"repressing" poems
I'm done repressing my gayness
Because it's the "Christian" thing to do.
I will wear ******* rainbow ****** pasties
And march in a pride parade
If I please
And then go to church and praise Jesus
And God and the Holy Spirit
For making the way I am
And how I am
Because he made me perfect.
I am gay
I am Christian
I am proud to be both.
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
Tied up because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
A crimson day unfolds with sunshine,
Horrid, the creature of hatred creeps around and blocks the sun off gruesome dark rainclouds summon up from the east, counciling,
The mother of purity, caught in endless fury as her child was taken from her, before her very eyes, an eternal spring dream, shatters now,
By her own mistake, she invited prohibited emotions for this creature, The angel of hers she wanted to take under her wing and raise, was now gone, as if it was all an illusion which is lost due time, due evil,
A sea of flowers is blooming, a warmer season has arrived finally, but for her misfortune, her inside remains cold and distant to her grief,
Raging storms within her clouded her mind, she can't even think straigh but to believe, of what a bad mother she must have been to let this happen to her most precious treasure, ah demons of ones past,
Repressing her true feelings gave her headaches, but it was alright because the pain would surely fade, then she could be pure again,
But deep inside she knew that for this child she had given up a part of herself, so maybe things would be different, even if everything returns to its old shape, or rather if everything appeared that way,
Mother Purity would never be the same again, as her daughter faded,
After all, even she is only human.
~ Umi
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
i can only find the open palms of my demons in that red mist, the ones that once held my face in a much harsher way than you do now. your calloused hands feel like heaven instead of the hell that slept in the creases of their fingerprints. sometimes i fall too close and i see their blackened eyes that replay childhood traumas that i have spent years repressing with self-destructive behaviours and alcohol. your own remind me of the rivers i could drown myself in but i must remind myself that diving in will only give me peace, not death, though it feels like death whenever they're not in my sight. sometimes i think about hurting myself again but then i remember the claws of those monsters and how they can't compare to your nails tickling at my back in the late of the night where theirs would be cutting me open. i don't ever want to be in their grip again. never again. never.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
I feel a little confused
Like I have something to figure out
A little twisted up and chewed
My mind is racing on doubt.
I'm trying to put my thoughts
Into words in this writing
My hand it jots
The nails on my fingers I am biting.
It's hard to say how I feel
But I definitely know that I am feeling
Everything inside is real
I just have to find it by peeling.
My skin it itches from nerves
I look sallow and wrecked
I've stretched myself thin and over all the curves
I can no longer object.
I had to cry today
Because I drove myself up a wall
Repressing things I've wanted to say
Has somehow made the mountain I have, to climb, very tall.
It's not like my problems are anything important
But I guess they tend to wear me ragged
It's sometimes because I can be expectant
Of people and things that are jagged.
I have some things I still need to learn
But I'd rather be learning then at a stop
Like how not to expect and sometimes not to yearn
And when to skip, rather than to hop.
I try to keep my heart open wide
But that leaves it to be bruised
I have to let some things subside
And not let myself feel used.
I'll learn to be compassionate
But still protect myself
Though somehow I feel like I'm in debt
To all the dolls on the shelf.
I conclude this work of emotion
Still upside down and withered
At least I've crossed further, the ocean
But I have yet to meet the blizzard.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
In high school
we learn of logarithms, iambic meter
how to balance an equation between zinc oxide
and excess hydrogen gas–
only to find there was no reaction to begin with.
We’re told that colleges get to know you
through three letter acronyms—ACT, SAT, GPA…
and our name is somewhere in the application.
It’s repeated to us to the point of meaninglessness,
like a perpetually chanted word:
Grades, scores and testing, testing, testing.
The students they want know everything
that will be forgotten by their thirtieth birthday.
I anticipate the day
that our Geometry teacher is to write an essay
on the individual’s struggle
against a systematically inhumane society
in Orwell’s 1984
only to receive a “D” under the scrutinizing eye of
the honor’s English teacher
Or, perhaps, the day someone in charge
is faced with some insufferable fate
the textbooks call chemical stoichiometry,
thirty years after repressing memories
of having to memorize the periodic table
Socrates once said that the youth today
will be the demise of civilization.
We contradict our parents, are smug in the face of authority
and tyrannize our poor teachers—
a youth who will ultimately leave behind a world
too damaged for our children to inherit.
Funny he said this
roughly 2,000 years ago–
I think my dad said something like that last year.
But, until the day we grow up to pay taxes
and marry someone we despise,
we’re just stupid teenagers.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.
Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.
The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.
Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.
The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.
The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.
The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.
The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.
The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?
Was it me?'
The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.
The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.
The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.
They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.
Because that's what tortured people do.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
"What happened to the bully,
to turn him that way?
What is he repressing inside,
ignoring,
blaming himself for,
and taking it out on others?
Whats going on inside that head of his?
Did something happen as a child?
Is something going on now?"
These are the things I think,
when they push me down the stairs,
into the lockers,
or trip me in the halls.
I'm selflessly thinking about them,
while they're torturing me.
Why are they calling me ****
Are they secretly gay themselves,
and too ashamed to come out,
and they're jealous of my bravery,
to walk down the hall hand in hand,
with the girl I love?
Is that whats going on?
Because not all that long ago,
I was in their shoes.
I was poking fun at the girl who didn't quite fit in,
or the boy with the fabulous hair.
I wanted so badly to just be myself,
and then hated myself because I couldn't,
and then in turn,
I hated them.
So when the bullies do these things,
I dont judge,
or hate them for it,
or seek justice,
or revenge for their actions.
I just feel bad for them,
because they're the person now,
who I used to be a few years ago.
My friends,
they dont understand why.
Why I do just go tell the teacher of whats going on,
or tell my parents.
I dont want to do that.
It would only cause more repression,
and more problems.
Instead,
after they knock me down,
I brush it off,
and reach out a hand,
as a friend,
not a foe.
I'm there for them,
no matter how much they resist.
I tolerate it,
because I understand.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
we no longer achieve
intimacy by
peeling off our
skin like the band aid
that will sting as it is torn away.
intimacy is the art
of feeling like a monument torn apart,
hoping no one will tear you down
to create a better
you.
i have become depressed-
repressing all the love i have to give
if only i could shed my shadows
and remember we are only flesh.
i don’t remember
how to be intimate.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Dear Sam,
Your ex
Who happens to be my best friend
Opened up to me the other day
About how they used to resent me
Because of the way you treated them
When I entered into poly with you
Which is entirely understandable
Especially considering that you
Decided to tell them something big
While you guys were out with friends
You just couldn't wait to tell them
That you didn't think that you were poly
Because you thought you only loved me
Yet I never heard this from you
**** I never even saw it much
Whenever you complimented me
You balanced it with one about them
Which I thought was fine
Because they're a really good person
Little did I know that you were
Being so abusive to them all the time
While telling me how much you love them
I think what ****** me off the most
About all of this ****
Is that I felt that I was done with you
I stopped thinking about it all
Either I'd processed all I needed to
Or I was repressing all the damage
Because you caused a **** ton
But finding this out?
It makes me so ******* angry
Because you had them believing
That things were great between us
And made me believe the same about you two
While you emotionally abused and
Deeply manipulated both of us
On such a level that
Certain songs give me anxiety
And I get flashbacks of you
Of us
Sitting in your house in the dark
The only light coming from candles
Music playing over the speakers
An ambient setting that
Holds so much pain
From both positive and negative experiences
Yet those don't even feel like memories
They feel like something I saw in a movie
Because by the end of those long 6 months
You brought me so close to the ground
That I still taste dirt when I breathe
I hate that you're in my head again
Because I was fine before this
Before hearing even more
Or the torture you put them through
And how the pain you inflicted on me
The pain that causes dark anxiety
Upon seeing any Jeep vehicle
Paled in comparison
To the ways you abused and hurt them
How ******* dare you
They were nothing but loving and caring to you
I could've screamed with joy when they left you.
I hope it burns.
I hope you know you're abusive.
I hope you think of us often.
And I hope you get help
And never do this ever again.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
All the time we spend with ourselves
yet we never stop to spend any time
to wind
down
never get to know ourselves
expecting someone will come along
to do that for us
using other people
to learn who we are
leavings scars
where we should glow.
I should know
yet here I go
finding the next excuse
the next vice
the next moment
for validation
exaltation
when all we ever completely
have
is ourselves.
It's always about the crash
and the burn
we yearn for the pain
stand nothing to gain
but we learn to count down
until the next broken crumble
silently stumbling
leaving me guessing
about all the things I'm repressing
just trying to make it
second by second
watering down the mornings with my tears
and you wonder why I sleep during the day.
I have no place in my existence
for guilt over not doing
the same **** thing everyone else does
I am odd and I am proud
I have walked a long path
been through ****
but came out past it
that is all life is
moment to moment
but I give myself allowance
for **** ups
mistakes
relapses
it's bound to happen
but staying true
is all I can do
everything else will come to me in time.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 6:07 AM UTC
breathe in the air for me because I can't
bright but dark and suffocating, the stars squeeze me,
watching as they dance through each other like
french tips tapping on a foggy windowpane
pale blue grey lips trembling as they tug up at the corner
the elegant stretched fingers of mannerism -
alien, beautiful, silver and glowing
and throwing away all that came before,
looking toward the future, already there,
waiting for me
waiting for us to catch up
breathe for me because I can't
neck stretched too far, too far back
eyes cast toward the darkness, lips open, screaming, quiet
as the planets swirl in the deafening distance
and I bury my nails in my sides and it burns like
acid rain hissing as it strikes the ground
a high ringing somewhere in the distance in this empty office
stage lights striking the tops of eyelashes in the right position -
comforting and familiar, warm
but the eyelashes tremble and it's all you can see,
the only light in a dark room that could be stretching on forever,
blinding light, burning and staying for hours after as you sit, waiting,
waiting for sight
waiting for sight to catch up
(I still can't breathe)
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
City limit space expands,
it's threaded through with veins--
grey-black dendritic strands
span
across this moldy brain
of a city.
Our rotting nights spray hits around
the places players play.
The impulses will whitewash all complaints
'til the glaring day.
I wanna spit-shine every storm drain,
stain the cracked sidewalks in white,
take this town to Sunday morning Mass,
though she was born for Friday nights.
We're gonna trickle past addresses
now,
Electroshock through habit streets
these crosswalks sneer with snide expression.
Mildewed thoughts we'll hardly think.
A conversation you're repressing
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow
Another weekend's blurred out
blank confession
melts off the tips of tongues,
I can taste it now.
Circulation space expands,
we're threaded through with veins--
this bio-asphalt plan
spans
all through this molded frame
of a body.
But rotten thoughts, like ships aground,
teach sailors how to pray
when impulses have buried all complaints
'neath the foaming spray.
I wanna shade out every bruise now,
paint the dumpsters all in gold.
Missoula, listen: You're a lady.
I don't give a **** what you've been told.
A moldy brain dreams slattern makeup
for a prizefight town each night
so let's take up every artist's brush,
paint shadows on these barroom eyes.
We're gonna flow right through these boule-
vards.
Electroshock through habit streets.
These dim lit yards and spoiled thoughts
are hyphens placed between each week.
A conversation you're repressing,
I'm smoothing out my wrinkled brow.
Our city's made-up face is running
off the tips of winter and I taste it now.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
My legs and arms feel like they're stuck in mud
Trapped in a swamp of murky memories
A liquid so thick it hurts my lungs to fight the sinking
But theres no reflection here
So I won't let it swallow me
Most of the time I forget I'm fighting
The pain is so typical my body feels numb to it sometimes
But when I'm not rejecting my reality
Or repressing my circumstances
The all too familiar feeling
Anchors my body down so heavily
That even the idea
Of continuing to fill my lungs each moment
Is exhausting and debilitating.
The rare moments when I let myself feel things are excruciating
Anxiety claws through my chest
Like a rabid raccoon fighting for freedom
As terror bubbles through each of my muscles,
The only remainder of proof left
From the unspeakable and disgusting acts of others,
The memories I don't have anymore
The ones I choose to forget.
And yet they still keep trying so hard
To **** me into them
To make me remember them.
I didn't ask for this.
I didn't ask him to touch me.
I didn't ask her to hit me.
But I'm the one who's still stuck here
Fighting my past
Fighting myself
There's no reflection in this sludge of memories
Because I can't bring myself to look for one
I'm afraid that if I see myself in it
See what they did to me
See what I didn't do to stop it
I'll lose the last bit of sanity
That I am so desperately holding on to
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 10:38 PM UTC
The flickering fluorescent
Places accent on the life we could've shared:
Laughter creeping through every drunken little recess
Of the ****** apartment on West campus
As my sister sneaks off with her boyfriend,
Leaving me with the continued potential energy
Of everything I've known lately,
I can't help but allow the thought I've been
Repressing for half the year
To worm its way,
Like the first decomposers into a buried coffin,
Into my mind
Maybe you are really
Happy without me but as I sit here,
Forcing smiles and drinking beer, eating guacamole,
I miss you anyway.
Somebody turns off the lights, saying that
The flickering light hurts their eyes.
Somebody else screams at the dark, in jest
And I'm thinking that at least
The darkness is consistent.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
Illusions come in many forms, many guises.
They often take shape, many forms many sizes.
A blank canvas or blank slate
our minds create
--children of our imagination.
Identities bulldozed by need
we rush to plant the seed
to quickly take its form,
tender and loving
or lustful and cunning
we miss the deception
see only reflection
and crassly miss the person
beneath its shackles.
The canvas a prison
is passive, not active
releases its captive
to our great surprise.
"I thought that you loved me"
"and how could you hurt me?"
with sorrowful tone
we cry "I'm alone."
The romance is ended
the love you defended
was never to be
you just could not see--
and somewhere we see them
departing in freedom
but often we miss the whole point.
True love's not possessing,
will not be repressing,
will not be demanding
nor will it be binding.
True love will empower
does not make one cower
it gives us the strength
to be happy and free.
And should you still ponder
the nature of wonder
be troubled no more
just open the door
let jealousy burn
And if they return
your joy will be great
for it is your fate
that they'll leave you no more.
J. Sandy
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Hot, salty tears, muddled,
with the bitter, icy spray,
enveloped by the Atlantic,
desposed by pedigree.
Peoples, of all lifetimes,
swiftly, abducted from their blood,
with lament, embraces ripped apart,
sin left disguised, ousted love.
Lumber structures, like cages,
repressing their last breaths,
left few ongoing in the waves,
desposed by traitorous men.
Forceful souls, whose tongue called out,
reshaped their gruesome plight,
to overthrow the tides and toils, who,
ousted them at the site.
Desde África, a Cuba,
y entonces a América,
los abogados se lucharon,
y tomaron un caso de libertad.
Para un barco se llama Amistad,
todos los malhechos son,
la gente Mende querían justicia,
y tomaron parte por el mundo.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
I don't want to see you hurt yourself
Because of what someone else has done
All of them will get what they deserve
When the Lord's Judgement Day comes
Can't you see you're beautiful
Please don't let them think they've won
Please put down the knife
And let your days of cutting be done
You have a great guy who loves you
And I don't just mean the one above
I bet he treats you like a princess
And showers you with all of his love
So come on princess, don't cry
Please wipe away those tears
And stop repressing your feelings
Which have built up through the years
Hold your head high
And don't drop it down
Because no one will know you are a princess
With a falling crown
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
These are the teaching of a peaceful warrior
Today, I saw three children burn, six buildings fall and nine families cry as twelve people died.
But **** it!
I’m western,
It’s all cool.
I’ve got drinkable water,
I’ve got central heating ,
I’ve got a National Health Service,
And an education from a proper school…
Regardless of the fact that I arsed about and played the fool.
I’ve got a sorted life.
And the most I have to worry about is an unloved wife,
Or monotonous conversations about other people’s strife.
But maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m repressing the depressing parts of my day?
Maybe I should open up to the possibility that I am after all human and that it’s a part of our humanity not to like my next-door neighbour just 'cause he smiles funny?
But I guess that’s what we do.
We stigmatise, bastardise and anyone who doesn’t match up in our eyes.
So why don’t we stop?
Why can’t we feel safe from the cops?
Why can’t we trust the government to protect our jobs?
I think I know why…
‘Cause it’s a fake system,
Built on the belief that we’re all equal.
Well…
Some more than others.
And if you’re more well off then them,
Then **** your brothers!
So let’s start a revolution.
Let’s cut down pollution both environmentally and mentally,
Let’s free the oppressed and resolve this mess,
Let’s finally get off our chest the injustices of our generation and reform this nation based on equality, sustainability and chivalry.
Not bigotry, frivolity and humility.
And what of the military?
We make of them what you will,
But someone who volunteers to ****
Is either messed in the head or run out of thrills.
But think of it this way,
A workforce of a hundred thousand strong,
Who may not be aware of what they’ve done,
Can transform this world both homeland and foreign.
Commit our military to sustainability.
If they want to serve their country then go build wind farms and H E Ps in plenty.
Still I know what your thinking,
None of this is realistic.
Especially now the economy’s sick.
And whomever we vote… We’re governed by ******
So let’s turn over this government,
Let’s have a proper – civil – war.
But instead of roundheads and sabres,
We’ll strike and protest across cities and acres.
‘Cause the rich and powerful have no sway,
When the people who generate their wealth, get in their way.
But enough of my rants… what’s your say?
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
Of course, you have never considered yourself to be edible! You are probably the most valid being in that tree; not a single one of those thousands feel it like you do. And why do you feel pleased at them? Is it uncontrollable attraction or perhaps profound admiration?
You don’t understand how this vast community shields you, enabling you to pursue your purpose.
Eating, breeding and avoiding inevitabilities. Do you even belief in death? Usually, it’s sudden in the moment when terror paralyzes you. And what does one feel at that moment; Fear, regret? Rarely peace.
Perverted isn't it? How grief will consume them when you do not return home. Will they search for you periodically? Before continuing to eat, breed and avoid being eaten; repressing their deep sadness forever. What can one do but slowly decay?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
Why- I’ve been thinking a lot lately
a surprising notion for someone as vapid as I am, I know
but the sentiment still remains
thought- it has been happening
and I’ve come to the grand conclusion
I make a horrible poet
no teenage angst, no head over heel love
a surprising lack of passion for a girl my age
sixteen is supposed to be my prime emotional state
so why do I feel so empty
Imagine your excitement- Easter Morning- 2006
basket brimming with gelatinous ooze and future cavities
when you see it there
cradled in between the silky green plastic strings
Mega Jumbo Chocolate Easter Bunny
your little heart beats faster, faster, faster
until you take a bite
and dread is the only thing that takes place
of that once so familiar savory sweetness
hollow- the bunny is hollow
It’s nothing more than a disappointment really
to look up at the stars and just see stars
to smell the crisp turning of autumn in the air
to watch the inch worm dance despite the distance
to wonder upon the cute boy across the room
and feel nothing
Maybe I’m thinking too much
Maybe I’m just repressing that deep down hatred of myself
that society seems so keen on me having
Maybe I don’t want to be a poet
Maybe I want to be a poem
Yes, I want to be a poem
dripping in catharsis
melting to the very point of emotional vulnerability
tearing away the mask you hide behind
yes, I want to be that metaphorical nonsense you call art
I want to be the words you bravely hide behind
to tell your story like no other medium can
I want to feel the daggers in my sides
and I want to fly to the moon
I want to be emotion
I want to be real
I want to be a poem
but that’s just a little too nonsensical, isn’t it?
dream big, stay small, hope’s how you grow them all
but hope isn’t happiness, is it?
hope isn’t real, is it?
hope is a vapid emotion
perfect for a girl like me
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC