skyler Dec 2017

Childhood is supposed to be blissful. Kids are supposed to be innocent. Children are supposed to be learning how to face the world, not fighting it head on. I look left and right and see kids with as much pain and fear in their eyes as soldiers coming home from war with half of their limbs blown off. These children have been fighting since day one; some of them thrown to the curb before their eyes even open. They're supposed to have a family they can go home to, but instead they're getting shoved into homes with strangers or family members trying to pick up the slack because mommy and daddy are falling apart and their broken pieces are laying all over the house waiting to cut you open and drain your insides. There are kids who know more about drug abuse than the average adult because they've grown up watching their family stick needles in their arms. There are little girls and boys who flinch at any sudden movement or sound because the only thing they can picture is fists flying at them and pinning them to the ground. There are children who look at trauma and pain as if it's just another day because they've been dealing with drama since the day they left their momma or maybe their momma left them. There are kids you can't touch without them weeping because they've had hands on them creeping to places they scream you can not go but some people just don't understand the word no. There are adolescents that don't flinch at gunfire because they heard the same sound in the bedroom next to theirs before their sibling’s funeral. There are babies with bruises and kids with cuts just because mommy and daddy don't seem to love them enough. Childhood is supposed to be blissful, but instead there's kids taking fistfuls of pills to wash away the pain that shouldn't have been there in the first place. Kids are supposed to be innocent, but instead their lives don't make sense and they grow up to be numb like fog covers their brains all because their upbringing was outright insane.

s.s

Chloe Dec 2017

They say that suicide survivors are usually relieved when they don't succeed their attempt.
Some are even happy.
I am not one of those survivors.
I don't like having to explain why I have such deep scars on my wrist;
Or apologize when I slur and stumble over my words when I'm sober because all of the pills that I overdosed on effected my brain.
I don't like having to live with the realization that I'm even a failure at killing myself.
I have to live not seeing a future.
When people ask me where I see myself in ten years, I have to lie.
I make up some stupid, cliché response like "married with kids." or "super rich with my shit together."
When really I'm actually thinking to myself, "I don't see myself anywhere in ten years because I plan to be dead before then."
I may of made it 18, and to 21, and to 23 but I will be damned if I make it 30.
There is no future for me.

Some slam poetry that might be triggering for some.
Eni Hasanaj Oct 2017

Tell me what changed since day one when I couldn't stop kissing you? Remembering actually leads me to break out to tears.
Listening to high volume to some crazy disco music and tears falling down my cheeks.
Why did you lead me into something I didn't want in the first place ,being so good and breaking my heart at the end of phrases' I couldn't say.
Life's total miserable at the ends' of loves' that never were truly mine.

Eni Hasanaj Oct 2017

As girls dream, you'd think you'd meet your perfect boy somewhere between heaven and earth or probably just at a social gathering.
He'd be the boy under the spotlight shining brighter than sun itself or the one your friends would interduce you to each-other as the perfect fit and soon a love so easy at first sight would sparkle between your souls like you're really made for each other, for a sec it'd make you think you're celebrating NYE but this time the sparkles and the butterflies in your stomach are forever cause he is real and everything you could ever want.

But maybe you aren't attending the party and you will never notice the guy under the spotlight cause you never  believed that it'd be so easy and always thought  butterflies are overrated  and sparkles way too magical and you would rather settle for temporary lust and not never ending love.

Having Depression is like finding out that mermaids are real
It doesn’t make sense to you until you’re getting dragged to the bottom of the ocean
And then you think
Oh
That’s what this is
And I’m drowning now,
That’s just……… great
And eventually, with your last vestiges of breath left
You float back to the surface
And you’re fine.
And that’s it.
Mermaids stop existing again.
Because you never actually saw what grabbed you
You only felt the claws around your leg
The cold, clammy hands tugging
With a force that you could never fight against
But you never saw her
So it was all a dream
Right?
And it happens again and again
You are drowning again and again
Until the water begins to feel like home
And the only thing reminding you that you are alive
Is the burning in your lungs
And when everything you had balanced so very carefully starts falling
Off the shelves of your life
When your “mild” depression starts deciding it wants to be more
When being alone makes you feel dead inside
And when losing your cool for one goddamn second makes you contemplate your own demise
When do you admit to yourself that you are slipping
You are sinking and just because you can slow your descent
Does not mean that you’re not still drowning
And at the end of the day just because it took you longer to get there this time
Doesn’t mean you aren’t still lying on the ocean floor
Devoid of light and sound
And if you had just climbed onto that now distant boat and sailed away
You’d be fine.
But climbing was too hard
And sinking is so much easier
And you’re scared that if you reach out
Your hands will feel clammy and cold
As they wrap around your friends throats
And drag them down with you
And you would rather rot at the bottom of an endless sea
Than let that happen
So you lie in darkness and wait
For a sound
The singular resounding sound
Of failure
And you slowly float back to the surface
Take a deep breath
And you’re fine.
Because mermaids aren’t real
It’s all in your head

This is normally performed aloud, but I wanted to share it with you all, as well

am i too much for you?
is it that fact i have a loose screw, or two, or three
did i really need to see you through for every day you
touched me, looked me in the eye, said the fire will never die
but it did

and that hoodie fills a space between two legs,
square pegs into round holes, binge eating until you
hurt your throat
but you still devote yourself to being
skinny

and that word has plagued me for so long, like a song, like a call, and now i need to know, before i fall, am i skinny enough to be loved? is my collarbone every going to be a wishing well, will i burn in hell for the simple sin of being fat?

but in reality, the only real causality was myself
i force fed myself discipline, hoped someone
would listen, but they never did

even the shrinks said i was crazy
and that i was lazy for not going out, excising until
my skin split and a beautiful butterfly emerged
then i'd surge into battle like a goddess

but when your thighs are thick and you aren't modest,
and when you wear lipstick too thick like a woman
with double Ds and an ache between her knees
you know that if you were skinny, you'd never have
these problems, and if you did
you'd know how to solve them
to be skinny
is to be graceful

even in suicidal rages
that flip through pages and pages of stories before they rip my own
from existence
need to be kept under control and kept at a distance like
a tiger that has the taste for human flesh

but now i know i'm the best, because i have a good butt,
long legs and a pretty face
but i'm too hard to replace in this overpriced world
where girls are told to starve themselves

to a neutral, non-pear shape
until their breasts are the tip of an hourglass
their waists are too thin to last
and their eyes are longing for even the tiniest indulgence
avoiding food and any substance
that would jeopardize
skinny

but then i realized
if skinny was so important
then why did all those who were it
probably also were just a little bit away from going insane
and we were in the same boat, staying afloat together
on the ocean of
skinny

so i wrote this poem
for every single girl or woman
who needed a book or a booking
to make them feel beautiful, and by beautiful i mean
skinny

but beautiful can be skinny,
but it can also be thighs like tree trunks,
arms like rivers
and a body that delivers nothing but happiness to that of it's owner

and my body is not some loaner car you
can trash and get away with
there will be fines,
for i am fine,

but in those times, where
nothing was ever promised to me
i started to see

beautiful could mean
staying up to take care of your kids,
single-mothering and being glad your husband
got rid of himself before you could, because
you can do a much better job without the chain-smoke
and you stay woke
forever
because skinny is a construct

or it could mean
studying in waters of student loans,
feeling alone as the only girl on campus
but working hard to become a lawyer or a doctor,
she will always be her mother's daughter

i'd say words stronger than this,
but there are children here,
but screw skinny!
i am beautiful,
you are beautiful
and by beautiful
i mean anything you want it to mean.

This is not my story, but it could've been. This is the story for every girl who gained a few extra pounds, looked at herself in the mirror and said "I need to fix this". But there's nothing you need to fix. You are beautiful.

your new york street cat-calls
will never touch me

because i am woman,
and you will fucking hear me

roar, loud enough
to shake the earth

and sky

people always said to me
"you're too young to be a feminist"

but what does that even mean?
are you ever to young to fight?

i swear on the bible

girls with dreams and big ideas
are scarier than monsters

and her eyes are not oceans,
she is not a tsunami

she is beautiful
she is god
she is woke
she is queen

the black girl, the white girl
the brown girl all make

a rainbow
and I want

to savor every goddamn moment

PiledByTheGate Jun 2017

When I was little,
I used to hate having my door closed,
I would scream and cry
In fear of what the shadows could hold.
I was afraid of a box
Where I’d be held hostage
Caged with a lock
And no key
Back then
That pain was like the sting of a bee.
Now at 17 I realize that I wasn’t afraid of the dark
I was afraid of depression
Making its mark.
I was afraid of the endless battle of trying to fall asleep
Not wanting to wake up
But not wanting to dream.
I was afraid of the hope I would lose in that battle
Afraid of the chains
That made my hollow bones rattle,
Because in the light of a new day
I’d stay inside
“I’m tired” I’d say,
But the truth was much simpler
Than a cheap fix
I am afraid of myself
And I can’t change it.

Nemo W Jun 2017

i was diagnosed-
a disease of the mind
a senseless surreal sensation
sent my way
by what?
GOD?
BIOLOGY?
FATE?
i sometimes bite my tongue
till it bleeds
the taste like copper in the sun
i sometimes curse my brain
for lying to me
it laughs
HAHAHA

i've been told so many
different theories-
so which do i believe?
i feel crazy
am i crazy
no i can't be
but i might be
HAHAHA

my perfect preacher
in a starched-white shirt
tells me it's GOD
i need to believe
follow his ways and you will succeed
my pill pushing psychiatrist
in his jet black suit and tie
tells me it's BIOLOGY
study and you will succeed
the free spirits
say it's fate
be loose and you will succeed
but which one is right?
i laugh at myself
HAHAHA

this is all too hard
i guess i'll give up
my twinkling tears
will never stop.

Hailyn Suarez May 2017

How come you left my mom?
Was she too sweet,
like the sugar she saturated your coffee in,
Or was she too kind,
letting you buy every
little boy play station game?
She warmed you like the sun,
penetrating your skin,
tanning your insides.
Was she too bright, beautiful,
mesmerizing?
How come when I see you, I still smile?
As my family curses your name, I smile.
When they tell me “He’s not a good father” , I defend.
their nostrils flare, but I
smile.

How come I forgave you so damn easy?
Maybe, so I can forgive myself,
for not being daddy’s little girl.
Not being able to gently step on your feet,
dance around the house.
For not being my sister, who has a father,
Enveloping her in wave after wave
of calm ocean love.

How come you haunt my dreams?
Voice calm, forgiving,
whispering: “I love you.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“I miss you.”
soft whispers of broken promises echo

How come you stayed for him?
Was it because you knew
you could play baseball with him?
Or was it because when he turned 15,
you could teach him
how to pick up girls like dandelions?

How come boys break promises?
Not just boys, men.
Men like you,
Who tell 10-year old’s that
their present is on the way:
“It’s in transit.”
“It’s in the mail.”
“I just shipped it.”
“It should be there.”
“Happy Birthday Honey.”

How come I look for guys like you?
They say I’m “asking for it.”
Wanting to snatch up every simple, soft
smiling, cold
hearted, Uncomitting,
immature boy.
Maybe they’ll keep me
company
‘til you return.
You were my first definition
of a prince,
How charming.

How come I don’t trust anyone,
even that nice boy swaying silently to the song
that I adore, or that one who helps me
through dreadful chemistry lectures?

How come you text “I love you”?
When I’m alone, crying
over the latest breakup,
Submerging myself in heart wrenching
love songs,
Drowning in the comforting
lyrics. The soft ping of a text,
imitating conversation.
Your name
A heart emoji
I love you.

Your texts have become another promise.
I have begun to count down the days
until those words are murmurs
And three words become
zero.

How come, I still say “I love you too”?
How come you walked away before I could even walk?
How come my last name still follows me around like a brand?
How come you moved so fucking far away?
How come I believed you year after year,
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
Winter
Spring
Summer
Fall
Winter
Spring
Summer

Where are my presents,
Wrapped quickly in promises,
stamped “return to sender”

This would be a spoken poem
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