Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
thepsychkid Jul 2021
What left of me
Is my scattered words
Here and there
They don't mix and match anymore
They're just a floating words
No flows, no directions
I lost you.
I lost them.

What left of me
Is my scarred heart
To write is to force to accept.
But finding my words back
Is not accepting I lost you
I thought it would ****
But only when I write
I will never lost you.
I lost my Dad last year and I thought I will never write again because writing my pain was truly a torture. But I realize that only when I write can I never lost him forever.
thepsychkid Jun 2016
Suddenly I am too fond of sleeping.
Waking up become the nightmares.
Sleeping heals my wounded mind.
Like a coward in my nightmares
I refuse to fight and wake up.
And when nothing feels like the safest,
my only hope is a sweet dream to come.
thepsychkid Jun 2016
I've got a list of secrets
Secrets I treasured the most.
Like the face I make
when no one is looking,
Or the words I say
when no one can hear me.
Like the books I read
when I am scared at night,
Or the song I sing and listen to
when I'm alone.
Like the thoughts I hide
when my mind is screaming,
Or the tears I let out
before I sleep at night,
Or the fake smiles I wipe
after all the bad days.
All the things they'll never know,
Because I'll never tell, I'll never show.
thepsychkid Jun 2016
Rain, rain, go away!
Come again another day.

She sings with them 'til it's gone
Like she loves it 'til the end.
She gives them umbrella
She said she doesn't need.
And at night
before the rain gets stronger
the rain would ask her:
"Why do you keep giving happiness that isn't yours?"
And then she will weep and weep
asking herself the same thing.
This is for those who are in so much struggles but still manage to pretend happy, full and strong to give the things she/he actually needs for himself to the people he/she loves. Whoever you are, I salute you.
thepsychkid Jun 2016
It's okay to be scared.
Hide in the corner,
Cry without no one knowing,
Run as if you're saving yourself,
It's okay.

It's okay to fall and fail.
Give up and do nothing, it's okay.
It's okay to be not what you have to be.
Pretend and lie, it's okay.
It's okay.
Everything you are doing, it's okay.
It doesn't make you any less of a person.
Nobody is perfect so it's okay.

But if you want to live freely?
Live Happily.
Be happy for yourself.
Live Honestly.
Be honest to yourself.
Live Scare-free.
You have a long life ahead of you, Take Risk.
It's okay.
It'll be okay.
Sometimes saying "it's okay" is what a person really needs. Tell them it's okay to not be as good as anyone hoped them to be. But I aint saying its okay to pretend & lie BIG uh? I'm just saying that lying doesn't make anyone any less of a person, or any less deserving! We are all worthy of something great.
  Apr 2016 thepsychkid
adrien
i killed myself.
my old self.
sometimes she likes to sneak back into the cracks in my bones,
but she's never there for long.
she knows she is not welcome there.

i killed myself.
my old self.
then i bloomed like a dandelion,
fierce and ready to conquer all.
sometimes people like to pluck me
because i'm a ****.
but weeds can be flowers too if you get to know them.

m.a.l.
  Apr 2016 thepsychkid
Nigel Finn
This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.
I'm planning on giving this one a rewrite, but I rarely get around to doing such things. I'm posting it mostly as a reminder to myself that I set out to do something. There's a good chance it will remain unfinished though.
Next page