"bandaid" poems
Isn't it funny,
That you want things
You dont have,
and have things you don't want.
And you spend your time praying,
Trying to justify sin
And pass it off as love.
We get this idea in our heads,
That we aren't meant to be alone.
That the only point in life
Is to find someone to make you
Feel complete.
But if you need someone to fill you,
Isn't that just like putting a bandaid
Over a bullethole?
There's always the possibility
Of love leaving,
Of having empty spaces again?
I think its more important to
Complete yourself.
People come and go like seasons.
But you will always be stuck
With yourself.
So live and love as hard as you can.
As passionately as you can.
And remember that the last persons
Voice you'll hear when you lie
Down to drift off into eternal sleep,
Is your own.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
The old blue box filled to the brim
With bandages, Advil, and what my dad used to call "magic healing lotion"
So that we would feel special when putting it on
After falling down
From the monkey bars on the playground across the street
Or that first time I fell off of my bike
Now my pain is more than skin deep
Not a simple dab of magic healing lotion and a Spider-Man bandaid
Will help stop the blood dripping from my wrists
The old blue box filled to the brim
With bandages, Advil, and what my dad used to call "magic healing lotion"
Now sits on the top shelf of the closet
Collecting dust
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
Muster up the words, "I beg you."
Form some kind of apology, please
This isn't you and you know it
Your heart is too warm to treat someone so cold
The breezy winds flow through your hair just as well as they do your emotions and you're making her feel like a helpless feather with no other choice but to get blown away
Even a simple goodbye would be better than this
Trust me, I know closure isn't really your thing, but she deserves at least something
Anything would do this situation justice, just please talk to her
This isn't you, please snap out of it
I know you've been hurt too many times to count and you're looking everywhere for something or someone to fill your voids but do not use innocent hearts as vices, they don't work like that
Don't rob someone of their feelings just because you have a hard time coping with yours
I know sometimes certain situations and feelings can be interpreted differently, but don't kid yourself, you know exactly what you're doing and quite frankly it's making me sick
You aren't perfect and neither is she, but the least you could do is offer her a bandaid when she needs one instead of drinking her blood and leaving a mess for her to cleanup afterwards without even calling her back
All of this is running like a train through my head when I look into my mirror and see myself start to tear up
The bags under my eyes hold all of the emotions that I try my best not to let out
It should be easier than this
Maybe it really is easy, and I'm just not used to change
I'm not sure about a lot of the things that are happening in my life
However, I am sure that I need to stop becoming a bad memory to others
It keeps me awake at night to think about all of the wrong I've done
That there are people whose only memory of me is how I was the worst for them and I don't want that
To my past friends and lovers, I can't say sorry enough
To my present friends and lovers, please don't give up on me; you are the reason I'm still trying
To my future friends and lovers, I hope by the time we meet, I am nothing less than perfect to you
I'm not used to change, but I could get used to being a good memory
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
“every time i feel my stomach convulse it’s a new wave of tears
take vitamins, she says
you should just eat, she says
you got skinnier, another says
“eat! eat! haven’t you been eating!? and this bandaid! quit cutting yourself, kalena”
and for a moment i think it’s truth
i think it’s honest
i shout “i do eat! they’re just cat scratches”
and if she would have lifted up that bandaid
she would have learned it was honest
it was truth
but it was melted away flesh that she would have found, not torn
but melted
and in the highlight of this moment i see all of my dreams come true
finally, someone notices!
finally, someone cares!
but yet she’s willing to stop eating. to make sure that i do.
my little thing. an entire 98 pounds, not by choice.
so unhealthy, so sick. all the time. so **** tired.
she would stop eating for me.
and though it doesn’t help, the thought is comforting. it should be disturbing.
it is. in the way that if she stopped eating…
she would lose weight.
and then i would fight harder and harder until my rib bones were sticking out so far they were larger than my chest.
emaciated.
bony fingers that boys don’t want to hold and girls don’t want to kiss.
hair that slides out with the slightest tug.
no one wants that.
except me, of course.
i want that.
i want to weigh 85 pounds.
i want to die.
i want to be so high on the emptiness that i die.
i faint. and they cannot wake me up.
eternal sleep. forever peace. and the best part of all?
I would be horrifically tiny in even the smallest coffin. “
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
the lovesick little ******
wears a bandaid on her trigger finger
and bites her split lip
while aiming.
she is trying to go higher
past the tree line
and figure out just where to aim.
she points, & shoots.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
I quit letting you steer my beautiful life,
causing this sort of internal strife
I quit letting you steal a memory from me,
having me escape for a moment selfishly
I quit letting you fester in my lungs
and defending you with my poisoned tongue
I quit letting you be my constant escape,
using you as a bandaid to heal my scrapes
I quit letting you be a part of me
because today and forever I am clean
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
I have.....
curly hair
autism
a sunburn
freckles
a black cat
a blister! AAAHHH get a bandaid!!! MOOOMMMYYY!!!
I am.....
left handed
long legged
a girl
funny
My ID card describes me as:
caucasian-whats that mean?
female
minor
blue eyes
red hair
All of this describes me
None of it defines me
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.
morning.
morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.
morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, **** you, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.
there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.
morning.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
when i was 7 i cracked my head open with glass
and blood covered my head
i didn't go to the hospital
i didn't even tell anyone
i never saw the glass really coming
it happened in just a split second
i hardly even felt it
it stung
but i was too worried about the glass
and how i was going to clean it
before my parents came home
my mom always liked to keep her house clean
so i had to pick it up
when i was 13
my best friend had her first heartbreak
i was doing homework
because i was so behind
but she called me crying
and asked if she could come over
i held her for two hours
while she sobbed into my sweatshirt
and when she left
i didn't even get a thank you
i try so hard to make everyone feel content and happy
then sit in my room
and wonder why i'm so sad
but it's because
all i do is bleed for people
and they never even hand me a bandaid
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
Mental and emotional wounds are invisible, but a wound is still felt by those they inflict
Just like a tiny cut, you still feel the pain even if you can't see it
Just like the cancer beneath your flesh and in your brain, it still eats away at you
These are wounds that don't heal or go away if you apply pressure or put a bandaid over
There is no stitch that can put your broken heart and wounded mind back together
You walk with this pain
Feel it in every step and passing look
The goosebumps on your arms
The trembling of your hands
The darkness behind your eyes
The apathy in your voice
You can't see the wound, but sometimes you can see the symtoms
You can't feel the pain another feels
You can't see it but that doesn't mean it isn't there
You can't see a cough or a virus as it courses its way through your body
But that doesn't mean they aren't real
We carry these invisible scars with us
And they never truly go away or fade
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 1:47 PM UTC
My eyes burning, sweet tears of relief
My lungs filled with, hot humid watery vapor
My sweat they splash, fiercely onto the hot scolding stones
The rainfall, I am cool and clean
But there's something inside, that disagrees
Resents the humidity, with serendipity
He smiles at me in the sauna mirror,
We got a bomb strapped, we got the trigger
At the London Sauna
I stare at the shower stall bandaid
Clinging at the edge of the dark drain
I **** on it,
It falls down into the sewer's abyss
My body loose and free
I am drained and depleted
(D.E.B.)
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
Forgive me father for I have sinned, wait what's the part after that? Isn't it go ahead my child? I don't really know because religion has always felt like a relationship I just can't commit to, while others are on their knees begging for forgiveness I was on the white tiles while the only blood of Jesus I saw was my own. Forgive me-wait you see I'm suppose to say forgive me father but it's more like why did you forget me father ? You breathed the life into my mother's stomach and then like hoodini disappeared only to reappear when the sting from the cut had started to scab you ripped it off like the bandaid I had to leave on for so long because as a child all I wanted to do was heal. Honor thy mother and...thy father? Is that really the thing to do after barricading yourself into my arteries with the knife you chased mom with. Forgive me father I don't know what I've done but somehow being born was the sin that condemned me from ever feeling your love as a soft emotion but of something I must always beg for. Forgive me father I cannot seem to see things straight and for that you will surely disown me as if you owned me when you put your DNA into the mixing bowl to recreate your mistake that you so proudly claim on taxes. Forgive me father for I have sinned I wrote another poem again thinking someone would care to hear my voice, but they shot it down like the deer I am. Now I lay me down to sleep I pray--- who has my soul because they told me I lost it when I kissed her when I tied myself down and told them how to pronounce my name. Forgive me father for I have sinned? Just by putting on the female body I live in.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
how do you love something back to life?
how do you heal someone who is unrepairable?
what do you rely on? what do you use?
hope is merely but a bandaid on a broken bone.
no amount of love can fix what was already broken.
we were broken from the start;
nothing more and nothing less.
we built our love on a foundation of false hope.
nothing more
and nothing left.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC
It was like puling off a bandaid.
Slow and painful at first, but as soon as you grab the edges, tug on it a bit and feel that its not that bad... you rip the whole thing off.
he grabbed my edges, tugged on it to see my reaction and as soon as we both felt it wasn't that bad... he let it rip.
I grabbed on his arm when he pulled the bandaid too hard
but the pain filled me.
It filled me with lines of ' this is it' , 'this is what you asked for', 'you're finally the last one' and the biggest one...'its gonna be him'.
And once the bandaid was ripped off, questions filled me of
'what happens now'
'what do we do now?' and
'Do we do this again?'.
But I don't have answers to these questions, nor do I have guts to ask him.
I never thought id be considering taking my bandaid off,
nevertheless asking him to do it.
But now the bandaid is off, and the scar there for everyone to see.
but I don't see a scar.
I see him.
I just don't know if when he looks at his bandaid, he see me.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
In the kitchen you were trying to remember the words
While I was trying to remember how to act cool
Everyone was dancing and I felt old, at 18 something
You were sitting at the island, toasting with a Natty Light
While I raised my Diet Coke towards the candle wax splattered ceiling
Everyone drank and I felt old, at 18 something
You beamed your bandaid of a smile in my direction
While I locked my eyes with yours, silently accepting your first aid
And I felt old, at 18 something.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
Someone asked me what it was like doing speed
If you're wondering, it was a lot like love
I loved it the way some people love playing guitar
The way some people love their mothers
The way some people love their God
I used it to express myself, to unleash my creativity
I used it to find solace and comfort, to make me feel all better
To put a bandaid on my scraped knee and tell me to keep trying
I used it so I would have something to believe in
Something better than what I was, something that believed in me too
I loved the way it made me to soar to new heights
I always forgave it when I crashed down to new lows
I loved the way it took my fear away of talking to strangers
I forgave it when I became afraid of people who weren't even there
I loved the way I made love so confidently when I was on it
I forgave it when I had to go to bed with strangers just to afford it
I loved the way it made me love myself again
I forgave it when I couldn't recognize myself anymore
Yes, I think it was a lot like love
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
our love was like a bandaid
hiding our rotting selves
as we tried to ignore the pain
and we both knew at one
point we were gonna have
to rip off our cover to see
if we healed, but we just
let the bandaid sit and collect
dirt along its adhesive rim
and ignored the infection
growing beneath it.
the pain was worse then the
sting after all.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead
Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex
Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Here in some stranger's room,
Late in the afternoon,
What am I doing here at all?
Ain't no doubt about it,
I'm losing you,
Somehow the wires have crossed,
Communication's lost,
Can't even get you on the telephone,
Just got to shout about it,
I'm losing you,
Here in the valley of indecision,
I don't know what to do,
I feel you sliping away,
I feel you sliping away,
I'm losing you,
I'm losing you,
You say your not getting enough,
But I remind you of all that bad stuff,
So what the hell am I supposed to do?
Just put a bandaid on it?
And stop the bleeding now,
Stop the bleeding now,
I know I hurt you then,
But that was way back when,
And well, do you still have to carrey that cross?
Don't want to hear about it,
I'm losing you,
I'm losing you.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
Placing the bandaid
on top of the next.
Placating my irrational thoughts,
but all so fleeting.
I'm happy. Then...
the wounds peak through,
I know these outside influences
whether drugs or relationships won't hold up
in the ultimate goal -
the real happiness quantifier.
That happiness
Beautiful soulful careless laughter
Give me that happiness.
Sing and dance,
but not at the expense of my lungs and kidneys.
Talk about something you know
For you.
Intrinsically fascinating,
Not fabricating lies based on ideas
for Others to like you.
Stop pleasing others for their expense.
Please yourself through ridding
Yourself of dense
Self pitying thoughts and
Push-over tendencies
Rejection fearing
and Stop baring these heavy suicidal thoughts.
Learn
To appreciate your worth,
You have a gift of
Kindness, intelligence, mindfulness.
I love myself
Or at least I'm learning to
and the healthy way.
By myself.
And I won't ask your opinion, is that okay?
Yeah I'm still learning.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
Moby **** geometry, physics.
Study every subject everyday.
Homework is an indicator of future success.
Success is not necessarily happiness but it helps.
Freedom is to formulate your own definition of success.
Happiness is an imaginary tree, its own reward, and a fact.
Facts and fiction may be memorialized in memos or found in dreams.
The story starts thus: Each summer the honeysuckles and the
huckleberries . . .
The web is that extra brain we've all been dreaming of having.
Like jumping 4 meters or flying without a plane.
To fly like that must one first have homework?
Some say yes, some say don't. It depends on how you vote.
Happiness is what happens when everything that happens
Fits the time perfectly and it's all out of your hands.
Not exactly. You don't let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in
the passing lane.
You look left and right and check your blind spots.
Homework is an introduction to everything you're not
And all you do not know. It's supposed to help you learn to know where
you want to go before going where you have to go.
Otherwise you end up on Ulzana's raid
Bleeding, without a bandaid.
All the achievement in the world won't relieve your loneliness
Or satisfy your ****** longing. What girls are like behind their eyes.
Survival, procreation. That's all there is to love.
But the loved one is the one who can be trusted with your life.
Whether Christ or your wife. The Muslim moms.
On my walk in the woods I come to a sitting spot
Above a small gorge cut by a stream through hemlocks.
Here someone has left a statuette of the Buddha and the flags you see
Flapping in the wind at sky funerals.
This is a pretty good place to sit quietly and think about homework.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
You believe in control
Like you believe God
Put Man here to make things
Better.
And that's cute.
You are a limit left wanting
For letdown;
A bandaid in desperate hold-fast
To a punctured hull, with fever
Dreams of Flotsom and Jetsom.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
The colour of love is Red.
It's thick like blood,
**** powerful, sinister.
Once you get it you need it to survive.
The colour of love is Blue.
It's like the sky,
Gentle, smooth, enlightening.
Wide, it can't be contained,
It only contains.
The colour of love is Purple.
It's like a bandaid,
Fun, mysterious, bold.
Covers and helps the healing process,
But hurts you when it is removed.
The colour of love is Green.
It's like a tree,
Free-spirited, fresh, youthful.
It gives life, food, norishment,
It only survives if you feed it.
The colour of love is Pink.
It's like a pair of high heal shoes,
Girly, happy, funny.
Elevating, increasing, aching,
Tall enough to be notice and to be ignored.
The colour of love is Yellow.
It's like the sun,
Bright, beaming, it stands out.
The bigger it is the more you see it,
And the closer you get the more you get burnt.
The colour of love is Orange.
It's like a good laugh,
Surprising, uncontrolable, ugly.
Once you start it's hard to stop.
It's addictive you yern for the feeling.
The colour of love is White and Black.
It's like ying and yang,
Needs to be balanced in order to exist.
Impossible to be live without and equally impossible to live with.
It's not a colour, can't be described.
~Gabbriella with 2 b's~
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
Take one step, and dance with me
the solid square or circular ***** we flew into,
a twisted and twirled beautiful night of romance.
I hand you a twisted red velvet pedaled pool of symbolism
you take my rose and return to me my criticism.
And cynicism. My mission: critical.
to every thought you whispered, and secretly hoped I'd hear.
To all the fear, and folds of insecurity to which you adhere.
To the ripping of the soul, when you get attached again, and pull away like a bandaid
to the sadder days on Saturday I feared I'd never endure; and never quite did.
to the she who so violently wraps me to her will, whenever she feels the need to want me again, but not really.
To the taste of sour beer, I forced myself to drink until her name drifted away.
to the goodbye stamped day when she packaged and shipped herself as far as she could get from me.
I say farewell.
I will not let what my heart wants be the leash by which she binds me.
I will not let her tie and untie me, use me and toss me aside.
I will learn to be outside myself, and outside my insignificant struggle.
I will live amongst the world and dwell in love of mud covered creatures too ***** for you to play with.
I will learn to stop saying I, because it is the least imporant word in my vocabulary.
I will be presented with the apple of the world, and wont feel guilty for taking a taste;
I hold it not a sin, due to my blatant loss of faith.
I will stop using future tense, because things only happen in the present.
And i will pray, metaphorically, that the last present she gives to me is her absence.
Therefore, my mission is to say farewell, to her and all she brings.
she attacked me with her smile, and that was the day she ruined me.
farewell to my misguided little dream,
I'll see you in hell, and oh yeah,
happy 19th birthday to me.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC