people romanticize self-harm
as if it's nothing special
and really, no one is alarmed
everyone's stopped being careful

it's not just about the blood
it really eats your heart out
the suffering makes your head flood
and everything seems so loud

you can't just seek pitiful attention
saying "oh, look, i'm depressed"
you really do deserve a lecture
because the real deal would say so much less

cutting ruins your body
it also pierces your soul
you seek a friend or just anybody
but you always end up alone

the cup of coffee in the morning
is the only thing keeping you alive
the rest of the time you're crying
trying to get thoughts out of your mind

you've got a stash of blades
hiding under your bed
today your sister got engaged
and you might end up dead

you try to down twenty pills
with a chug of burning *****
maybe then you'd see flowery hills
but it's just likely to cause you trauma

you stare at your own blank wall
trying to find a slimmer of hope
and nobody's there to watch you fall
as you exit this life with some dope

question: do we lose ourselves in the midst of romanticizing or do we unravel our true selves.

response: do we lose who we are in the idealistic view of our romantic quests or do we unveil a trait of ourselves that has been there all along? hiding behind the perfect life you saw yourself having before your heart shattered in little tiny pieces when your utopian view took on another perspective. recognizing yourself in a dark state that was clouded by your 'cherry-kissed' outlook on love, you see who you really are. the good, the bad, and the ugly transformed into the hopeless romantic who has only experienced their first heartbreak to then examine every characteristic of themselves and determine if they were 'in the wrong'. your romantic expectations turning you into someone you're not is the controversial topic. but what if it was just the romanticizing that grounded you and brought you back to reality? what if it was the romanticizing that expressed your honest self? what if it were for all of the childhood fantasies and teenage dreams that helped you realize who you want to be with? what if it were for all of the traumatic experiences and unfulfilled relationships  that helped you realize the person you truly are.
-mxy

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

I was going to write you something
that embodied our love, some
infinitesimal prose about
your name click-clacking off of
my tongue or your eyes
when you're smiling.

I was going to answer all of
the questions that are silently ticking
inside your mind and scrawl
perfect prepositions across the page
so that your hands might
falter as they traced the corners.

I wanted to tell you about
the tug of your presence or
the way that your fingerprints
feel against mine,

but I'm writing this instead,
listing off the beauty that I feel
seeping into my skin and
it doesn't really make sense
but that's just the way it falls
onto the paper, bit by bit.
sad things, serenade me.

I'm only romanticizing
the madness of it all.
I never asked to be
a ******* poet.

I’ve never found charm in speaking
words that you don’t mean
or falling over sentences
struggling with broken speech
the same way that I have never found home
in the body I call mine
that internal war I fight
between my heart and between my mind.

The world will never understand
why I tremble in daily conversation
I cause confusion in my thoughts
skipping over words in trepidation
But miscommunication then turns to judgement
without a second glance
and your lack of hesitation destroys me
tracing it’s steps into my one woman war

Well isn’t that just like your fears,
setting you up for failure?

I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs-  the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.

I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.

I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.

I’m staying here.

TELL THE MOON SHE’S BEAUTIFUL every time you see her:
in the too-early mornings when the sun is starting to rise,
in the late afternoons when she’s settling in the clear sky.
Tell the moon she’s beautiful, that she’s more than just a reflection of the sun’s light.
Tell the moon she’s beautiful even when she is bathed
in the red bloodstone shine of starry brethren.
Tell her she is beautiful even when she hides herself in phases.
Notice when she’s gone.
Look at the constellations and tell her that you miss her. She’ll hear it anyway.
Pepper her with compliments to lure her back to her full glory.
Howl with the wolves in your adoration.
Has she made you nocturnal?
How late do you stay up staring?
Is she brighter than any star in your sky?
Tell the moon that she is beautiful—
tell her how she lights up your nightlife.
Tell the moon that she is beautiful.

Tell the earth that she deserves better—
that she and the moon are beautiful,
too beautiful for your ink-stained fingertips.
Tell the earth that she is stunning,
from her deepest oceans and across every mountain.
When you tell the moon that she’s beautiful, sign each love letter with Mother Nature’s signature.
Seal the envelope with kisses of sun rays,
and send your words up to the sky on the backs of meteors.
Tell the universe
that she
is beautiful.

romanticize our problems
until they are colored in pink and purple hues
baby blue mornings filled with you
fantasize our perfect life together
what if reality is the fake
coffee, music, and solitude can be found
any Saturday safely in your arms
awoken by kisses soft and gentle
until clothes end up getting lost somewhere
dancing around the living room
in our pajamas, without masks on
I wish this was still true
but this is not reality, this is not truth
this is me romanticizing past loving
like dreaming of Paris in the rain

Stop romanticizing the people who hurt you
Don't compare them to a dead flower
Or a sunset
Talk about how they erupted like a volcano
Talk about how they made you fall like a tree
They are storm clouds
Bad habits
Don't talk about the way they chose to love you
Talk about how they spoke when they were angry
Describe their impatience
Don't use a metaphor to illustrate the curves of their smiles
The beauty of their eyes
Talk about the shape of their fists
The noise behind the slamming doors
Don't act like you were the problem and all they did was try and find a solution
You are not a math problem
You are an abstract painting
And they never took the time to fully look at you
Let alone appreciate all you had to offer
Let's not talk about what you might have done wrong
Let's talk about how they reacted
Why do we have to punish ourselves because someone else didn't know how to love us
Why do we break a part our way of thinking to match someone else's thought process
We are all tiny planets
Small universes
Don't cover up your own beauty and wonder just because someone wasn't prepared
Shine the way you want to
Let's talk about that

i've spent my whole life
searching for an escape route
that has never appeared
at the fondest of times
but ******* it, i
will paint that sign myself,
in the rusted blood seeping
from my heart,
if it means this will end

Sad isn’t pretty.
Sorrow is beauty
And depression has its allure.
Grief is engaging.
I am not in love with the idea of sad
But I believe there is a morbid
Beauty that some moths
Emerge from their cocoons
With no mouth.
Like the girl you see,
“improving herself”
Digging herself a deeper hole.
Sad is boring,
Misery is enchanting.

*(r.e.)

1.** You can't be good at everything.
2. Someone will always care for humanity, when everyone else have given up.
3. Not everyone will love you.
4. Words can feel like daggers.
5. Romanticizing pain won't make it hurt any less.
6. Hating your father won't change him.
7. You're worth more than just a ****** being.
8. Perfection is an unreachable goal.
9. Not everyone is out to get you.
10. Trusting someone doesn't mean there's a lower risk of them leaving you.

Freedom,
Like the rain, it washes all away
Past memories, horrors - everything is rinsed away; relief remains.
It feels like sand between your toes,
Leaving you lost in your impulsive throes.

Freedom,
In her dissolving smiles,
Her mischievous flirts,
Her sweet small skirts...

You've missed her for so long...

The touch of her spine,
The caress of her thighs,
The weightless good byes--

Ah! Freedom, *she smells like rain...

Why do we romanticize suicide?
Because it's not something that should be romanticized
Because when you read poems
They make it sound like such a peaceful way to go
Just swallow a few pills, it'll be like falling asleep
Just slip down in the bath, just think.  It'll last for eternity
I mean it sounds so calming, right?
And that's not right
And it defenitley isn't helping
It isn't helping the kids who are suicidal&self-harming;&depressed;
When they get on the internet,
the place they use as an escape,
and that's what they see
It sure didn't help me
So why do we do that?
Why do we make it sound so heavenly?
Because it's not!
It's blood on the bathroom floor forming around your emotionless face
It's puking in the toilet because you swallowed the whole medicine cabinet
It's mascara steining your cheeks because you've been crying for hours
It's your mom pounding on the door screaming for you to unlock it
It's your little brother visiting you because your not allowed home yet
Now does it sound pretty?
No, because suicide is not pretty

"You're really good at poetry!"

*"ha, I'm good at romanticizing toxic situations"

there is nothing i love more
than being
a girl
i love the way i speak,
with slang only teenage girls use
i love wearing dainty clothes,
feeling beautiful wearing them
i love collecting,
knick-knacks, records, crystals
above all
i love
the wonder of girlhood
romanticizing my life
perceiving my monotonous existence,
as a life worth writing about

In every battle, it is impossible to never have a speech. I have noticed that in watching movies. Like in Independence day, the President delivered a speech to the U.S Fighter Pilots before the battle. “ Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world.”, yeah that’s how it goes. Or like King Aragorn’s battle speech at the black gate in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, “Hold your ground! Hold your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers”, he said. And it can even be a simple “May the force be with us” before battling with the galactic empire. And you cannot only see that in movies, there are speeches in real life which also inspired people to fight, like Patrick Henry’s Give me Liberty or Give me death, Winston Churchill’s We Shall Never Surrender, and our battles in our lives. Everyone will always encounter battles in their lives, and maybe we also had speeches for ourselves, created by us, for us, to continue fighting. And they say having a mental illness also means undergoing a battle. Many battles, and one of them, is a battle against the stigma. A battle to end the stigma of mental health. And now I will deliver my speech, to everyone of you, this is my battle speech, telling you to stop romanticizing them.


Poems **** once said that depression is a strange, yet comforting feeling. Comforting feeling, when you feel absolutely terrible, that even eating ice cream and watching your favourite movie can’t do anything to make you feel better. And when they ask you what’s wrong, the worse part is you don’t know. When you’re all alone, and no one is there for you, so you just feel like your inner demons are hugging you and telling you to just end everything. It’s when people tell you that happiness is a choice, it’s like a multiple choice exam, in which you just choose the best answer, but why does it seem to me that the choices I got were nothing compared to the best, and where is happiness? It’s none of the above. There is nothing comforting, nothing artistic, nothing beautiful about depression. It is not an artsy tumblr poem, it’s not an aesthetic, it’s not something you wish you could have,  depression is a total *******!


A twitter account said that anxiety is just another form of excitement. So does it mean that when I have panic attacks, I am just excited? When I avoid everyday situations, when I can’t get out of my house, when I can’t even get out of my bed, because all of those things cause me anxiety. When I expect the worst in everything that I do and it will ruin the hell out of me. When I’m in a job interview, and I suddenly have my panic attack. When I feel that in every place I will go to, I will experience danger and catastrophe. So you see, that anxiety is not another form of excitement, it is not a trend, it’s a difficult thing to have, it's experiencing chaos everyday in your life and who would want that?


Why do we think that having mental illnesses are wonderful? Why do we wish to have them when there are people suffering? Why are we belittling them, telling them they’re crazy, that it’s all in your mind, but can’t you see, that having chaos inside my mind is the most difficult thing you could ever have. Why do we think they’re weak, when they are fighting battles everyday and they never give up. Why do we think that people with mental illness are just asking for attention when they are asking for help because that’s the thing they need? Imagine that the demons inside of you gave you a gift that you didn’t want, and you can’t seem to destroy it, to leave it, because you think your demons have won. But they didn’t, and they will never. And we are fighting with you, we are with you.


In every battle, there will always be the ones who win. The ones who will achieve the greatest feat, happiness and contentment. But they say, that this battle against the stigma, is a never ending war. However, have you all forgotten who we are? If this is a never ending war, then we are the  fighters.  And we will never ever stop fighting.


*(k.b)

I think there is a special beauty in being able to romanticize love.
Its all up in here, in my mind.
There is a spectrum of thoughts in my imagination.
Sometimes my love can be one sided and it's safe to say that i like that more.
The part where you get to wonder and the excitement that follows.
I wonder a lot of things about you.
About how do you look like when you laugh.
Do you have an ugly laugh or are you a shy laugher.
Sometimes i make up moments in my mind,
More than often in those moments, time freezes and we make our own little infinity.
Sometimes i want to say things to you, and i wonder what you will say back.
I wonder if you will say what i wanna hear.
I like the wondering part.
I like to think.
I wonder how it would feel to hold your hands.

When I heard the word romanticized
I questioned everything
I wondered if we were less then what I thought
Did I break my own heart?

What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it  
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you

Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like

My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.

Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b

Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow

Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds

I always said you felt like home
not like the home i grew up in of course

not like the one where after school i found my dad
half asleep
half sober
half alive
on the couch, hating himself

i always said your eyes looked like the stars
and it was a little cliche
but the stars made me feel safe
because of the night my dad hit my mom
for the first time
And i sat on the roof and cried to them

I always said you were like my bedroom
the one i would lock myself in when i was scared
maybe thats why i locked myself in you
I wish you didnt lose the key

My mind keeps pictures of you up on its walls
                            again
                         ­         and again
I find my thoughts drifting down that river of memory
orbiting around you, like forces of gravity drawn
to the idea of us (if there even is an us)

If I could then I’d lock you outside my brain, leave you out there to rot
in the abyss, where your words couldn't penetrate me
and your lips that work like anesthesia forbidden to numb me again

I won't do you the injustice of romanticizing your imperfections
You're no nebular, you're a black hole, a gaping flaw in creation
Your eyes that held millenniums of history, now hold me no future

You made me forget what it feels to have stability
To not walk out of a room and forget why I left
You make me want to shred the skin you touched
Like a reptile, to become reborn, purified from my past.

There never were any butterflies in your stomach, only parasites
but you fed them to me readily like a disease

So no, I won’t dedicate you another love poem
                 no I want (deserve) better
This isn't what love should be
I’ll write you a poem where the words convulse on the page
and you’ll forget to read it (you always do)

I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.

*******, dad.
*******, Fox News.
*******, Indiana.

None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****.
Jesus Christ.

There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****.
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?

Everyone can **** my ****.

To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.

Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.

******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
*******.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******.

I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.

Stalin was a ****.

Most writers are *****.
Most of them ****.
I don't care.

For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ******* knife.

Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.

Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.

I fell in love with her persona
but not the person she really was
I fell in love with the idea
of her and I become us
but reality set in
and I was never going to win
the heart I truly desired
not because I was rejected
but because I had perfected
the persona of the girl I admired

I make myself stop writing of you
present tense
because if you aren't here
I find
I am romanticizing a confused memory
past tense
and you never were that great
or strong enough
to pull me out of
this sinking ship
perfect tense
I didn't think that a lover
could do anything except
but even jesus turned tables
in his anger
and I've found that wanting
leads to speaking in tenses
not yet intact
so I have been waiting on
a new day
a new feel
a new touch
future tense

Look out the window, or stare at the screen
I can't tell you what any of these posts mean

Everyone wants their five seconds of fame
Social media making everyone look the same

I'm not romanticizing the way it was before
I just can't take mindless scrolling anymore

I will readily be the first to admit
I heavily romanticize the **** out of life
It’s not that I don’t separate fact from fiction
But if I can find something that is beautiful in both
Then I know I have found something truly wonderful
Give me a movie moment and, for the time being, I’ll know that I’m doing okay
I’ll know everything is going to be alright
So give me summer nights
Let us run out the doors of a pizza place past midnight and drive
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
Sticky stage makeup streaked by sticky wind
Overly gelled hair windswept into Picasso shapes
Let’s notice how the stars spin when you look directly upwards
And feel the swaying balance in your feet, as the air plays louder than the music
Hold out your arms like
Titanic
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Superman
Hooking my ribcage forward over the top of the windshield so I can let my hands explore the sky
Reaching to touch low-hanging branches that are never quite near enough
Leaning bent back against the railing
And singing mismatched lyrics to whatever song I can’t quite hear
Since I’m holding my head farther above the world than usual
Standing straight and tall and
Let’s appreciate the way the laws of physics keep us from falling but not from tipping
So we’re always just on the edge of cautious
Slightly alert
But mostly lost in the magic of being
Young and free
Past midnight on the empty streets of a small town
With fireflies spinning past like low-hanging stars
And a summer breeze intensified into enveloping all five senses
Let’s forget about responsibilities and forgive the people we’re running away from
Even if just for the moment
Give me the rush of this moonlit escape
And memories that could fit with pretty soundtracks and rolling credits
Let headlights be our guide and the radio be our leader
For one night the tears in our eyes are going to be from the sting of speed
Not the empty hours of another sleepless night
For one night we are going to reach out for a hand
And actually end up holding tight to each other as we race through the darkness
Four heartbeats and a loud engine
All drowned out by a summer night being lived as it’s meant to be lived
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
And romanticizing the ever living **** out of the movie moments in life

My idea of a party is having sand in my hair while I smell of burnt wood and midnight barbecue
Music will be the waves that crash and return and messy chords on an acoustic guitar
And I will remember when we both wished that we could go on road trips on hours like this,
And how eventually time ran short for us, so we're finally here
I want to get drunk on the moonlight while I sip on yesterday's memories
I want to talk about the good times
I will fall asleep enveloped in nature's arms and dance while the stars twinkle high above

My idea of a party are late night drives and stops at gasoline stations at unearthly hours,
Conversations that result to slurred words and cackling with the windows rolled down,
Romanticizing over the architecture of rotting wood and crumbling concrete
Books and printed words under a flashlight

My idea of a party are rolled sleeves and roadtrips away from every soul and every touch of skin,
Away from the world, except yours I will never grow tired of

n.j.

You are the one I love,
Then tell him so.
Tell Tom that you don't love him
Just LEAVE HIM

No, I cannot.
Because I love both of you!

Stop romanticizing the past either.
Its gone, I know you want to erase it
but its gone, its the past.
Just lets live together.
Please. We can do this.

*A part of the whole play

Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.

I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.

I throw away the footage, romanticizing  
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.