days isn’t pretty. Pulling out clumps of hair isn’t pretty. Being clumsy because you are so anaemic isn’t pretty. Passing out isn’t pretty. Wrist scars and bloodstained sheets aren’t pretty.
Being sick isn’t pretty.

Baby I wish we’d stopped when we knew.

Baby I wish help meant something because though you’ve tried,
Nothing gets through.

Baby when it rains it pours, and through every storm I have you, my hand is there to hold.
So we’ll call Noah’s arc and we’ll start a new world.
I know you’re hurting.
But my baby I promise one day we’ll be safe.
No longer shipwrecked.
My baby one day
One day
We’ll be free.
“Peaceful piano” - Spotify
“For stormboy.”
Sky Yang 16h
im guilty--
biting my nail, biting my lip,
biting my
t o n g u e

fidgeting, flickering eyes that go
on and off, on and off
me

im chronic,
nervous,
in a state of
mind your own
business

im obsessed with
looking down at my feet as i walk


im forever stuck
in this awkward
edge-of-pubescence
b o d y

when i've already
died
a few hundred times
over



i dont have *******
i have two hearts,
beating out of my chest


im fragile,
tender,
might just topple over
or burst
into a million pieces of

confetti,
in my room:
its always somebody's birthday
that somebody is me
but i don't know somebody,
perhaps i used to know me
perhaps i never did



sometimes i want
oranges:
bright, round, yellow
fresh, spunky, don't-give-a-****

ill roll
whenever you put me down

im just a lemon:
yellow, iffy-butty

please
dont put me down



i just want someone to know me
(love me)

i just want to be an orange:
i wanna be what i seem
nothing to go off about
nothing to get put down about


i come as i am
and i get sent back home for it

you see--
i know nothing
all too well
lemonade gang gang
A disaster, written in
old English script,
flourished with dreams
and colorful ink
when all that's needed
was pencil and paper to think,

"all that was wished for
was a lover, or maybe
just another drink."

Drowning in words,
senseless and pale pink
on a glass table of dust
and faculties on the brink
of breaking to shards
pieces - this disaster of a being
is me, needing more than sleep -

Vanilla lingering, scenting the bed,
fairy lights enchant dreary nights
dancing and still the dreamer sleepless,
restless - dream catcher by the door
guarding, keeping wily dreams in
little does the little dreamer know
resentment and nightmares are what
he is keeping, and demons
in the shadows, born of his mind
loud secretly living in his abode.

A demon who remembers
how white wings once felt,
how heavenly light caressed once,
how angelic song sounded,
in silent rebellion of
what this demon is now -
a war waged against himself
for a chance to find light,
and fly feathers once again.

A disaster,
A dreamer,
A demon,
all in one,
all from
one life -
Mine.
What is time?
When this was the only thing that meant
Anything to me
What is time?
When the clock is going the wrong way
Regressing into my past self
Fading into the person I never wanted to be
Again
You brought me back down
Taught me
The clock ticked for awhile
But it shattered
Vulnerability is a funny thing. Everyday people urge us to be authentic- with ourselves, our peers, our passions. Yet when we cut ourselves open for the world to see, they run from us as if we are violent rip currents waiting to take them under. When in reality we are nothing but individual tide pools sometimes puddled into something so much bigger than what others want to openly accept.

But I refuse to not live a life of authenticity. So many souls become comfortable with safety, causing them to become deeply implanted in solely just the soil in which they have resided their entire time of growing. Genuine love for something other than yourself has become nothing but a fossil of a feeling. Streams of emotions have dissipated and turned into desert lands.

As for me, I took the time to disappear within myself. I discovered my flatlands and made them curved. Those rip currents everyone always runs from are big, but so am I. A vulnerable soul may be looked at as someone made up of only dainty fallen petals, but the truth is they're looking past someone with roots dug deeper than sunken teeth into bitten skin.

What's authentic to those who shelter themselves like boarded windows in the midst of a storm might as well be forgery to me. I urge you to not be afraid to put your innermost self into another pair of shaky hands. To not hesitate to whisper your deepest ridden thoughts into caverns of a mind that's not your own. To not second guess putting you're ragged edged heart into someone else's hollow chest.

Vulnerability and authenticity meet at an intersection that you must come to terms with stopping at. I hope to see you there.
bk 20h
You love the smell of fresh apple pie.
You love the sound of the high tide shore break.
You love the way the guitar feels on your fingertips.
You love the feeling you get when your around him.
You love the way the sun sets at home.
Darling, you love so much.
But if I asked you to name
All the things you love,
How long could it take
To name yourself?

b.k.
love yo self :)
Emmaline 21h
I haven't been feeling like myself as of late.
It's rather a concern
You tell me to just stop and wait.
But what am I waiting for?
Am I waiting for my sadness to swallow me whole?
Why should I wait and see what's in store?
I'm cold.
So very very cold
My fingers are starting to mold.

I've been standing here for hours.
Not really knowing why.
Just watching as the snow falls around me
My breathe leaving my body like a cloud of smoke.

My hands are so cold they've turn red.
I can feel myself fading into the cold.
Something isn't right

I stand in the snow all night.
Waiting for something.
But I never knew what or why.

They found me in the morning. Just as the sun started to rise.
My frozen body laid peacefully in the snow
Small flakes against my still rosy cheeks

Winter is beautiful they always said.
Freezing to death was always a beautiful way to go I remember thinking.
My soul became a snowflake.
My body joined the air
My mind flew to the clouds.
Finally free and warm.
The cold icy wind no longer stinging my skin.

At last able to see what others always say.
The vast and beautiful winter wonders.
She was in love with appreciation,

she was in love with the names,

she put them all above.

She was driven by thirst to be loved and cherished,

she did everything to please them,

still, she could never become their gem no matter how much she grinds.

Everyone loved roses she was a daisy, a raven,

so she painted herself red and wore the skin of dove to please them.

Slowly yet she was fading and withering away,

it was never enough.

All, in the end, she got betrayed by the world and by herself,

her heart got filled with grief for letting her self down,

for billeting her courage and killing her dream.

Her pain became her heal,

she glued her heart together,

she took her picture off from the corner of the dusty shelf.

Now here she stands as herself.

A strong pillar who runs a nation.

A creative mind who rules peoples heart by ruling pen and paper.

In so many ways she is you, she is me,

but most important she is herself.
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