"berating" poems
Dangerous roads
and starless nights
a/c out
and faulty lights
squeaky brakes
a seat that bites
you can take your truck and stuff it
endless circles
lonely bi ways
without a net
on the highway
it's time that i just
did it my way
you can take your truck and stuff it
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
it's not your life that's on the line
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
i'm on my way....and that's just fine
paperwork
time delaying
canvas straps
constantly fraying
you ***** to me
but i hear naying
you can take your truck and stuff it
life's short
i'm not waiting
takes too much
to keep berating
i'm getting *******
and we're not dating
you can take your truck and stuff it
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
it's not your life that's on the line
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
right there where the sun don't shine
you can take your truck and stuff it sideways
i'm on my way....and that's just fine
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Dimension beginning of vile ****** exposed,
And the Emperor has no clothes,
While helplessly strut a mighty walk without a shame.
Course of history repeating itself,
Like the flow of water meeting in the river of streams,
But recycle through the clouds and back to the ground it flows.
Are we so blinded by the glimmer of the mirage of oasis in the desert,
We toast with sands of dune to quench our thirst of our plight,
And all is but a fickling light ducktaped by words of unintelligible muddled murmur?
This is truly the flawed design of our time,
When we no longer promote arts and crafts of philosophies,
And religious cults of zealots condemned the science and Academia by berating it's achievement.
Likes of ancient times of Agora and the height of it's human enlightenment,
There are forces of deconstruction of society of choas ensued by hateful fear mongers,
And systematic inward of national fevor of berserkers leveling progress.
Maybe another dark age is inevitable,
But little seed of hope I feel tangible,
And sometimes event maybe a phoenix.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Is not equivalent to a broken leg.
Who came up with that analogy?
Someone who hasn't experienced either
Seems the only probability.
It's far more akin to a giant spasm,
Contorting your leg against your will,
And stopping it seems highly unatural,
And each doctor prescribes different pills.
Nobody has fluctuating broken legs,
Or fractured limbs that cause them to count
The precise number of steps they take,
And despair if it's the wrong amount,
Or healing bones that turn reality
Into hallucinatory nightmares,
Or make you stay awake all week,
And start berating chairs.
But the worst of that analogy
(It drives me quite insane!),
Is that broken legs are quick to heal,
And cause a lot less pain.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
a menace
clouds my mind
reminding
all the wrongs
blaming
and berating
bullying
and bossing
so much time goes
listening to his woes
but I have to
you see
because the menace
is me
©2012 Lyn
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Sometimes he was like f+ck it
just went ahead and stuck em
let em fall where they stood
crack another bottle and brood
hysterically on the ridiculous
he had a meticulous knack for belittling the serious, berating feelings and imposing his will in a furious fashion. He liked knives and passion, and will cash in on your lashings. A vigilante, stealing antes to match the chips. The missing teeth of split lipped grinns bidding his amends to the dense. sent to cleanse, the fences on the perimeter. a distributor of disasters.
contributor to the laughter in the stoical spleens of nerdy teens, always cheering for the away team.
He was the benefactor of traction-less tractors rotting in the mud. He was a slacker, smothering the world in love. He was above all else, on drugs.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC
Today someone called me nice,
In fact I noticed that a lot of people called me nice,
I’m not telling you this because I want to brag,
I’m telling you this because I’m not nice,
And they’re wrong,
You’re wrong.
It isn’t me who is the nice one,
It’s just my actions that are nice,
My actions giving you a snack or offering a treat,
My actions handing your papers in for you,
My actions trying to help you with homework,
My actions complimenting you,
It isn’t me being nice, it’s my actions that are nice,
So whenever you call me nice,
I’m left split on the inside,
I think to anyone else being called nice would feel great,
In fact, it would be a very nice thing to say,
But to me at least,
It makes me guilty for fooling you,
It makes me wonder if you even know me,
Because I know I’m not nice,
I act like I do without thought,
Not because I’m nice,
But because it’s not me acting,
But because I’m not even thinking,
But because that’s not even me,
But because I’m just hollow,
I don’t even honestly know what I am,
I just know for sure that I’m not nice,
I wonder why I choose nice actions,
Absent mindlessly or not,
I still choose them,
And I know for sure it isn’t because I’m nice,
I think I know, because I’m afraid you’ll leave me if I’m not,
I think I know, because if I’m not nice enough who will care,
I think I know, because I’m afraid to be anything else,
What silly reasons,
Selfish reasons really,
What kind of a nice person would only be nice for personal benefit?
