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Liz Dec 2014
The tests say 98% neurotic.
The doctor says I'm just passionate.
My parents say I'm too sensitive.
Lovers say I'm too clingy.
I say I'm just ******* crazy.

I feel everything so deeply.
Love is so instense.
Fear is crippling.
Pain is paralyzing.
Joy is euphoria.

Maybe I'm too passionate,
Or emotional,
Or sensitive,
Or whatever.
But I know one thing,
That I'm deeply,
Madly,
Cripplingly,
And euphorically,
In love with you.
oh what sustains this mind

a mind that teeters

on the edge of a spiral vertigo

that sways and rocks

in an unease of palpitations

attempting to escape

from the brutal insensitivity

of the granite faces that occupy the streets

a mind of hallucinated perceptions

with a constant stream of imagery

that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,

the articulation of its inner geography

where a frightened availability of disturbance

in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti

leaves speech vacated on the tongue

where eyes are pushed to see

a discord of sympathies for different dimensions

that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate

living in an inner dialogue

of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations  

a self alienation that heightens

the poetic colouring of the imagination

causes a ******* of the mind

that makes me cripplingly aware

of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet

makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world

yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum

to do rather than be
Kittridge James Feb 2013
The familiar rush
of adrenaline hits
almost cripplingly


Your hands have
become adjusted
to my every curve


My eyes dart
my voice becomes
a thick, heavy syrup


I flinch at first
but it switches to
thrashing about


Even just sitting
in your near vicinity
drives me batty
anonymous999 Dec 2014
life is horrible sometimes
you'll go from on top of the world
to under it
in a matter of minutes
it happens

life is sad sometimes
but you do not deserve to be sad
so turn your music up loud enough to tune out the loneliness
and drive until you can't feel the tears on your cheeks
sleep, and sleep, and sleep, but then please, get out of your bed
put on your favorite clothes and go to the mall
walk past those boys and know that you look good
even if today is not your day
watch movies that will make you laugh
be around people that will make you laugh
read things that will make you laugh
laugh
go to the pet store and play with some puppies if that's what's going to make you happy
but do not destroy yourself
you are not allowed to destroy yourself
even if you are cripplingly sad
there is help out there
and you are not allowed to destroy yourself
there is happiness out there
all you have to do is find it
Dorothy A Dec 2012
When she was a little girl, she said she wanted to be an author. She didn't want to be a ballerina or cow girl. Maybe an actress would do, for she had quite a flair for the dramatic.

But to the world, she was so shy, cripplingly shy, and she had very low, self-esteem. She didn't dare to dream too much, for she couldn't imagine really doing anything that could draw attention to herself. She often just wanted to hide, and her imagination accompanied her in her world.

She remembered her grade school teacher reading to her class about Abraham Lincoln. She came home that day, and somehow she wrote it just as well as she could remembrer it, with her own pictures, too. Her mother was so impressed that she bragged to everyone that her daughter wrote it all on her own, out of her own head. It must have looked that convincing to her mother.

But as she grew older, the girl didn't ever give herself permission to write something, even when it was required in school to write a poem. It was daring. She could be made fun of.

How could someone like you do that?

She wasn't unintelligent. She had a good command of the English language. She even went to college and earned a degree, the only one out of three children. But she had her heart set on psychology.

When she moved away from home in her twenties, she suddenly flourished. She took community education classes in painting, and had no idea she really could pull of what she did. Painting felt so free, like such an accomplishment. It felt good to create, to work with her hands.

And then she was on a roll. She began to write, and you just couldn't stop her. Most of her writing was pretty good, and some of her work was not to her liking. Years later she would read them again, and she could see that some so-so ones could be salvaged, or the better ones could even be better yet by fixing some of them up. She once thought she had reached her peak, but when the roller coaster of life brought her new thoughts, she was on another roll.

She wanted to be a published author, but she learned that it really wasn't about being well-known. She tried to publish some poems, but she learned that no matter what she did, she was still an author. Whether she was doing it for living, or for the love of writing, she was still a writer. She was what that little girl wanted to be, but who was terrified it could happen more than she was terrified that it wouldn't come true.

Her ultimate dream was to write a novel. Her uncle, very close in age, was angry at her for writing what he thought was a fantastic draft of a novel. She tore it up, for it was way over her head. And did this all without the help of a computer, scribbling away in notebooks. and haphazard means, that she could even barely read. Her penmanship was never very good.

Imagination has always been a good guide, fueling her with scenerios in her head about people that she had invented, that she had created, with bits and peaces of real life experiences and observations. But translating her thoughts to paper were often a challenge, not always easy to portray as she had thought of them. She surely had a gift, and she didn't think she really deserved it. She took one writing class, and she seemed to do well. But she didn't pursue it much further than a single class, and a few poetry readings.

Someone she knew from her church had got on her case for not writing every day.

You have a gift, and you aren't using it. God gave you that gift".    

"Well, let Him take it away", she retorted to the accusation.

But it would not be taken away. Writing was a catharsis, when life got too heavy. It was an escape, a place she could design her own world--at least on paper.  It was a way to feel freedom and expression that did not come so easily in life. It brought her such satisfaction when done to her approval, when good feedback came.

No, she would not write everyday. She was not a machine, but she knew she would never want writing to be taken away or denied her. That, scared, little girl that once declared that she wanted to be an author never really went away, for her desires were not fickle, not a passing fancy.  

So even if she did not have anything published, sitting on a store bookshelf. thanks to the internet, she has been able to share her thoughts, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, her disappointments--her words on display.

She knows she is in good company.
Iz Oct 2018
The chatter in the room is almost mundane
The woman behind me has a dog she’s keeping outside who the neighbors aren’t too fond of because he’s a bit loud at night
I got to my hair appointment almost 15 minuets late as I slipped through the door of the I suppose modern styled ‘Yellow Strawberry’ my mother was on the phone
She wears this head set that wraps around your neck and never realizes she yells when she is talking to people and it makes me cripplingly anxious
The mirrors are tall and filled with unimpressed faces glaring at us as my marvelous royal purple polyester velvet skirt glistens in the sunlight peeking in from the dropped shades
I mutter out the time of my appointment apologize that we are late and give them my name
I know it is spelt wrong in the computer, and the odds of one of the people in here having a dog named bella are unbelievable high
As I’m escorted back to my hair dressers station I remember, I need to repaint my chipped glittery red nail polish before I pick all of it off and feel disgusting
But this particular nail polish is extremely difficult to get off and I regret every-time I paint my nails with it
But it looks so ******* beautiful in the sunlight and my lover adores the color against my almost porcelain  like skin so I indulge from now and again
I am here to hopefully cut about three inches off of my hair, it’s getting too long it sits painfully at about an inch or two below my shoulders
Four months ago I cut off about 10 inches and I felt about 50 pounds of anxiety lift from my chest
I think my fears started to manifest in my curls and the knots that kept returning reminding me over and over again I needed a desperate change
And now I’m finding myself approaching another much needed change, it’s nice
Leo Aug 2017
Forget the seasons
Their flavors hold no inherent meaning
Manufactured frostbite
Fleeting
Overpaid cosmeticians mask our ugly dealings
How cripplingly demeaning

Forget the seasons
Their flavors still hold no real meaning
Amputated tree limbs
Seating
Underpriced prostitution builds translucent ceilings
How cripplingly demeaning

Was it worth the price of heaven?
To view angels as the demons
To build a sulfur kingdom far away from sheepish bleating
Though joyful sound resounds around the fallen flock I've found, I cannot make a sound that permeates when I'm not bleeding.

Take your trivial differings draw, them up in stippling and call it meaningfully crippling.
Rhianecdote Jun 2015
I remember when I wrote
my first proper story at ten
It was called Gateway to Heaven.

When My grandad died
I found myself preoccupied
With the notion of the afterlife
Cause I could not believe that someone
Like him could simply be gone.
Couple that with an obsession
With space exploration
And what you got was a spiritual sci-fi.

To be honest it was more a screenplay
I bought it into class
for some reason one day
Not sure why
Maybe I wanted someone to read it.
Left it on my desk and went for a ****
And when I got back my teacher
Who had a bit of a flare for the amateur dramatics
WAS reading it.

I was met with an intrigued gaze as I walked back in,
I remember thinking
ahh why are you going through peoples things?!
That's rude!

(Although I secretly knew she would)

Tryin not to blush as she asked
Me questions about it,
then asked me to stand up and read the plot out to the class.

At this point what you've got to factor in
is that I was incredibly shy,
hmm no maybe not shy,
more under confident.
Not cripplingly so,
don't get me wrong
I was incredibly social,
was very popular in my class as a child
but when it came to sharing thoughts of my introspection,
any talent or shows of confidence,
well let's just say I'd learnt to keep that **** to myself...

But I stood up and read it.

And was met with a
mass of baffled gazes,
a memory that I don't think
will ever leave me.
To be fair it was pretty out there,
all black holes, theology and grief.
The silence that fell,
matching the silence of space itself
makes me wary of silences still.
That eternal moment
Tryin to Guage the judgement
thinking oh **** it!
now everyone knows I'm weird,
shoulda just stuck to my status quo in my final year.

But it was broken eventually
by my friend Funmi who said
"I don't get it"
I'll never forget it,
it was sorta funny,
mostly disappointing.
I wish I had the mentality at that time to think these guys just ain't ready for me
but I guess that was that,
class went back to what it was doing,  
teacher came up with
a look of approval and some words of encouragement which was odd,
she wasn't my favourite teacher at all
and she knew it full well
and i spose that marks my underwhelming moment in the spotlight...

*Although I've always
maintained the belief
that it'll shine bright on me one day
or maybe I'll outshine it
After being holed up for the past few weeks watching back to back space documentaries and Interstellar on repeat..having to reassure my Dad that he doesn't have to get emotional every time as we're not in that situation XD I started thinking about my own sci-fi creation and how moments in life really do shape you
Isobel May 2014
Speciesism is overlooked.
It is really no different from racism and sexism.
Animals compare to us in many ways:
They feel pain, cry and scream,
have family they love and care about.
However, they lack voices so cannot act on this themselves,
but we can.

It is ignorant to believe these animals live their lives to the full,
merrily grazing in peaceful green fields
and dying a death of no agony when the time comes.
Unfortunately, this is far from the truth.
Ignorance may be bliss for you
but it is certainly not for them.
Open your eyes.

Born into this cruel world
naive enough to trust us,
unaware of the living Hell they are destined for
when they face the trauma of being torn from their mother
and crammed into a cripplingly tiny compartment for most of their life.

Endlessly being pushed, prodded and trampled on
and off to the slaughterhouse while still an infant
or remain in this brutal Hell
only to be forcibly impregnated
and used as a milk machine.

An animal wants to live just as much as us.
They are not meat, milk and egg machines.
They do not exist to please our gluttonous appetites.
Love and protect them like our pets
because they are really no different.
No being should be born to suffer.
Austin Heath Aug 2014
"My life is ruined, man",
he said, not having sipped his beer
or taken an anxious sip on his cigarette
in a hot second.
He was a stranger to me, breathed heavily,
overweight, but made of gold it seemed.
My friends were wasted and we were sitting on the roof
after a long night of them getting drunk.
"All our lives are ruined", I replied naively.
"But it's heroine man", he told me,
"Nine out of ten people addicted to heroine die from it."
He was right, at whatever right was.
"You're going to be that one, then.", my friend chimed in.
"I know, it just ***** everyone else is going to die", he continued.
I laughed.
"Don't laugh at that", I was reprimanded.

**** though, everyone else dies too.
I can't stand this place between dying
and being cripplingly apathetic about everything,
and most people I know live it. That edge.
I don't know a lot of people too excited about
waking up and going through the motions.
Most of us think about dying when we're happy;
not quietly into the night but quietly.
Just disappearing in a flash without light.
An instant, but quicker.
Joey knocked over a lot of barrels last night, and I was sober and scared of having the police called on me in a weird turn of events, so I picked a lot of them up.
Martin Rombach Apr 2013
Time, the malleable system of measurement
Sometimes the task at hand is so cripplingly normal that time grows so cold and grinds its way across the floor
Other times its burning up, as we stress over the burning orange outline that gradually shrinks around what little left we need
But... What I like are the moments where time doesn't exist for us at all
Moments so distinct that time is shed from our concept of reality for just a little while
And we exist in a different way

The moments come quickly from a fog of aesthetic distinction
They run cellularly transparent across your skin, triggering that extra layer
The goosebumps, the rush,  those irises of yours widening and dilating or closing shut to let your ears see instead
Time, responsibility, the worrying and the mundane dropping from your shoulders, torso and legs
There is no self, there is no calculation

There is only now
And you ******* love it
Alex Hoffman Mar 2015
It
It reverberates with a vast and low drumming across the hollow space inside the soul, occupying simultaneously the distance of the universe itself and the unimaginably minute.

In a space of good fortune and rebirth, so conjunctionally close to death—

It is present moment and past, both godly and cripplingly mortal, to the place that resides between eternity and transience.

Both golden with ecstasy and layered in the decay of sadness,

For a brief moment we are truly able to see it. So silently we stare at ourselves and everything there is, 


And we know.


With nostalgia already dripping from every moment and pooling at our feet in the regret of lost time.
Millie Conway Aug 2014
i don't love my job
i don't love my studies
i don't love my town
i don't love my relationships
i don't love myself

i am so ******* done with not feeling love
all i feel is sad
heart cripplingly sad

i don't want to feel nothing any more
Michaela Ferris Nov 2019
A picture perfect serenity
of waves crashing at the shore.
The reflections of stars so bright
giving a new lease of light (life).
You see the wonder of the world lay out in front of you;
how I wish I could see the world through your eyes, even if just for tonight?

We are nothing but marks in the sand
waiting to be washed away with the tide.
The black abys of nothingness the sea offers up,
tempting fate between life and death.
Do I dare to risk being washed away in wishful thinking?
Or, do I let the cripplingly cold waves take me under?

A picture perfect serenity
of waves washing troubles away.
The reflections of a million dreams illuminating the night
providing quintessential peace never experienced before.
You see life as if it were a painting unique to us all;
everyone sees the beauty, even if not always understood.

We all leave our marks across the sand,
basking in its never ending beautiful optimism.
The unknowing views of opportunity amiss,
the most sacred, forgotten hearts finding salvation.
Do we dare to try taking risks into the unknown, no-matter the price?
Or, do we hold onto what we know, always playing it safe?
Darby Rose May 2015
There is a labor dispute protest
outside of the hospital I was born in and
I can't help thinking
Did this ****** up world formulate this ****** up mind?
Or did I  simply come into this world corrupt
with the surroundings to match?

I've been cripplingly depressed these last few months and
it is beginning to take it's toll on my body,
I'm so sick of regulars at my workplace commenting
on how thin I've become.
A friend hugged me,
felt my protruding rib cage and asked if I was okay.
I said, define okay, because the word has lost it's meaning
over the repetition of the phrase in my mind,
i'm okay, i'm okay, i'm okay.

These lows,
so easily justifiable
when I'm just drunk, and sad.
But it's so much harder
when i'm sober and my world's still falling apart.

I am soberish now and
realizing the extent to which I am not over so many things.
I am not over the rejection of the boy I still so badly desire,
and having to see him so happy with his old lover.
I am not over how drained I feel from 50+ hour work weeks.
I am not over the discomfort of the place I call home.
I am not over the past lovers who despise me.

Then there is you,
the former lover I still lust for,
I'm so very much not over you,
yet I know things couldn't possibly ever work out.
I am ******* sick to death of dreaming of you every god ****** night,
waking only to feel utterly demolished inside.
It's been months, why won't you leave my mind?

I'm on the brink of insanity and
I don't even know where to begin
to find the path to recovery.
unnamed Jul 2014
every single person carries something around

there is not one who is not cripplingly sad about something
..
I think it's vital to teach our children to look beyond the surface

to know that there is good in people

to know that everyone is a victim of something

but to never forget people can also play villains
Molly Oct 2014
You know how lonely you've left me?
Tired and empty—
I don't want *** with a stranger
I want you to hold me,
in the crook of your arm like a baby.
It's so hard to love me, so
hard to be happy. It's not even you,
just to know you don't want me.
It's so ******* lonely.
So cripplingly lonely.
Timothy Kenda Apr 2018
The fire ripped through his mind, fed with oxygen from the cold northern wind
Each change of direction shattering window panes, shards of glass left to lie and reflect the light onto the ash where once feelings had been
Balloon framed tenements, built of century old, tinder dry wood burst readily into flames
They say where there is smoke, there's fire, did the memories living in dire predicaments have any chance at all of escape?
Her words ripped through him, "I wont ever believe you" after the thought brushed his lips "I would never deceive you"
The smoke of small distance, little pockets of silence and days spent mostly quiet and listless
Weren't heeded as the warning of the raging inferno that was to come
These memories came back to him, ten years later, as the smell of hope turned into smoke and caused his eyes to tear
After the fire, there were certain, seemingly insignificant details laid plain, and though he had swept up the ash and glass he knew he would never again be the same
Fire, much like pain, leaves noticeable scars that no amount of time can ever erase
And though he now knew why she had said those words that day, the scenes of the fire still played through his mind, the smell of smoke
Once happy memories stained by soot, now resembled nothing so much more than haunting ghosts
He stood there, on the front steps, not wanting to ask questions for which he already had answers
Nothing was different here, but somehow everything had changed since the disaster had left doubt formed into shrapnel lodged deeply in his brain
Ten years later, he was still cripplingly afraid
Matchstick in hand and a surface ready for the strike
To replay once again the anguish and agony of that night
Nolan Bucsis Sep 2017
Every day I wake up to the scratching.
Of parasites.
Swollen with blood and ravenous
The dull abrasive buzz of electrical devices.
Preventing me from sleeping.
Generating my insomnia.
Ash coats the front of my shirt.
My teeth are brown and broken.
My appetite is cripplingly nauseating.
I'm ill from malnutrition.
And I eat cigarette smoke and coffee.
While my lungs scream at me for breath.

I don't know what caring means anymore.
Desire to live.
Motivation.
These are as alien to me as three meals a day.
Or socializing.
Or work.
Or reasons to exist outside of the fear of annihilation.
I've seem to have gone beyond depression.
Into resignation.

I stare vacantly at my reflection.
What emotion am I supposed to fake to myself?
How do I make myself smile.
I know I'm lying.
It's no longer an urge for someone to understand..
Or hold me.
Or make it better.
It's an urge to get up the motivation to get out of bed.
Pointlessly greet the day.
Eat.
I'm running on the basics and I'm low on fuel.

I'm just here, brushing filth off of myself and wondering.
When was it that I didn't care.
About changing my torpor.
Into triumph.
When did this become acceptable?
Living in grime.
Starving.
Running from people and responsibility.
What did I do.
To become this desolate.
This, abominable.
Kryptonite Mar 2020
you are all but poison flowing through my veins
cripplingly sweet, oh honey is brought to shame
a needle gleefully I stab myself with daily
a agonizing slow demise a choice I take greatly  
over a bleak existence without you.
i love you but you hurt me.
Michael John Feb 2020
how is the world with you?
round and flat too
a tear track or bugaloo..

or grey to greyer..
and bach
aire on a g..

easy to be
every breath
blue..

is it all a lie
and cripplingly
true..

dream or reality
come on down
or high..

— The End —