I got your message, Though it was never sent.
I heard it loud and clear.
Your silence cut through me, Sleep Evaded me and I could not tell you.
Tell you the roses that drape across the bed still have thorns.
that possessive wears the mask of a protector.
Teaching yourself to hold onto your protest so that he will still want you.
Confusing Love and Abuse, volunteering for the draft of his war.
Begging to become a causality of the love he claims to feel.
I've seen this, I've written these words once before.

and so they tell me,
"you don't deserve nice things"
well perhaps I'd be
inclined to agree
but here's the deal:
when shit gets real,
I don't give a fuck what you think of me

and you're over the sea
so why should your opinion bother me?
I've dedicated far too much time
to two-faced, self-serving
insert profanity that rhymes;
if you don't love me,
that's fine
I'm over wanting people to be mine

"oh, read this, George thinks he's so cool"
no, not really
I'm just refusing to be some tool
that you think you can use.
oh, you miss me?
screw you, you fucking liar
I'm no goddamn fool

grades aside, papers don't matter:
even if I'd failed school
I'd still have more brains than you,
so spin your lies
and think you're clever
but I've seen through them all
and I'm so much better
than you realise,
ah, your blind eyes

egotistical? maybe sometimes
just a little,
but at least I don't con the people I call friends
and when I say I have their backs
I have them 'til the very end.
see here's the fucking truth:
I'm always fucking honest,
so to stick to my word,
here's something I want heard:

I'm not gonna miss you, your stupid ways, or your empty words

You don't see me? Well, look a little harder.
I only pulled up with these shoes so I could stand out
Red bottoms like blisters that cover every inch of my fetishized foot
Club jumping, walking in between is hell
I am woman, hear me cry
I am woman, hear me lie
Tell me that you love the extra inches
Tell me you love me, no matter how tall I stand
But only if their gaze would subside
Look away while I take off my heels
Because you don't want to see what's beneath my mask

A short slam poem I wrote recently about the fetishization of heels.

i am not yours to pursue,
nobody's to claim, to obsess over
you do not have the right to ignore my declination
nor to see my rejection as a challenge;
i am not a game or a puzzle
if you think my "no" is a jigsaw piece fitted in the wrong place
there for you to move and arrange
again and again
until you finally hear "yes"
then you are too much a child for my liking
too much about the conquest and not enough about the person.
my "no" will not be manipulated into a "yes",
you cannot play me into your hands

i am not a gamer, i am an artist
i will sketch thicker lines, make my "no" bolder
NO
i will add more tone, make it sterner
add more shade, allow my anger to cast shadows over your reputation
and it will not be hard to outline your true colours:
you've already revealed so many.
i don't need to paint you as a villain; you have done that much yourself
you too are an artist, in your own right...
you've smudged your lines so much, you've crossed boundaries.
your so-called love is not delicate pink―it is blood red and sticky.
your so-called affections leech the grey from my palette
and leave me seeing you in black and white.
oh, there's not much white, not much innocence
you are an all-consuming black; your desire to swallow me whole is abyssal

i will not be the reference of your portraits,
you cannot draw me in
your kind of passion disgusts me; you are not a true artist.
there'll be no soft brushes between us,
only sharp edges of craft knives
as i carve into your determination and soften that hardened clay
into something i can mould and shape,
something i can twist away from me.
six years is a long time for something to be set in stone
but i have a sledgehammer will and i refuse to feel backed into the corners
of your lustful foundations.
i do not wish to be a masterpiece in your eyes any longer.
i never asked you to admire me.
i will not be hung on your wall.

Boys go through this shit, too. I did. Twice.

this is an open letter
for me to be able to say
i just don't think i can do this
anymore, because...
i just can't do this anymore

if i'm pulling away,
it's because i think i fucked up
or it's because you did
but i'm too self-loathing
to think i deserve an apology

you think you're so cool,
because you support
all the good causes
but your self-declared integrity
and morality, and importance--

it's all meaningless;
you are a fucking bully,
whether you realise it
or not,
the kind of kid that says
"i hate hypocrites,"

as you preach about trust
whilst lying
through your razor-sharp teeth;
you tear through others
like slabs of meat,
a ruthless carnivore
indulging on others' self-esteem

i can't do this anymore,
can't pretend your words
are water off my back,
fuck it
if i wanted a shower
i'd go to the bathroom,

i don't need a shower
i'm already clean,
but you?
you're filthy, you disgust me
but i love you anyway
and that's why i can't do this

i'm sick of loving what makes me ill
so i'm not gonna talk,
not gonna listen,
not gonna offer myself up
for you to dig your knife and fork in.
i'm done with this.

Tens of millions of men, women and children murdered
But what do we care?
Genocide-systematically killing, raping, and harming
But what do we care?
We say "never again" that turned into "never again, again"
And twenty-thousand children born for one-hundred days of forced pleasure
Families ripped apart, homes destroyed, and murder-murder
We say it but do we get it?
Do we really GET it?
Do we really grasp the fact of people's lives being ended forcefully for no other reason than someone "disagrees" for no other reason than someone's "different
But what do we care?
Blue eyes, blonde hair, bright skin to the right
Brown eyes, black hair, dark skin to the left
Those on the right go home,
Those on the left no longer have homes for concentration camps are now their homes
The sent of freshly brewed lipton tea has now been replaced by the harsh fumes of zyklon-B
Unsure of their next meal, if you could call it that at all, unsure of their next beating, the next time they'll be raped, unsure of what'll be theirs last breath before death
Feeling unsure and not secure
But please tell me, what do we care?

KittenJesus Jan 6

Shut up!
this thing.. you laugh at...
do you really understand...
It is not funny... not the word
not the meaning...
and especially not the "joke"..
it is death
... it is not a phase
... it is not a saying
... it is not something to smile about...
shut up!
you can not and will not
laugh at something so serious
I refuse to let you laugh at the sad souls it consumed
nor will I stand idle to this generations
ignorance to the word showing their lack of heart
... I hate the word suicide and suicidal
not because it means pain for the victim and more...
but because of how often it is misused in today's
careless world
I hate how everything is
"cringey", "depressing", and "triggering"...
those words used to be safe for the hurt and weak
but now they feel more safe keeping it in
suicide is something that sound not be encouraged
nor glorified
...
so next time
you tell someone they should "kys" (kill yourself)
think... did I even ask if they were okay

backstory on this poem:
my boyfriend is depressed...fairly severe
and he will make jokes about suicide to his friends and what not...well... i am very very sensitive... and get very scared when ever he says such things... because he is suicidal... and he has lost a close friend before to it... and I almost lost a family member not to long ago... well we have talked about it before and says suicide is dumb and I'm being stupid to worry.... well... he just said that something was making him "suicidal" and I got really scared... thinking something was wrong because he has been upset since we lost talked... and now he is mad at me for worrying again because he just meant it as "i feel like giving up on my work blah blah blah".... and... because I still had so much fear and nervousness... I decided to write... I don't know if this a "slam poem" or not... but... yeah...thanks for reading if you made it this far... and please leave suggestions for improvement below or message me <3
riwa Dec 2016

Don’t fall for me,
simply because
I will turn your kisses into similes
kissing you is like watching a sunset; slow, and beautiful.

Don’t tell me you love me,
simply because
your words will form metaphors in my mouth
you are a thunderstorm my heart is not ready for.

Don’t fall for me,
simply because
I am selfish,
every breath you take, every word you speak
I will find a way to turn that into a composition of letters and sounds
for my own purpose.


Don’t try to be with me,
simply because
I will try to trap you with my words
every space in my broken sentences will be filled with thoughts of you.

Stay with me,
I’ll turn your existence into a poem
stay with me,
I’ll engrave your name into my verses
stay with me,
stay with me,
stay with me,

so I don’t have to turn my heartache into a poem of sorrow once again.

I have not felt at ease with the world in a while,
but that has changed,
simply because
you are my world now
everything I do,
I do for you.


So this is a warning;
don’t fall for me,
simply because
I am a thief who is good with words,
I will steal your love
and turn it into stories of malignancy and almosts.

12.10.17
Abby Carpenter Sep 2016

The first glass was smiles,
He’d tell us that he loved us
Or that we made him proud
Warm glow from the fire reflected the sloshing contents of his drink on the walls
A blurred dance of celestial lines and shapes.
We took in his light like the inhale of a breath,
Feeling so glad to have earned his praises.

Fifth glass was slurred words
Crawling from the corners of his mouth like a rat escaping a sewer,
The smiles were gone.
We stood still with anxious ticks unfolding before us
Afraid of what would happen if we were to speak
The fire was fading, the dance nearing an end

Glass eight brought anger
Shouts spiraled from his chest, a tornado that we couldn’t cross
Words flew by us,
Glasses flew by us,
Fists flew by us.
Too scared to move, our backs pressed against the wall
We tried our best to disappear
I closed my eyes and held my hands together hoping that the small amount of pressure would be enough to make him lay his hands on someone else that night

Twelfth glass brought sleep.
With his body still we could move again,
His neck crooked to the side, an empty glass in his hand.
No liquid left to reflect.
A sleeping serpent laying in the center of his destruction
Broken glasses and thrown picture frames at his feet,
It became hard to believe he had caused this a moment ago

Now seven years later I find myself at a party
The bass so loud I could feel my body shake,
Red cup in my hand, liquid sloshing with familiarity
Without a pause I am drinking one glass,
Then two,
Then three,
I wonder how I let myself become the thing I fear most like a reverse metamorphosis into my childhood,
And now when I look in the mirror I don’t see me,
I’m stuck looking into his lifeless eyes
And I don’t know how I can change this,
How can I run when the monster resides inside of me?
I don’t know how I can separate myself from him when every time I see a drink I hear my mother’s scream
Blurred images of memory and reality surround me and I am once again too afraid to move
Back pressed against the wall, hands pressed together.
I am my childhood nightmares,
Completing the cycle and making ends meet
Once again I am back in that trailer and I wonder if I ever left

Llila Jul 2016

(written to be read as spoken-word)
There is a bird inside my rib-cage,
I swallowed it whole four years ago.
Its weight drags my feet further and further into the earth below
And its screeches never cease.
Sometimes I worry that it will kill me
And other times I wish it would.
Occasionally,
it would scratch at my lungs and bruise my ribs with its flailing,
It doesn’t do that anymore though,
Sometimes I wish it would.
The talons reminded me that I was still here.
But now the bird simply lies inside my chest making it difficult to breathe.
There is no longer fury in its wings, only the burnt out embers of what used to be.
I fear that the bird has died and that his little bones are the only part of him left to weigh me down.

I dream about freeing the bird, cutting open my lungs and letting his dark feathers seep away,
Tearing skin from bone and bone from bird.
That would surely kill me, but at least the bird could be free.

I have written this poem a thousand times and I will write it a thousand more
Because I want it to be perfect
I will say to you a thousand times that perfection is unattainable
and yet I will try a thousand times to attain it.
That is the curse of the bird
I’m beginning to conquer my bird,
But like a long had pet, it is difficult to let go
A close friend, a pretty drug, it’s difficult to put down
But when I do,
The entire universe will know
Because I will sing without feathers I my throat,
Because I will paint without darkness in my eyes,
And because I will wake up in the morning to see the sun rise
And I will walk for miles because I want to
And I smile and smile and smile
Until my face forgets the shape of a frown

I wrote this a while ago and then added the last grouping of more positive lines later on when I performed it in a drama class.
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