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Dreaming is good.
But dreaming is bad, because it hurts.
Dreams die.
You grow up thinking you are invicible, forever amazing.
You grow up realizing it does not work that way.
You grow up to realize the people around you want you to be safe.

Life isn’t about being daring anymore.
Life is about having a safe future.
Pick a safe job.
Live your life.
Enjoy it when you can.

But the fireceness of life leaves you.

Adults burn the fire in you.
Cold water on your dreams, wash them all away.
Adults throw you in the wilderness to make you realize.
Realize life is not a game anymore.
Adults burn the fire in you.
They feed your insecurities.
Cultivate your fears.
Then feed them back to you.
They’re scared. They don’t want you to face a wall of disappointements.
But they won’t let your try, either.
Adults burn the fire in you.
Not consciously.
Slowly.
Mysteriously.
And suddenly you, with all your dreams in your heart, face doubt.

Doubt.

The worst feeling.
Worst than love. Worst than hate.
Doubt.
Sinuously cracking your hopes and dreams.

Doubt, creeping in your mind, burning bridges.

Doubt, expanding every time you hesistate.

Doubt, forever in your head.

Doubt burned my dreams to ashes.

Doubt washed them all away.
Hannah McGregor Apr 2021
I have two facts for you that exist in my mind -
1. I am normal
2. I do not 'feel' normal
I have never considered myself to be normal.
I knew i wasn't normal when at the age of eight after my Dad left my school hired a counsellor just for me,
and i wasn't normal how after then i was the only pupil to be from a single parent family.
I wasn't normal when just after this abandonment my body entered early puberty,
and so feeling weird didn't stay a feeling, it became a reality.
Picked on for things out of my control, i felt like a freak.
Even at the age of eight, every aspect of my identity was up for scrutiny.
I knew i wasn't normal when in secondary school i would purposely get detentions
to spend time with teachers, because the the turmoil of the school yard was a teenage no man's land.
The company of those my own age is something i will never understand.
I knew i wasn't normal when i would hesistate in conversation when someone asked me who i fancied in my class.
The name of a random boy rolled from my tongue in an attempt to not blow my cover.
I knew i wasn't normal when my tweets coming out as bi were passed around like breaking news.
When i tried to defend myself in the interrogations, teachers would sternly say to me -
'That's not appropriate to be talking about in school' like my sexuality was a hushed secret, even though the straight girls were never silenced.
I knew i wasn't normal when i had to say i was bi, when in fact this was a lie. A lie to help me pass, pass and hold on to some straight privilege.
At the age of sixteen i questionned my worth and value as a person, trying to blame myself for the treatment i was subjected to.
I knew i wasn't normal when i decided to place my emotional pain onto a physical space, then patching up the damage as a form of ironic self-care.
I left school for a college, desperately seeking freedom from the constraints of a Catholic school.
I never felt comfortable in sixth form, being there my mind felt like a spinning waltzer i was strapped to for two years.
At seventeen i knew i wasn't normal when i was prescribed the maximum dose of sertraline, then mirtazapine, venlafaxine, fluoxetine.
By this point in my life i was on a tally of maybe six counsellors and two CBT therapists.
I knew i wasn't normal when i started to blame myself for the therapy not being successful. Maybe i was just meant to be depressed.
Changing my thinking styles, emotional regulation, journalling my feelings and triggers, i knew exactly what i had to do.
I knew i wasn't normal when i clung onto certin things as comfort, like my adoration for florence and the machine.
I started to experiment, toying between wanting to fit in and wanting to be myself, painting bright eyeshadow on my lids as a vibrant mask to carry me through.
I knew i wasn't normal when i reached out to the local crisis team experiencing auditory hallicinations, hearing sounds only meant for my ears.
My emotional states are a product of my trauma, which is difficult to navigate as the world's greatest performer.
Maybe i was meant to face this internal torment, or until now i hadn't considered i could be neurodivergent.
Irene X Chen Jun 2010
You were maybe a foot away from me, sitting to the side, accomplishing your task with silent efficiency. A chord rung out, emanating from your body; it drew me near. I stopped to watch, stopped to see, a man of beauty, a man of strength. No cries of anguish or pain, no cries of fear of structure or fear of imminent danger. Hope lifted in my heart; you had a different vibe than all the other guys. You could make me happy. You could keep me safe. You would laugh at my jokes and guard my wounded self-esteem.

And then four feet away, not that much later. We met for the first time, for real. A sudden recognition, an exchanging of names, a few witty (or ditzy?) comments. Four feet again, near the forbidden. Our eyes didn't meet, for you were distracted, lost in your own world of music blasting from your headphones. I traced the line defining your back with a marker that writes on air.

Seasons slipped by. You stood just six feet away in your savvy black bowtie. Fake, yes, but still considered formal. A cheap imitation at the very least, but to one of us, it's all the same. Closer yet, a foot again, only a seat away. I drew my fingers across the top of your surprisingly smooth hands, tracing your veins, the veins that carried your blood, faintly pulsing, speaking softly of gentle carresses and sweet nothings.

Eight feet away, across the classroom, I caught your eye. Mountains moved and dams ruptured as cool, silky waters quenched insatiable fires. There were things I noticed for the first time: the kindness that pampered children underlaying each tone, the strength that upheld the weak resonating from your arms, and the love that would not hesistate to sacrifice sparkling in your eyes. Suddenly, desire gripped me like a reawakened flame, heat up to par with the heat that causes your veins to bulge. I realized that those veins now contained my life's blood. My lifeblood.

I watched you run alongside me, ten feet away, racket up at guard. I've never told you that when you serve, you look exactly like the man on the back of the team shirt; indescribable yet immortalized for an eternity. Eternity, a neverending length of time, the amount of time I want to spend with you and you alone.

Twenty feet away, even further but still closer than ever. Twenty feet, the span of a hallway perhaps, from one set of locked doors to another heavy set. Still close, still close, for no matter the distance, we can bridge this gap. With what? With love. My love for you, and yours for me.


The lines before you sing softly, over and over, three resounding syllables: I love you.
Quinn Mar 2013
sloppy seconds turn into somber slumber
and i'm still spinning in a universe that's unsure
unrest becomes irreversible, irreplacable, irrevokable
slipping through cynical sunrises and statistically normal sunsets

grab hold to the ground, hug gravity tight as everything
tries to fling me from functionality and into so called "freedom"
find focus, find focus, find focus

hocus pocus hums under hymns spoken hesitantly
and i hesistate again and again, i hesitate
finding the magic within the madness is my specialty
sometimes so much so that i subject self to sinking slowly
into the muck that ***** my skin off of my bones

flapping floppy lips leak loosly limp ideals and i look
to my black widow for conviction, confirmation, and consistency
meditative mornings and deep dark evenings become the norm
housing imaginary friends and hoping to inspire intellectual integrity

family finds new meaning in full ****** up webs that spin
us all up and spit us out on the same ground, but we are safe
here in our humble, happy home, we are safe and we are
happy in the simplest sense of the word
- Nov 2013
your eyes tell a tale
a story of their own
about your struggle
as you try and try
and reclaim your throne
the life you made your own
which people threw aside
and up in the air
like they didn't care

you'll find yourself again
even if you are
your one and only friend
just keep your head up
don't fall to the ground
don't let others
break your heart
you are stronger
than all this pain
this pain will shape you
and create strength
you just don't know it yet
baby, you'll win this fight
don't cry for a sinner
who took you
for granted
you will find home
in someone else's heart
not because you're broken
but because you're worth it
baby, you deserve it

you will find hope again
and find your true friends
and live happy until the end

don't hesistate
don't waste time
on someone
who can't love

you deserve more
that is for sure
© Natali Veronica 2013.
Jenny Jun 2015
The glare of my innocence
Was the image you laid your eyes on
Your eyes caught mine and they exchanged something our minds couldn't forget
Something Borrowed

Every step you took towards me
Was like a mistake waiting to happen
I didn't hesistate to let you step further into my world.
You opened your mouth and whispered sweet nothings in my ear,again
Something borrrowed

I fell into a whirl pool, a storm
Something I thought was a gaze of adventure
Just one touch took me a million places
My heart races,you captured it and again
Something borrowed

You Undress my mind, my body,my soul
The steam we let loose outlined our shadows
And masked our feelings
You enter and take my innocence
Again
Something borrowed

Something as precious as my time,my attention,heart and innocence is something no man has ever embarked on
It was priceless,until you came along,used it and put it back
But not the way it was found
I was just something
Something borrowed.
LJW May 2015
Someone asked why (if you write) do you write.
Well...

I can't say I have a cause anymore,
I'm not an activist these days.
I've given up on the fight between good/evil
right/wrong
big/little
rich/poor
Let them all win, let them all lose
the side to be on changes too quickly
and in one slow word, I am the enemy.

I am not after being the ***** mystery.
I don't write to be a *** symbol, ******, a **** poet
It just doesn't work for me.
My boyancy deflates,
there is no pucker to my lips,
no pout on my face.

I hesistate to declair writing "fun".
It isn't, well, it can be if you don't care if it is "good".

It's not that I even have anything to say to the world.
The World knows much better than I.
So why?

No reason.

— The End —