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heather leather Jul 2015
"it was a very curious story of young love
and betrayal and heartache and yet, it was also
none of the above for the very inclination that it
was young love gave way to belief that of course
betrayal and heartache would follow suit, and therefore
it cannot be considered love; for love should be nothing
but pure and stained only by tears of joy. instead they
took the very name of love and ruined it; they turned
roses into violets, they turned happiness into lack thereof
and perhaps the most tragic, they never really loved at all."
heather leather Jul 2015
his hands twitch and he starts to blink and attempts
to calm down, because it's okay, people
get nervous and this is what happens when people
get nervous but his hands won't stop twitching and it's
the one imperfect thing in this entire room, the walls
are white the people are silent the floor is
polished the chairs don't squeak and why the hell
is his hand still twitching; he starts to panic because
he can feel the bile rising in his throat, he can feel
goosebumps on his arms he can feel the anxiety
radiating like a furnace he can feel it all and he doesn't
blink, he just tries to focus on his breathing but he
can't he can't he can't he can't all he can do
is look at the boy with the twitching hands and hope that
he stops because it was ruining everything all he
wanted him to do was stop stop stop stop but
he wouldn't, he would never stop it never
stops no matter how many pills he takes no matter
how many therapy sessions he attends, there is
still that boy in the back of his mind and his hands
are constantly twitching and they don't stop they only
become distracted by the ceiling fan or the tiles on
the floor or the hanging thread on her dress or
the on and off switch and having to turn it
on and off on and off on and off on and off
four times before it feels right
nothing ever feels right anymore, it is all a matter
of becoming distracted and trying to focus
******* anything else but the boy with the twitching hands

(h.l.)
kinda want to do an entire collection on mental disorders? thoughts? i hope i conveyed this well
  Jul 2015 heather leather
Lyra
-VI
We were a game of chess -
You were my king
and I was your pawn.
but you did not realize
I was so much more -


check
mate
.
heather leather Jul 2015
one
on your very first birthday, you will hear many things
you will not be able to decipher them yet but
they will echo in your ear until you go to sleep,
you will hear about how big you've grown and how
beautiful you are or how beautiful you're going to be
and the highlight of your day will be when finally you
get to cut into that delicious chocolate cake that your
aunt made you and you will run around the yard
and laugh as you trip endlessly and the big kids won't play
with you but that's okay because you're one and you
don't really understand that strange feeling in your heart
when they say that you're too little to join in on their game
of tag and everything is so confusing because
your grandmother said that you were a big girl now but
somehow you are not big enough and you won't be for
awhile but you don't really care because in that moment you
are one and everything is an adventure for you;
from the wet grass in the backyard to the weird kisses your
older brother and the girl across the street exchange
but that just makes everything ten times more interesting
and you are still protesting even though it is futile that you
don't want to go to bed and even though you are still
forced to go to bed earlier than you want, you are happy
because today you turned one years old and you are big
enough to cut the cake with some help from your
mom but still too small to play tag with the big kids and the
concept is confusing but exhilarating and you cannot wait
for the next day and as your breathing becomes more
even you succumb to the dark and fall asleep and everything
is okay because you are one and you do not know yet
that when you are five your mother will stop making time for
you or that when you are ten everyone will stop caring about
your existence and that when you are thirteen the boy in your
school that you really really like will tell you that you are ugly
and everyone else will follow and when you get to be
seventeen you will be so desperate to leave this misery called
life that you will try and force yourself to go into a
different type of sleep, the more permanent kind and your father
will say you're being an attention ***** and your
mother will start to wonder where she went wrong
and your older brother won't care because he won't find
out that you are depressed or sad until the day of your
funeral, when you are nineteen and finally asleep,
although this time; you don't try to fight it
instead you go willingly and succumb to the darkness
much like you did when you were younger and
unaware that life is not a great adventure, it
is more like a never ending hell that will make
you wish that you were one

(h.l.)
this was supposed to be a happy poem but noPE my hands have a mind of their own
heather leather Jul 2015
Your favorite color is green like the color of eyes
not like the color of grass
and you love playing sports but hate the outdoors
and you spent hours one day searching for a lost battery
somewhere in the park and I was there  
as always with you searching for this mysterious battery
already knowing we weren't going to find it
but not caring because it mattered to you
so it mattered to me and when you went home that day
with disappointment at the pit of your stomach
I could only try to find other ways to smile
because my lips has stretched far too much
and I couldn't express happiness the way
I wanted too when you had shown up at my house
at midnight with a deck of cards and a bottle of gin
and we played ******* and I had lost because
for some reason I could lie to everyone else but you

My favorite color is blue like the soft sweater
your aunt knitted for Christmas not like
the color of the ocean and you wouldn't know
because you don't really care and it should bother me
that you don't care but it doesn't;
like the last battery in the park,
I already know our love is one that is not
meant to exist or to be found and it would
only ever prevail on the nights where you come
to my house at midnight and on the
days that you lose batteries at the park

(h.l.)
This is bad sorry
  Jul 2015 heather leather
Lauren Leal
Don't mind me, I'm just bleeding my heart out one poem at a time.
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