"represents" poems
I fall in love with everyone,
I'm falling hard for you.
You aren't something easily found,
you're rare,
and real,
it's true.
You've traveled such a rugged path,
but through the trials you grew.
This isn't all just simple math,
it's souls
and spirits too.
The future holds
what you can't grasp,
but you can see it through.
And when I place it on a graph,
it all adds up to you.
Scatter plot the present and past,
you'll end up with the new.
But isn't music,
secretly math,
that follows certain que's?
No!
Music
represents our love,
for all that may ensue.
It's symbolic
of our emotion,
either happy
or blue.
It's what I feel,
that prompts my life,
with what I need to do.
The sounds i hear,
release my fear,
and in my heart imbue.
A fire,
I could never start,
without some help from you.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
You lose your mind,
You lose all function of your body
To the point where
A little bit of ***
Escapes,
Your mind is well and truly ******
Like, hard.
You're shaking,
Quivering,
Practically electrified,
The world seems meaningless
Until you experience
The one thing you have
Been waiting for
For so long.
I am fangirling like a school kid right now,
And the mess of a poem you have just read?
Yeah,
That mess represents the state I am in right now.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
This is solace,
so let's
let the glass
go down.
This is solace,
no less
than living
life unbound.
This is solace,
caress
your fingers
in my palm.
this is solace.
solace
represents
no harm.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
I am but a nation,
Torn to pieces
My poor broken heart
left to scatter apart
Like a flag,
Abandoned to the breeze
And the mercy of whichever way
The winds may take me.
My colours are faded
And split apart
Representing the many different parts
Of my life.
Red is my passion
And love in my heart,
White is where my thoughts and feelings
Are at their most pure,
Green is for growth
And my love of nature,
Yellow is my cowardice
Of which I am ashamed,
And black
Contains all possibilities.
In singularity each only represents
Part of me
Only when colours unite together
To unify my soul
Will you ever
Get to see me whole.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Everyone is so colorful
so full of life, so vibrant
Kind green hues
yellow smiles
red thoughts of love
pink cheeks from embarrassment
But I am grey, a colorless hue that represents the lack of self
yet I shine as if I am the only light
for darkness always contradicts the light
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Seemingly small and insignificant,
It sits atop my finger, like a bird perched on a branch.
A symbol of great power,
Yet shrunken and frail as paper.
Its hidden beauty rivals those of
Aphrodite.
My love for it swells
Like a well after a heavy rain.
Oh, this paper crown,
Its simple beauty
Is a gold as pure as any other.
Its paleness is greater than snow,
Its weight light, but heavier than
the empire it represents.
This paper crown, worthy of a Queen.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
It's amazing,
It's beautiful,
Maybe its the first time you'll see;
Hair so dark and 'puffy'
As the hair God gave to me.
But my hair is not a commodity;
A thing for you to gather round and see.
It is not something I pull out once a while
Just so you can take a peek.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Don't run your hands through it,
Don't ask me why it act's like that,
Don't ask me if you can pull it,
Don't pet me like I'm your cat.
Don't touch it without asking,
And worst of all ask and not wait,
Are your manners really that lacking?
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Don't stare like I am some exhibit
Brought for you from far away,
Don't mock the way it looks on me
Don't say 'I don't like the way it looks today'.
It's My hair
On MY head,
So don't you even dare.
You're not the one that spends hours
Looking after my luscious hair.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
Because many years ago
My ancestors were put in zoos
So people like you could know
How our hair felt, and our skin looked
Instead of just seeing old photos.
As if we were not human beings
With minds, and hearts and souls.
So my hair is not on display
For your viewing pleasure,
My hair is on my head for ME
And it has worth that you can never measure.
It represents Who I Am
My Tribe, My Land, My Culture.
So don't hover around with oily hands
Like a flock of curious vultures.
So for the love of all that I know
Please DO NOT TOUCH MY HAIR.
And don't ask me why you can't,
Don't say it isn't fair.
Because would I walk up to a stranger
And ask, only to receive a no
Then go on and touch it anyway?
...I didn't think so.
Please Don't Touch My Hair.
This is the last time I'll say it,
I cannot be silent any longer
I will not tolerate it.
I've given it all I can
I have been very patient
But I will not let this continue
This I will not permit.
If you say you are my friend
You will respect this
Its My Hair, on My Head
And that's all there is to it.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so viveamus per camenam nostram.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
"The Druids taught their disciples many things about nature and the perfections of God, and that, there was only one God, the Creator of heaven and earth. One name, under which they worshiped him, was Esus or Hesus (“He," in Celtic meaning, "Lord," ) or Harits which is their name for Horus..."
~Julius Caesar from [Signs and Symbols of Primordial Man, by Albert Churchward circa 1912] [Page 186]
"He," -meaning, "Lord," and "Sus," being the most ancient Minoan form of, "Zeus," therefore, "Jesus," means in Celtic and Greek;
"Lord Zeus."
The word "Harits," being Sanskrit identical to, "Charits," and "Marits, Maruts," a mythical epithet for Aryas, or Aryans so the usage of it for his name means it represents him as being Aryan.
Jesus as an Aryan.
*If You can prove it, prove it wrong,
then do so here or do so in song.
If you can also, do it in verse,
then truly you'll deserve a purse.
I do not believe there will ever be,
on this point,
...a mortal man to challenge me!*
Good Luck
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
400 years America ,
For 400 years America, we've been playing this game of cat and mouse, and for 400 years America, you refuse to give us the keys to the house.
For 400 years America , we've been asking to be free, and for 400 years America , you sat there and you promised me, all the freedom I could ask for , for just a small fee
For 400 years America , we've been paying that small fee in sweat, tears and blood
For over 400 years America, we have witnessed the flood, from the storm clouds that burst in a black mother's eyes. The Storm that rages in her heart as she cries. The Lightening that strikes her heart as she watches her son bleed as he dies.
For over 400 years America , we've had to watch our people bleed , for over 400 years America , you've literally scorched and scathered and destroyed our seed.
For over 400 years America our sons, daughters, fathers , mothers have bled and for over 400 years tear after tear was shed
The flags that represent you, makes you free . But the same flags that represent you, doesn't represent me. The flag that represents words that say"all men are created equal" considered me an animal and there seemed to never be a sequel.
400 years later and still "no refuge can save, the hireling and slave from the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave" I am not blind, don't need a stick or a stave, I am not foolish, I see the road that you have paved America!
For over 400 years, America, My brothers and sisters have fought for your pride
We carried your rifles, we lifted your flag and still you were snide
For over 400 years America, for you battles we've won
400 year later you still point your gun
It's been 400 years America, Gotdammit I am not a slave
I want my rights and you will not tell me how to behave!
You've always had freedom white man, and you don't know how bad I crave! that my kids grow up in freedom and for that I'll be brave to the grave. Even if it kills me, I will not let the color of my skin decide whether or not I win. I will not you let, America, and your adulterous, heinous sin control me and the condition I am in
400 years later America, and you act like you still don't know their names
400 years later America and you still plea ignorance, you don't feel their pains
Emmit Till, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray
These are some of the lives from us you took away
400 years later and you still make us pay
and that's not okay....
To you slavery was yesterday and we should shout free at last?
To you the last police shooting was last week, we shouldn't riot, it's in the past, You want us white washed but we can't shake the scars from centuries in a caste
Freedom isn't free, but I still believe, I still believe that someday my eyes will see, all nations, all skin colors under one tree, connected to one vine, to the divine
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
Why is it that we are always wanting time to pass quickly?
We're constantly watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to fly by
But we never look at what it really represents
At how every minute that passes
Is a minute of your life that won't ever come back
Can't ever be recovered
As it is lost in the hands of a clock that is forever ticking
Counting down every second
Every minute
Every hour of the rest of our lives.
Each time we look at a clock
Watching the hands slowly tick by
We never do realise the meaning of what it is actually counting down to.
For it isn't really counting that one meeting you don't want to go to
Or that single maths period that feels like it will never end.
No.
That clock is actually counting down towards the final moments of the best times of our lives
The ones that we take advantage of without even realising it
Whether it's our years in school,
Or the last few years of our childhood.
The final few days you have left to spend with a loved one,
Or the true bliss of your first real relationship.
You see, through the good times and the bad
The smiles, the tears and the laughs
The times that you never really want to end,
And the ones you wish were over in a heartbeat;
This clock will be forever in the back of your mind
Counting down the hours, minutes, seconds
Towards the end.
And it's only then that you realise
That you wish to turn it back and start again.
But you don't know how
And those last few hours that you have left
Won't be spent looking at a clock.
But instead will be used to look over every single moment of your life
From the beginning to the end.
And it's only then, that the clock will finally stop ticking.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
Crying is not a sign of weakness.
It’s a sign of strength.
It’s a sign of letting yourself go
and not holding yourself back.
It’s a form of expression
a silent expression
an emotional expression
a vulnerable expression
a brave and strong expression
letting everyone know that you can’t
take it anymore.
Small drops of water
coming from your visual peripherals
come tumbling down
the sides of your face
like an overflowing waterfall
From eye to chin
each watery teardrop
represents and symbolizes
you breaking free
from the pain you experienced
in the past.
No matter what pain
you’ve gone through,
every time you cry
you let your past
stay in the past.
You don’t let it go to the present
nor to the future.
You let it stay in the past.
What I’m trying to say
that it’s OK
to let it go.
It’s OK to
break free
and be free.
It’s OK to come alive.
It’s OK to create
your own personal
overflowing waterfall
all over your beautiful face.
It’s OK to cry.
Don’t listen to other people
that tell you that you’re
weak, a baby, or a crybaby
for that matter.
Don’t listen to other people
that tell you that you’re
hopeless, worthless,
or that you are
not good enough
for them.
Don’t listen to other people
that tell you that you’re
never going to make it
through life
no matter how hard
or how many times
you try.
Instead, show them.
Show them that you’re
just a regular
human being
and prove
to them that
regular
human beings
have real
emotional feelings.
Show them that you’re
never afraid to
show off and
let go of your
vulnerable feelings
that you’re
hiding inside.
Show them that
they too can
let go of
their own
emotional and
vulnerable feelings
that they’re
hiding inside.
If they can’t
let go of
their powerful
and moving
feelings,
they will have
cold, frozen hearts.
Bottom line,
we all need
to shed some
beautiful and
powerful tears
every so often
in our lifetime.
We all need
to create our
own rivers,
lakes, streams,
creeks, ponds,
seas, and oceans
full of one of
the most moving
and powerful
human senses
that we shed
throughout our
lifetime.
And it all starts
with a overflowing
waterfall
coming from
the most important
visionary living organs.
Our eyes
are the window
to our emotional
and vulnerable
soul.
That soul is
willing to come out
from the visual
window
and it will do
whatever it takes
to do just that.
But it needs
your permission.
It’s time to let it go.
It’s OK to cry.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Q: Why i wear a heart necklace ?
A: Because it's an extra heart,
I can keep
On top
Of the one
I already have!
It reminds me
Of
Love
That exists in the world!
And
Of
Love
That this world still needs !
It also reminds me
Of
Kindness
That surrounds this world.
It also reminds me
Of
The cruelty too.
It reminds me
Of
equality
that has filled the world.
It also reminds me
Of
The prejudice too.
It reminds me
Of
Hope
That lightens the paths of many!
It also reminds me
Of
The people
Whom need reminding
That its just baby steps away !
That heart shaped object
Represents many things,
lying beautifully dead on my chest.
But the real live one
Is buried deep in my chest ,
And a life (long or short)
Its looking ahead to.
And i should introduce myself
With
Love,
Kindness ,
Equality,
And never ever
Lose
HOPE!!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
A stadium filled with thousands of bodies
all pressed together
knowingly aware
but not caring about the abundance of sweat coating their bodies, which isn't their's
or the amount of limbs pressed against them, which isn't their's.
A stadium filled with thousands of people
chanting
screaming
the words which fuel them
give them life
and a purpose to keep going .
A stadium filled with thousands of people
all wearing the same shirt
which represents their love
for simple humans
just like them
which give their life
purpose.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I love everything about you. I love your smell, from the way your cologne and deodorant sticks to your freshly washed skin to the way your natural musk smells when you sweat through a hot summer night stuck to me. I love how your skin is always soft, it brushes up against my thighs and cheeks like a blanket of the highest quality. Your voice is deep, but comforting and I adore all the sounds your body makes, especially the little grunts and sighs. When you speak soft words in my ear, I just melt into soft butter and I even love the way your silly words tease me, even when I get upset. Your bone structure is manly, but in a way that your body wraps around mine ideally when we hug. The way your eyes sparkle in the sunshine is like fairy dust and I could get lost in your gaze forever.
Your hand fits into mine perfectly and your tongue twists perfectly with mine when our lips collide. The movement of your hips with mine is like a metronome to my heart. All you could do is sleep and eat and I would never get tired of watching you. If you were a colour, you would be your favourite, purple, because it represents devotion, pride, mystery, magic and nobility. If you were a smell, it would be freshly cut grass on an early summer morning. Most people would say love feels like a sunny summer day, but ours is like one of those spring days where the temperature is fit for flowy dresses, but the sky is filled with some dark clouds that pass in the evening and there is a slight warm wind breezing through everyone's hair. Every single evening when you tell me you love me over the phone my stomach flutters with butterflies. As an item, you would be my favourite comfy old sweater. I love every single imperfection on your skin and in your soul. If I were to describe hanging out and having fun with you, the closest thing I could compare it to is the first bite of a freshly baked warm cinnamon pastry. I used to hate the idea of life, but if we were to create a family I would actually want to grow old with you. If there exists a heaven, it would be us sharing a fresh lemonade and chuckling next to a lake where tiny birds chirp and eat the crumbs of the bread we baked together. If you were a drink, you would be high quality whiskey and lastly, if you were a person, you would be mine.
Aug 15, 2023
Aug 15, 2023 at 6:49 PM UTC
I can write of Manila at night like the greats do of Paris. Not Manila in the morning, for it matters then, but Manila at night where it doesn't matter if it is new or old or if you are rich or poor, because it all blends into the moonlit darkness and that is when Manila becomes like a love letter. It may be Cebu that I love, but it is Manila that captivates me.
To the farmer, who left Manila for America to escape the war, and returned to see only a burned down church. To the young boy, a hundred years later, who does not see the church, but sees the romance of a concrete city. And to the ill man sitting on the corner of a street in Ermita, who has seen more of life and Manila than any of us ever will or ever can or ever want to. To the jazz bars tucked deep in Quezon where the music is sweetest, and to the congregation of poets who meet at their secret place in Makati on sacred nights to talk of the country they write for. Manila does not end.
But Manila is no moveable feast- it is a grand mystery that is far too heavy to take with you. Paris was loved because it was easy to love. The same way Florence was loved because it was easy to. Manila is far too rough to make for easy loving, but the beauty is there for everyone but the blind to see, and even then it is there for the blind to feel. One just has to try hard enough. It is what Manila represents, for it represents not the American dream, but the Filipino ambition to create their own. It does not become a question of how can you. It never will. It is a question of how can you not be romantic of Manila?
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:24 PM UTC
we always want to re-invent ourselves when we feel
rejected, unwanted, left to the side.
we dye our hair or cut our hair or style our hair
so differently, so drastically, so unrecognizable.
we pack on make-up or strip our make-up
or pierce our faces, belly buttons, get tattoos, choose a permanent mark
to remind us of something solid;
something that represents
self-sufficiency or this too shall pass,
because we know we are gonna feel
rejected, unwanted, left to the side again
(and again, and again).
we buy new clothes, give away old ones to our friends,
new shoes, new bags, new look.
and we’re always picking up new vices, new habits, new addictions.
cigarettes, alcohol, razors,
all the late night reckless binges on wine, narcotics, food, cutting ourselves.
sometimes we pick up healthy ones too,
like running, swimming, dancing, yoga, meditating, resetting sleep patterns, taking vitamins, treating ourselves to the spa, eating regularly, getting out of the house to see friends.
we either avoid intimacy at all costs because we can’t fathom
the concept of trust anymore
or we dive into it with practically anyone, just to feel something real
because we are so ******* lonely,
but we never really feel anything real at all.
we make resolutions, goals, plans for our next relationships
so that they won’t follow the same patterns as our last crumbling ones
(they usually still do).
some of us change what we like, what we want, what we need
to impress people so that they
fall in love with us and will never leave us.
we begin disregarding ourselves for another person,
or disregarding everyone else for ourselves,
both because we don’t want to get hurt again.
and then somewhere, somehow after weeks, months, maybe even years of
the full fledged wavering of
destruction meeting recovering meeting ignorance meeting shyness meeting loneliness meeting accepting meeting fear,
we start to see the intricacies of the pattern much clearer -
we make all of these sudden changes because
we just want to feel better,
we just want to be better;
that’s all.
it’s taking charge, which is healthy.
it’s also making fact and point that we need to change to deserve love,
which is unhealthy.
all of it is like learning algebra for the first time,
some of us take a bit longer to understand it all; the formulas, the variables, the balance.
and once we understand the formula, the variables and the balance,
then we can welcome back the beautiful,
real version
of ourselves we’ve been trying to
cover up.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
Whatever your devil whispered to you
About me that night
Doesn't represents me
Come and talk to my devil
When you have the guts to
No baby, you're not a ****
Just a coward
The handsome one
Still my favorite
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 7:17 PM UTC
Today I stared at The Scream
And am proud to say,
I understand what it means.
Seconds,
Days,
Minutes,
Nights.
The Scream represents
Immortal life.
And who really wants to live
To be one hundred years old?
To see the world they know,
slowly go?
I've seen Death,
on multiple occasions...
He tells me it's okay
To feel this sort of pain.
Deep down it burns,
but it cools my skin.
Your words...
Unable to keep me in.
And who really wants to live
To be one hundred years old?
When there's nothing to do,
but grow cold?
Gently pour your tears on my eyes.
The feeling is great.
It reminds me of the sky,
Like your hair reminded me
of being naive.
These feelings are mine,
As you stab me in my side.
And who really wants to live
To be one hundred years old?
Memories still in mind;
What torment for every burning soul.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
i want to take cocktail after cocktail of pills until my body represents the mess that is my mind.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
Life can bring great challenges,
disappointment and despair.
At times we want to just give up,
from pressures hard to bear.
Life on earth can be beautiful.
We must never give up hope.
Tie a knot, and hang on for dear life,
when you’re at the end of your rope.
The rope represents our earth life,
whether happy, sad, or fraught.
Our Savior’s great atoning love,
represents the saving knot.
If we will but have faith in Him
when our rope is at it’s end,
He’ll be the knot that stops our fall,
and helps our lives to mend..
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC