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 May 2014 Teresa Smith
r
Mango Tears
 May 2014 Teresa Smith
r
Beneath the mango tree
death turns slowly -
creaks the branches/
untouchable - the tears
hanging low above the ground -
slowly swinging - no more singing/
beneath the mango tree.

r ~ 5/30/14
Recent event in the village of Katra, India.
 May 2014 Teresa Smith
meg
I remember when I was in the hospital and I didn't sleep for two days straight because I swore to god that if I did the demons would step out from under the bed and seep into my head.

I remember when it was three am, and I was shaken awake from the girl three doors down shrieking from the night terrors that her mother embedded into her skull with her fist and a belt when she was eight. But, they were then stored away until she was thirteen years old and a man swore that he'd beat her if she didn't cooperate. So, now they hide during the day, and creep back up when the sun falls.

I remember when I witnessed a boy unintentionally scratch at his skin until he bleed for an hour because the voices inside of his mind told him that if he didn't hurt anyone else, he would just have to hurt himself. and he swears he'd never hurt anyone besides himself.

I remember when I met a girl who had cuts up and down her arms and legs from when her mother told her she'd never survive the world because she isn't good enough. But, I swear to god that she was the strongest person I've ever met.

I remember when my roommate stayed up all night rocking with bloodshot eyes and deep purple circles underneath of them because she swore that if she slept the monsters inside of her head would crawl out and bleed into her soul.

I remember when the boy five doors down hit the wall so hard that it shook the entire unit because he hallucinated a man and a little girl trying to strangle him, and he swore he could feel the noose around his neck.  

even through all of this, for some odd reason teenagers think it's lovely to have deep scars and to hear voices telling them to **** themselves and everyone around them. I swear, nothing is lovely about demons eating at your brain and thoughts.

I remember when it was four am, and I was up weeping from the fact that people think my suffering is lovely.

I can swear to you, it's not.
***** hiding that I went to a mental ward. because I think that this is the best poem I've ever written.
I miss,
everyone I have ever met,
all at the same time,
nostalgic faces I don't know,
forever and
tonight.
I did realize don't is technically two words >_> but on a side note, best cure for being lonesome? writing, and netflix....and maybe a good beer
I think of you all the time in the darkest of nights. Erie when the stars are all so bright. I wonder what it would be like to let you have me again. To let your arms wrap around me and hold me tight. Tighter my heart feels for committing to this confession. Your glassy eyes are honestly crystal clear of clarity for me. Buts that's how we remain and are conscious how it will always be. Contradicting and dancing in limbo of fiery serenity. Mind spins like on carousels without the ability get get off and learning to just ride.  But this confession seems to always **** me. I think of times of innocence event though now innocent we are not. The others close to my heart don't understand and think or bridge has burned. But little do they know there will always be water underneath to carry you home to me like blood that rushes to my heart. You are the only one that truly left a scar and I know at night you think of me too when it's dark. And I know you think of past times when we unanimously see stars. Erie as it is we always swim in the gray area. The deep depths that cause swallowing hard because guilt resides where pleasures are carried. Like the day we crashed and totaled the car we were prevented from taking things any farther. You said I was your angel and someone wanted us to survive and this memory I have always harbored. It's you iv been waiting for and wanted. Our companionship consists of the contradictions of each other's demons riding on shoulders. And damaging mentality never sounded so sweet and tasted so bitter. And you don't believe in god but I believe I'm just one of purgatories cliche sinners. Living to love hating our past and knowing how my heads going crazy but my sweet heart remains clever.
Emily a grande
 May 2014 Teresa Smith
leah
Untitled
 May 2014 Teresa Smith
leah
trying to be everything
can make you lose your mind
but **** was i so close,
so many times
now i'll pack up my things
and carry on with my travels
while i watch this still moon
and allow fate to unravel
and i'll wear my cracked armor
a whole 7 hours away
because you have to
let the light out somehow
they say
Oh, the somber wind blows
the ice and the snow.
It’s a different kind of cold
that chills to the bones.
Bringing self doubt to what we think we know,
when all we want to do is just go home.
But when the world says no
you’re left with nowhere to go.
Lost and alone,
the somber wind blows.
I just wanted to try to write something with the same rhyme all the way through and this is what I came up with. I'm not terribly pleased with it but I thought I'd share anyway.
I don’t want to be loved,
I want to be thought about.

I don’t want someone to think I’m perfect,
I want someone to have an urge to discover every inch of my soul.

I want to be enigmatic,
not ideal.

I want someone to ask me witty questions,
not give me compliments.

All of you are looking for devotion,
while I'm searching for a fire to play with.
 Apr 2014 Teresa Smith
Alexis
Lies
 Apr 2014 Teresa Smith
Alexis
They taught her
Not to believe
The sweet nothings
Boys would tell her.
"I would do anything for you."
"You mean the world to me!"
"Oh, darling, I love you so much."

For they were all lies.

Little did they know
That she, too,
Would never believe those lies.
In fact,
She was the one
Who told them.
It clamps my heart  hard in it's hand
Trying to stifle
The pulsing beat
Stop my breath
My words
My truth
But I can't
I have to speak
I can't stop the river
That flows
It is truth
And truth be told
No matter what the cost
It's nice to see a cell phone capture device appear on your power pole when you are an anti police state blogger
I try to write
But my words
Stumble and trip
Drunk within my brain
The stairway to my pen
So steep and treacherous
That they dare not tumble down them
Lest they be broken and ruined by the fall
So they stay deep within the den of my brain
In inebriated silence
While my muse
Drinks a bottle of wine
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