Someone who only acts nice,
Like me,
I think if you knew how much I hated this certain person,
You’d know for sure I wasn’t nice,
I beat up this person daily,
Berating them,
Hurting them,
In a twisted and confusing way, it makes me feel better,
You would too,
I hate this person because they’re a fake,
They’re only pretending to be nice,
They aren’t nice,
Only their actions are nice,
They only act nice for personal benefit,
In fact, they don’t even know what they are,
But they know for sure they aren’t nice,
And I know that too,
If you look closer at this poem,
You’ll see even more why I’m not nice,
Because a nice person is selfless,
A nice person isn’t selfish,
Isn’t trying to drown in their own pity,
Isn’t doing anything I’m doing,
And this entire time I’ve only been talking about myself,
This entire time.
How could anyone believe I’m nice, if I don’t even believe myself?
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
As I sauntered on banks of Yamuna at night.
I saw a man old, bent, with stick in dhoti white.
Tardily, step by step as he came nearer to me.
With joy I smiled as our own beloved Bapu was he.
With tears in my eyes I asked, ' Bapu you are still alive! ,
those three bullets holed your chest, how did you survive?
What happened to you? Where were you all these days?
What you ate? How you lived? Now where do you stay?
Condition of your beloved land is deteriorating day by day.
Countrymen have left your path, they have gone astray.
Your image, your killers are trying to malign and degrade.
Berating your ways, encouraging means which you forbade.
Hitler's advocates on chariots are traversing Nation's length.
Day by day Fascism is gaining ground , gaining strength.
Disguised as followers of Sri Ram, deeds of Ravan they do.
Riots and killings are frequent, women and minors are targeted too.
Terrorism nourishing on terrorism, cruelty at its worst.
Targeting anyone, anywhere, time and again bombs burst.
Once a land of peace, land of sufism, land of saints,
now ****** Innocent souls being killed without restraint.
Regionalism is being encouraged and taking roots.
Unity of the Nation selfish politicians reduce and dilute.
Corruption is increasing everywhere and in all spheres
Even highest office of respect could not keep itself clear '
Passing his hand over my head he smiled and said '
I am just a spirit, long ago my weak body was dead.
Daily with expectation I rise and daily with despair I die
Daily my hope is shattered and daily with grief I sigh
They may have killed me but now I live in numerous hearts
They may write me down in history yet my message will dart.
See this flag, colour saffron is dear to me, colour green I love.
between them is colour white, colour of peace, colour of dove.
Nation divided in three hurts me more than bullets three
From casteism and regionlism country should be free.
Communalism should not be allowed to raise its ugly head.
With sword of constitution Fascism we need to behead '
Three sound disturbed the calm, beloved Bapu fell on the ground
I went to help but Bapu vanished with words 'Hey Ram' echoing around
Determined that this time his innocent blood will not go waste.
I collected his non-violent blood in my pen like ink with haste.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
In moments of raging to the hospital, the jolts from the road, the squeal of the tires, and the tripping of your feet only multiply your anxiety. Delicacy is suspended amply in the air, hanging daintily on the thread of life and death.
Delicacy is the soft and inconsistent beeping from the cardiac monitor. It controls your thoughts; yet is only a shadow on your radar. It shares the rhythm of the pounding in your head, and the thumping in your chest. You strain to shut everything out, leaving only the shy quiver of breathe slithering out from their lax lips. Their lips tremor under the reign of some foreign enemy, and their eyes flutter from an unseen truth. It is the suffering you wish to unburden them from, the pain you would inflict upon yourself in return for both their lives intact.
Delicacy is a light fragrance, a mixture of disinfectant and sweat. Is it the scent of creating a life, or the imminent end of it? Beads of perspiration stream down your face and sting your eyes.
The sweet caress of silk treads faintly underneath your fingertips. You rub the back of her hand, clammy and fragile. Rubbing the skin, you forget who the comfort is more for while footsteps pierce the stillness in the air. A figure dawned in white appears before you. Their form blurs in and out of focus, their voice a toneless muddle seeping through your cloud of stupor.
Delicacy is a whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We can only save one of them." It is the realization that too much pressure, and two months premature, is a cocktail dyed with poison. She looks to you with eyes of understanding and acceptance.
Delicacy is the collapsing of all you know. It is the berating of incoherent words tumbling from your lips for the pure sake of escaping. You're swiftly taken from the room, kicking and screaming to the hallway.
The unsettling tick of the clock mocks your every fiber. You **** the void of silence with the tapping of your foot, taming yourself from barging your way into the room. With the screaming from the bed, the instinct of protection, the stiffening of your back, the nurse quickly ushers you back in.
The soft and consistent rising of the baby's chest is surrounded with the light fragrance of life. The plush fibers of the yellow blanket tug on the skin of your fingertips. The fascination apparent in your eyes, look to her while wondering how this little body will have the biggest impact on your life. Delicacy is the soft whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We made it."
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
She knelt by the dark grey marble headstone
once again on the anniversary
of the day she had happily buried her husband
six feet down in the ground
eight years since she had caused his demise
for a man she did despise!
As the widow gloated behind a false facade
the same figure watched
behind her the deceased husband stood
turning could not see him
thinking once again how good and thrilling
never a suspected killing!
No idea her good life would come to an end
as supernatural forces gathered
this time he followed her back to a plush car
the long dead husband was back
what had changed to allow him the power
to be back at this hour!
Angry sat next to the wife who murdered him
driven back to his own home
familiar items brought back good memories
from when he lived here
now a ghost haunting the house he loved
before down the stairs shoved!
Whether there is a heaven or a place called hell
he had prayed so very hard
from a dark pitiless limbo it changed to hope
now with a new man argued
started by the woman who had meant so much
now he would loath to touch!
****** to the floor berating of him was bored
scrambling to her feet ran
up those familiar stairs shouting more abuse
pursued by this enraged man
like a replay saw her violent death as she fell
her neck broken he could tell!
Instantly was at peace free no longer in turmoil
a tunnel so bright he could see
looking down at her lifeless body he passed on
but a faceless evil took her soul
engulfing it for that overdue journey to hell
righteousness had created this spell!
Jutsice it seems had at last been done!
The Foureyed Poet.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
There is a Cheshire cat with a nefarious nose ring
Who lashes berating riddles, and vernacular that’ll make you cringe
He slithers through abandoned shadows
On dilapidated gravel, and bears a deathly sickle grin
Enticing as he may be, he only wishes to deceive
So be wary of his beguiles, they are hidden underneath his symmetrical smile
Nor give in to the plastic prophecies he preaches
Nothing he teaches will stitch meaning into your ambiguities
For he enslaves your sorrows and siphons your dreams
Leaving you asphyxiated in catatonic screams
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 11:26 PM UTC
We all have seen
people,
places,
and different situations
that questions
everything we have learned,
believed,
seen,
and heard.
It is up to us whether to
label those things
as mere fallacies,
or to uphold them
as utter truths.
But this isn't always the case.
The process of acceptance
is not always easy.
It involves a lot of self-berating,
self-loathing,
listless moments,
melancholic states,
and finally,
reluctant adaption,
to the current norms,
notion,
and societal views,
that forces us to change
our views,
our versions of truths,
our perception of reality,
and our own self-image.
We must always beware
those situations; let it not
deter you.
For, dear, you are
what you are,
and what you believe;
your conviction,
your truths,
your freedom from
these mind-altering moments,
will not be taken away from you.
Do not let yourself
be washed away
by the waves of
fanaticism.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
irksome thoughts spin round the moment
and they flee to where iv fled to
and they tap out strange messages on my head
and they gather dust into piles
and the piles grow to hills with the
passing hours and changing landscapes of the heartstring
strings are for kittens to play with
chase round and round
she lay in the shade of an oak tree
by the roadside
in the dust hills
sipping her long island
and watching the road with languid eyes
leaf floats down and
unattached from the dream
she wanders
the dust hills wailing for lost loves not her own
and berating thouse resposible for every
slight ever felt
headlights bath the dust hills
as eighteen wheelers truck
the empire of america ever southward
into the cheaply painted tropical sun
she is bikini clad
and is forever clutching an ice cold drink
that eternaly leaves a smile on
her forever blemish free smile
in the ***** dark dust hills
i feel so alone here by her side
i want to run away
and sleep in a feild
with the ****** and the drunkard
with the apostles of night
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.
i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.
we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.
i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
They ask me to stand up
to exercise and play,
to run, to swim, to fly.
Very well...
One and all advise quiescence,
recommend counterpoisons, refer doctors.
they peek on me, perplexed.
"What's wrong?"
They suggest new sightings,
to try and get out, to not travel,
to cease living and to not perish.
It doesn't matter…
One and all see my struggle
for my bewildered expectancies,
the stumble of my now fickle nerve.
I do not consent…
One and all pick on my plagiarisms
with relentless blades,
judging, berating, amused.
I feel fear.
Frightened of everything,
of this morning's light, of the certain defeat.
For today I'm just a mortal,
decrepit and ephemeral.
For all this and more, on these short days
I'm not listening, I'm not here.
I yield, I strive again, I succumb.
I lock myself with and I open up to
my worst and most treacherous enemy,
"U" (my ego)
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 4:03 AM UTC
stained glass windows in my mind,
the light shines through & it all rewinds.
once more crying tears of yesteryear,
why must you have this power?
your voice remains in the back of my mind
even after all this time:
berating,
judging,
questioning reality.
have I really been hurt at all?
could i possibly be mistaken?
but then I remember I was just a child:
innocent,
in need of love,
seeking comfort.
and where were you?
too inebriated to have a clue.
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 8:56 AM UTC
All the glitter and the baubles and the fake razzamataz,
Forced jollity and bonhomie berating me by turns;
The jostling and shoving in the shops and all that jazz,
The same unwanted present where the giver never learns;
And I will dream of summer, tidal ripples in the sand
An evening's float of thistledown adrift in hazy sky
The small face of a daisy, lying cool against my hand
The vast coastal horizon, where the seagulls swoop and fly.
You can keep your holly wreaths mourning your lack of taste
You can keep Sir Clifford, all the mistletoe and wine
You can stuff the turkey, lay the hangover to waste,
You can keep your sentimental dreams, leave me to mine...
Just let me dream of summer, how I miss its warming light;
The soothing breath of lavender, the grass beneath my feet;
The bright palette of verdant greens, the shorter hours of night;
I'll deck the halls with roses, daffodils and meadowsweet.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 3:51 AM UTC
I was born with ovaries for a brain
And a cavity for thought
The predisposition
To put my hand down my pants
At the age of seven
But with a good berating
From my unconditionally loving mother
The putrid seed was recognized
Its stem ripped from my mind
Torn from my ********
Too late
Obviously
Too oblivious
To notice that the roots still tangled around me
Its vines growing up into my ******
The **** that encapsulated my mentality
So the birds and the bees were my friends
At the age of nine
And that cute boy across the playground
Was cuter when I envisioned him naked
Only a mere three years later
And my susceptibility
Ignited the sight of cybersex
The capital ***
Or more commonly known as ***********
But when my parents soon discovered
The poisonous vines of dependency
The toxic ivy of addiction
It was forced to an abrupt halt
Too late
Obviously
Too oblivious
To notice the compulsive ************
That kicked in with the involuntary lust
For a pillow to trust under my hips
Before the age of fourteen
Securing the hypersexuality
So that the hot girl in the hallway
Was hotter when I envisioned her naked
And hotter than the boy next to her
So the bisexuality
Tormented my already demented desires
By the age of sixteen
Simply because
I was born with ovaries for a brain
And a cavity for thought.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
there’s a certain trickery
in realizing dreams
a deep sense of urgency
dissipating
mind no longer
berating
body
a soft calm washes over
but only momentary
those seconds past
we cling so closely
only it won’t ever last
thick smoke curls upwards
heaven bound
released from the flames
of a downward spiral
a descent so excellent
in the span of a breath
inhale
exhale
on to the next step
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
I hate this.
Everyone talks about what happened
mistakes that were made
yes, they're right, but maybe there's more
more that hasn't been said
I agree with what they say,
but can't there be another way?
Shouldn't we show support and kindness
to someone dealing with the consequences?
Surely berating him isn't going to improve things.
I wouldn't be surprised if it drives him away
I can only feel sorrow in his defense
every word against him pains me.
Am I at fault for showing loyalty to my brother in his mistakes?
I can't stop the pain.
I wish I could just get everyone to stop.
Maybe slow down.
Don't they see the pressure they've created?
The legacy that was left behind, difficult to live up to?
And once again I live with
the dangers of being an empath
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
One... two... three... four...
turn
You can see the spot on her floor,
Where her blue-green carpet is worn
Wishing she could walk out the door
Forget how bad her heart has been torn
One, two, three, four
turn
She has music blaring
Supposed to keep her from losing her mind
Supposed to keep her from caring
If only her tormentor weren't so kind
One two three four
turn
He's still unaware of his slight
She's pacing, reciting Poe in her head
He's unaware of her pain every night
She's wishing her heart was dead
Onetwothreefour
turn
Her fingers twine through her hair
Berating herself for thinking of him
She hears a few strands tear
But paces on, ignoring them
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
Forgo Summer to Die in the Winter
its quite alright that your a *****
you should have never showed up last night
i thought I told you the score
repeat, repeat, repeat
a time or two before
dance this silly dance we do
back and forth
score for love, a score for secrecy
we should have never held one another that close
electric and morose
it's over and it can't be fixed
there is no coming back from abysm
instead I seek an important peace, within me,
and for us, for us
do you remember the us?
wait, i heard you
no longer an us
we are nothing
as you say, as you say, as you say
but I held out for respect of a friend
none to be had
you show me how that can be done,
more lethal than a loaded gun
sad me walks and walks alone, alone, alone again
you leave in silent steps
quiet tongue
as always
as always
no change
you say I confuse your truth for mean
you confuse my communication for gibberish
your ears go numb
you forget...
me
you act as if you don't know what to say...
to me
so much time to know me yet you remain amaurotic
you curtail and introvert
deaf ears, hardened heart
questioning the tears
telling me to not roll them out
you wouldn't, why would I?
berating, blind, black-hearted
forgiveness is but a lark
It was important
I tried to tell you
I am sorry you chose to miss it
this is going to hurt...
it’s yours
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
The other day, a house nearly fell on my elbow
Berating the sky for being so impolite
It gifted me this chevalier ...
Wh-what a rad surprise!
S T, 11 july
, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Who the **** do you think you’re talking to?
Going through the motions
you think you’re walking through?
Like lacking emotions,
makes up for the fact,
you make up your facts,
in hopes that no one crosses you?
Or shows you respect
that no one has shown you.
Cause you don’t show us.
I guess nobody told you,
being so low on life's totem pole,
in the sense that you’re light in heart and soul,
means that absolutely nobody,
could ever be below you.
So quit looking down, you’re bound
to find the older you.
The one you abandoned,
to show you’re a grower too.
Aren’t you proud now the whole world is over you?
I hear it in your words and see it in your eyes.
You’re weaker than you show,
"know it all" is your disguise.
Went to grow, to fall.
Taller hopes but not to size,
of the man that lives inside,
that heartless, aimless, shameless guy.
Not hard to shape the reason why,
he tries to shame when people try,
just to be themselves,
he needs some help,
with seeking decent vibes.
Addiction at it’s finest
find this person spineless.
Crying, and denying, asking
why in times of crisis.
Yo, just know man,
I mean it as i say it.
This the program,
get with it no debating.
I swear to ******* god kid,
I'll rearrange that face.
You’ve never seen this rage from me just yet, oh ******* wait!
Keep doing what you’re doing and
being such a ****
Being such a *****
is gonna get you hit.
I’ll hit you then I’ll quit,
pack my **** and ******* split!
Partaking in the shaking,
of your habit baby fits.
Complaining on the daily,
like its cute or something crazy.
Kid go find your ******* self,
before you tell me how things may seem.
Use that ******* brain,
for more than your berating.
Elevate yourself.
Hell won't be waiting on your "maybe".
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
I wake up with a stabbing pain,
I force myself to wake up from this nightmare,
and when I finally look in the mirror...
"Wait, what? How did that happen?"
There's violet and crimson marks on me.
They're encapsulating me,
making me feel like I deserved this,
and I did.
The shrinks in their ivory towers tell you
To not be afraid,
Stand up for yourself,
Show them what you're made of, and to
Never back down.
I'm pinned to the floor,
and my legs are paralyzed.
I was left in a puddle of my own pulpy, ****** mess.
and it's my fault.
His voice echoes in my mind.
"Maybe if you didn't act this way, I wouldn't do this,
You're a terrible person and I feel sorry for the people who think you're not. Nobody loves you. People would throw you out in the street if they knew what you've done."
That was the night that he took everything from me,
He took my freedom,
He took my ability to communicate,
He took everything from me,
And he doesn't know why.
Sometimes, I don't know why he does these things.
Isolation consumes me like cable news telecasters consume the minds of sheep, and everyone is programmed to think and act as if the world is coming to an end.
Everyone acts like a victim.
There's two parts to such an accusation;
Victimization
Survival
But, there's a third part that no one tells you about.
Coping mechanisms
I can't stand up for myself.
"You're worthless."
I can't show them what I'm made of.
"Nobody loves you."
Berating, belittling, and biting me with your words.
It shows more scars on me than your fists.
"Why do you do this to me?"
"You must not care about how I feel."
"Why are your crying? Are you pitying yourself?"
"Have you realized that what you've done is wrong?"
"When will you learn?"
I'm not your child.
I'm not your lover.
Make a safety plan,
Get out while you still can,
Don't blame yourself.
You have every right to react the way you want
When he's not treating you right.
Don't let him gaslight you.
You've been through this before.
Don't let him get to you.
You're better than that.
You
are
a
survivor.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC