"usable" poems
In the dark of night, in the middle of a storm
A dish falls, shatters
A shriek tears the relative silence
Pale pink blood blossoms in the water
While rich red blood wells up in the hand
Tears falling like a blinding waterfall
Stabs and throbs of aching stinging searing pain
Blood and pain and tears fill the mind
A flash of white tissue beneath the torrents of red
Panting sobs and hyperventilation
Panicking as victim is rushed to the ER
Mother tries to comfort daughter with story of healed,
Previously lacerated toes
Two words blurted between gasps of pain: NOT HELPING
Arrive to an empty lobby, excepting a nurse and receptionist
Focus on nothing, only the hand
The possible tendon torn, the skin shredded, the blood spilt
Dishtowel now soaking red irony fluid instead of clear soapy
The story repeated 6, 7, 8 times
A nurse asks if I smoke or drink
A radiologist asks if there is any chance for pregnancy
And for a moment I am shocked out of my pain into pondering
The corruption of the modern generations,
Such that I am asked these questions
Any friend of mine would quickly tell that
No, I'm not that kind of teenager... but how many are?
Then I am whisked from the x-ray room
Off for stitches, they say my tendon is cut
That I need stitches
The fingers no longer gush, but that triviality is soon remedied
A doctor probes the wound for shards
Nurse flushes it clean with chlorohexadine
Both renew the flow
Doctor returns, stitches both fingers and chats away
Grand tally of five stitches, a splint, blankets of guaze,
And a roll of medical tape
Prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, both given
A scoffing glance, but instructions are followed
Forbidden from any activity with the right hand by my mother
I struggle even to write, simple chores soon a nuisance
First time the splint and stitches are gone,
Doctor number two declares my hand usable
First time the little finger bends, the half healed skin splits
So all for a plate, a hand was rendered more useless
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
Standing in this place,
Where you tells us nothing that is going on.
We fear the worst,
Only because you wont tell us better.
You take us away from our land,
To a place I never knew.
You tell us nothing that is going on,
And you treat us as though we are not human.
You tell us we are moving,
and whip us until we move.
"form a line" you tell us.
We fear your guns, so we do.
You take us to the water.
The same water that brings us joy,
Now will bring us nothing but fear,
and hatred.
You whip the ones who don't go,
And Yell at the ones who do.
You hurt our kind,
Like you have nothing but sin.
Slowly the line starts to move,
And I hear nothing but the clang of mettle,
And the cries of my kind.
We fear what will happen next.
I get to the place,
where the white man stays.
I try not to look him in the eyes,
Because all I will see is sin.
You put your cold grasp,
From something I do not know,
Around my wrists and ankle,
But worst, around my neck.
My man fears you aliens,
so we do what your guns say.
We are not to be feared,
Yet you show us nothing but sin.
All of my men,
are joined by your cold hard chains.
The ones who don't move ,
get pulled by the rest.
The whippings become more,
And my people find it hard to stand.
You tell us you need us,
But show us nothing but sin.
We get on the big beast ,
The one only white man knows.
You shove us down the stairs,
And crowed us in.
We are close.
Too close.
Man and woman and child,
Brought together by sin.
the night finally comes,
And I feel peace again.
But only until the morning sun shines,
And brings death with it.
17 of my fellow men,
Brought out my you aliens.
Its only the second day,
What will the next bring?
The hunger in our belies gets stronger,
as you feast upon your joy.
The days food is not much
But rice and ***** water.
As we start to lose count of the day,
We lose count of so many other things
Death, **** fear, mice, whipping,
And sin.
My man can not talk about there fears,
For the white man will listen.
The only thing we can do,
Is make our own language.
Some hope for death,
For by death our souls can fly free.
By death we can return home,
But our families don't even have our bones to remember us by.
Our women and children are used as objects,
Objects of the white mans will.
To show no respect to,
And release your sin upon.
We are brought to stable land,
Of which we have never seen.
You brake us into groups,
and show us no respect.
Only half of my men make it there,
And most of them are not well.
We are shoved around,
And most of do not stay on out feet for long.
The ones you deem 'Usable'
go on to the homes of the white man.
We are forced to work,
for the man of the sin.
We get nothing from this,
and very little food.
We bring you your growth,
While ours is held back.
We are the worker,
we are the barer of life.
You are the owner.
YOU are the sin.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
Environmental advice
from a re-purposed hag:
Stop driving cars.
Use a re-usable bag.
Cook dinner at home.
Adopt children, not pets.
Don't use plastic cups.
Don't eat tuna caught with nets.
Don't toss out food--
it becomes methane gas.
Stop shopping for clothes;
give consumerism a pass.
Wear natural fabrics.
Turn off extra lights.
Use solar cells.
Live the days and sleep the nights.
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 11:14 AM UTC
Speaking is an art
words like paint
we smear and spread out our ideas onto canvas
If you paint too fast-
**** it
you might make a mistake
Did you know paint can expire?
you think come one, paint?
paint can't go bad!
then you try and use it and its separated and chunky
and boom
your whole piece is ruined.
Words can expire too.
did you know that?
phrases and metaphors age turn ugly and contaminating just like the paint
they might have been usable once, but now
you'd better get some new words.
Like, when referring to someone who uses a wheelchair
people don't say they're crippled.
because that word has expired!
The same way simpleton was used to
refer to someone with intellectual disabilities
was is the key word there.
please for the love of god don't call anyone a simpleton
Lunatic was once used to refer to people with psychiatric disabilities
don't say the teacher who gave you homework on a Friday is a lunatic!
******** was used to refer to people with intellectual disabilities
but now you should NOT call anyone or anything ********
because it is inappropriate and insulting
This isn't about taking away your words
it's about what you are taking away from people with disabilities
when you use language like that.
what you are stripping away from people
when you decide to use a word like
*******
gimp
deformed
disfigured
Freak
insane
lame
******
*****
spaz
stupid
whacko
Knock it off!
when you decide to use those words
it takes away from anyone who has a disability
or anyone who every will.
Use a different word
use swear words
find a thesaurus.
Get some new **** paint
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Art is food for the heart and like food it is often hard to find.
It might come from a source that is renewable,
yet how many have forgotten that the brain is even usable.
The inspiration we seek comes from inside our own mind
where the fairies wait, having fed on our own experiences, wishing to unwind.
But as full as they may be, one can clearly see
that they cannot make art till they jump on our heart in hope of making it start.
They first have to tickle it with their little feet
before it can even begin to produce an audible beat.
Maybe giving an idea for a visual treat or a literary feat.
These fairies each come from different locations
as imagination is not limited by any dimensions.
In the world of creation, pain has long been a mighty fairy-nation,
the muse of separation, the dictator of desperation,
the soul's frozen animation, a generous, fugly frog of inspiration.
So next time you feel blue, channel that blue stream into a pen
and you may start to feel better again. Blow a kiss to that frog,
clearing the misty lake from fog. There is no call for divination,
simply let the frog jump in celebration all over your pond(ering)'s stagnation
and it will stir the waters in its elation.
Embracing pain not only does wonders for creation,
it also helps dull that cruel yet just sensation.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
Some poems are hard, I just don’t know what to write
the words stick in the back of my head
and refuse to form sentences and lines.
I sit and wait and hope for the words but
they are lost in the jumble that is my thoughts
like a tangled ball of yarn I have to untangle it piece by piece
and hope it is usable and not just a pile of ruined thoughts.
it reminds me of knitting a sweater
stitch by stitch, word by word, it comes together
and after work and some time it makes
a beautiful thing to be worn and showed off,
but sometimes it fails and falls apart
it unravels in my hands and the hard work
that I have put my love into is lost
it crumbles like a cliff into the sea
making waves that crash and wreck my body
leaving it helpless and crumpled
like the ball of paper I threw on the floor.
a small white ball on a grey floor,
the beauty of it hits me and I find my inspiration
it’s something simple but isn’t all beauty simple?
the curl of hair on a lover stretched out like a cat in the sun
moonlight floating through the window
falling on a pale white limb so much like the paper
with scribbles and crossed out lines
the paper is beautiful, damaged yes
but beautiful none the less, like a body
with curves and waves and endings and beginnings
scars and stretch marks pail in the dark
shining like tears on the cheek of a girl who lost
lost a parent, or a love, or lost the part of her
that cried “you are beautiful
“you are loved, it’s okay not to be okay
“as long as you rise up again and what ever
you do, do not forget who you are”
it is beauty plain and simple
and as you read my piece of paper
with the lost poem of the girl who fell apart you’ll see
its simple the floor is the sky and the word are stars
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
'Good evening', as I come through the door
shutting out the noise and dirt that now gathers at my welcome mat
where I wipe my shoes and leave my feet.
Hanging my head on the hat stand I am home,
today's news is getting older in the paper under my arm,
print leaves it's imprint on my white starched
office shirt.
In the kitchen there are dead animals in the oven,
cooking amongst things from the ground,
bubbling and boiling,
mother natures bounty bought from sterile supermarkets.
Fresh air is packaged in re-usable cans
re-cycled, made into planes that fly over great oceans
and mountain ranges, deserts,
where Bedouin tents blow in the breeze.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
who watches the watchmen
or something to that effect
its an important thought
they keep an eye on us
but who watches them
are they their own check
a very ab-usable system
if they can't watch themselves
we get more
watchers to watch the watchmen
but that same problem pops up
their overseers get corrupt
so we must watch them
but you know you can't trust us.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
You have a gift,
my lovely monster.
I get to own you in the dead hours of night,
all mine and rough and ravenous for pounding blood
and heated touches.
Words are putty in your claws,
my lovely shadow, chasing my body, so close.
They are malleable, leaky,
drizzling sweetness and love in sugary promises.
They crack apart when I reach to see if they are real.
Days are completed journeys, changing sides of your heart,
my lovely animal.
Softened heart melting in my fingers, wrapping my body one day
and bruised and brittle red glass leaving blood marks
painting crude patterns and ruptured brutal bursts on beaten skin.
She just doesn’t know how beautiful she is…
Through anything, I need to hear it, I need to be here…
You make me feel like I never have before…
I love you and I need you right now…
My body wants to wrap around you, when the shadows return
to rest along my lonely cold walls.
I devour your words, hungry and lustful, tempting,
the juice and hope of them leaves gloss on my lips.
I remind myself dazed and sleepily to lock your words in today’s box.
They can be shelved; raised and at once forgotten among the other
treasures you give me.
Each day is a new box my dearest monster.
I cradle and store your words like delicate porcelain,
only usable for one single day.
Only clean for one slim moment.
Right now I curl beneath you,
the smell of you stains my skin and littered clothes.
You breathe on me.
Your words are crashing noise; they ring and slice the air,
my head splits and my eyes weep salty remnants of your words.
Cleansed and rid of the filth you breathe into them,
your tongue that slithers through my parted lips, scorching my throat.
Your hands cold and threatening,
I can taste the dusty feelings you shed, like dead skin
flaking away its layers.
The words you mouth just spread ash around me, circles my body
like a dead hearth.
You never meant them.
They cover the frightening parts of you I can finally see-
Rip.
Seams exposed and blood making its slow passage to the floor.
I feel its sticky pool beneath me, my back lies wet and limp in your hand.
A husk bleeding out.
Lead me on and take what’s yours.
My heart. It hurts. It shrivels in the wake of your betrayal.
Stung and stopped,
you crawl off your prey.
Leaving it to be scavenged in the dark to come.
My lovely monster.
Come back.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
Jerry Singing at his Lathe
Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.
Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.
Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.
Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.
Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.
July, 2006
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
I appreciate the way things fall together. However, most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.
Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?
We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.
We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things, it didn’t work out and they needed to leave left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. I went straight.
About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
Hungry am I to be used by you here.
Hungry am I for your Healing touch.
Hungry am I , to become your voice.
To speak your Love and Truths here.
To fully show your Unconditional Love.
Hungry to reveal you through my Actions.
To reveal your Salvation, through my Actions.
To become usable everywhere that I stand.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
Just as eating is the test of pudding, we can't really do anything with our deliberately inward-flowing, draughty tears. Our residual, mushy, pathetic life is divided into three hundred and sixty-five tiny particles not only by Time or the calendar - but every day has that cheesy, almost shameful story to the core, according to which: we should adjust better to our alternate endings. Love ready to unfold would draw in vain increased comfort if there were no roots, seeds-germs left from which the whole emotion would sprout; why does the delicious roasted coffee, which we brew in the dim light of dawn, also have the smell of burnt *****
Because we must naturally inhabit the accumulations of lasting annoyances, so that later they can't say about us: "Well! This was also that kind of person!" As if the spiritual-physical connection had already - in many cases - finally come to an end, i.e. a person must always compromise with himself first and foremost, and bargain at the same time.
He often stumbles or gets lost in flooded jars if he is not paying enough attention, and because sooner or later the body also stretches itself towards the horizon of Nothing. The goals and planned ideas seem to testify to conscious helplessness; why should the disillusionment nicknamed permanent be skinned when there is still usable emotion there?! A state of voluntary death also outlines the order of the living, where they can go. From inside, the World already seems like a torn Band-Aid.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:15 AM UTC
I think what’s happened here is miscommunication
Or something of the sort
A failure to compromise, or a lit fuse too short
Some simple, unavoidable misunderstanding
Of something hardly usable
That can’t be super-glued or monkey glued
Or any type of glued
Just listen: I’m not supposed to be here
I left so long ago
That place where what you think matters
That place where I listen for your words
We’re non-incommunicado, just in the reverse
Sure I could have said it clearer
But the phrase “it’s over” is overused and terse
I prefer my way, my place
Where I whisper “I forgive you”
Even though neither one of us is hurt
Except me
Where I’m hurt, and it matters
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
The minimalism of
a bobby pin—only
holding what it
can—but no woman
will underrate its
steely arms.
Let me be a
bobby pin in
the hand of
God—holding
up the drooping
soul of a friend.
Small, but
usable—never
worthless, always
given purpose.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
I appreciate the way things fall together, however most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.
Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?
We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.
We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things it didn’t work out and they needed to head left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. But I needed to keep going.
About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
I appreciate the way things fall together, however most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.
Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?
We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.
We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things it didn’t work out and they needed to head left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. But I needed to keep going.
About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:00 AM UTC
how easily an infantile and innocent a tourist attraction can gain momentum of an iceberg process of revealing unsaid yet easily thought out things.
i'm like a jan matejko harlequin -
the stańczyk gloomed
over the loss of smoleńsk,
the stańczyk - as if a mongolian presence -
the lajkonik of st. mary's noon trumpet
call where a mongolian arrow
pierced the musician's throat...
a big ben of the east a radio reprimand
of beep beep beep...
weeping over england
in the night sitting on a wooden stump
with sunglasses...
oh woe... oh woe! may my heart serve as
both sword and shield, O england!
i am but like the matejko harlequin
(the stańczyk), i am but the memory of
mongols in europe (the lajkonik)...
may i simply record the fates of nations,
and merely acknowledge
my own dearly departed wishing a return
to and severing friendships grasped
in this my so called home lost;
why the abortion of my thought to reclaim
high school education in a
home without allowable citizenship,
and why my necessitating to keep the homage
tongue of birth
usable on the ready...
half of europe disappeared with post-colonialism
and lack of empire building!
so bloodied and monochromatic!
oh but i had nothing to do with it,
i simply woke into this nightmare!
now i'm accused for transgressing social rubrics!
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
With my growth I leave behind a shell.
A casing of the world I used to thrive in.
The past is no longer inhabitable, but still usable.
I use my memories as a flotation device in the abyss that is recurring.
I rise above my past and transcend into the new crevice that is my present.
I cannot change the past as it is set in bone.
But I can make my future fit me.
I can form my own protection
layer by layer
until all my supplies of DNA paper Mache will no longer stick.
Their glue dried up, exhausted by the length of time I've spent on earth, oppressed by the pressure of the tumulting, black sea.
Waves may break on me.
My knowledge of living my shield against depression, anxiety.
My bone hard shield saves me.
I am the chambered nautilus. I am awake.
But dream I will of times beyond 36.
What lies ahead may only hurt me on the edge because to the core my skeleton is steady.
Its weight growing heavy
Can be lifted with my spirits as if before a feast.
And dragged down to the ocean floor when realized I'm a beast.
No princess in her castle, nor farm boy in his barn
Unique to who I am, and in my niche I fit.
I may blow up.
And fall down.
And spurt salty tears.
You'd never know, my loves, my dreams, my fears.
Upon first glance I am the epitome of my life.
Upon second, as confusing.
Upon third, as painful and funny.
And as irrelevant to others as I am important to myself.
Another rock in the ocean. Another pebble. Another pearl.
Not found
Not searched for
Not hidden.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
What did the poet say?
Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed,
Yet such a sentiment is wrong, deeply and distressingly so,
For the nectar of success proves most enticing
To those whom Dame Fortune
Has coquettishly extended her index finger
And, twirling it ever so slightly in the air,
Has let him taste (for the briefest of moments, mind you) the tip,
A momentary sensation in the merest fragment of time,
But the sweetness, the utterly transcendent joy
Contained in that single frame in the long movie of one’s life,
Becomes not a cherished memory
But an unfathomable grail which engulfs all other desire,
Supplanting any semblance of prudence or reason
Until its recipient is no more than a small boy
Who, forsaking all other toys, hurdles bicycles and baseball bats
In the absurd pursuit of a runaway kite
Which has wholly bewitched him
By the alluring pull of the string,
The mad and joyous dance against an endless field of blue.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
**Keep holding on to the light.
It never fully leaves when the moon rises.
But be aware of the shadows.
There’s a whole other world inside of them.
They drag you down and down.
Until you hit the bottom of your soul.
It’s cold and dark, an unknown existence.
You can never leave, it’s too late.
Stay like the weak wreck you are.
You’re not even trying to escape.
Do you give up that easy?
You’re a mess, an emotional mess.
Stop crying, it won’t help.
Stop shouting after your consciousness.
Free your soul from the fear.
Help, instead of being trapped inside of yourself.
Purify the darkness, let the moon rise once again.
Letting the light help you live.
But there’s a risk, the shadows.
They’re waiting, they’re hungry for a pathetic prey like you.**
*Stop keeping the circle of time in your life.
Leave it alone, before you fall into a pit of misery.
It’s dark down there, just like your soul.
It’s more lethal than ever; with walls painted with despair.*
**Eyes straining in the dark, searching after something usable.
Stay sane, if you can keep up with the twisted voices.
Don’t let them drag you deeper down.
Don’t let them manipulate you once again
A million worlds in one.
They’re all inside of me.
Screams filling my lungs, it’s ringing in my ears.
They’re controlling me from my blind side.
Keep up with the running tears,
The pain has gotten deeper.
The hatred is using me.
The fear is haunting me forever.
There’s a hole in my heart.
The moon’s shining through my emptiness.
It’s making me sleepy, I see them.
It’s the shadows, they’re gonna get me.
I woke up by the river; mirroring the stars.
The moon saved me once again on this summer night.
The shadows dragged me here, they wanted to drown me in dreadfulness.
They’re what I fear the most; my Summer Nightmares.**
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
Ignore the demons.
Remember that you did well,
Tell the demons to shut up.
You'rekayyou'reokayyou'reokay
Don't let anyone see you like this.
Plaster that smile
Be "happy."
Let the tears and blood fall in the showers
Let the freezing water mix with your warm tears,
Let the demons out of their cage.
Cause I'm not okay, I promise.
You couldve done better. Put more effort.
Stay up late. Study more.
Do so much more...
You're an idiot how did you even get into one of the schools?
Hah must have been a pity letter.
I ****
I should've done better.
I could've done better.
That school? Seriously?
What are you, stupid?
Why, in fact I am.
My brain is mush and I didn't try hard enough to mold that stupid piece of **** into something comprehendable and usable.
Ishouldhaveishouldhaveishouldhave
****
You are terrible and unusuable,
Nothing to those school,
Youre a ******* stupid ******** who is nothing.
Nothing worth looking at or inviting to a school.
A lil piece of ****
Go join the other pieces of **** over there,
Yeah?
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
I feel as if a part of me has been ripped apart,
Taken for granted and cast to the sea,
Left behind and taken from me,
Because I have these dreams,
And maybe I shouldn’t, but my dreams are as big as me,
They overtake me and make me delusional,
But never once did I ask them whether they were usable,
Never once did I open my mouth to see whether I could move on within their premises.
But once I bolted them and tied them to my heart,
My hands flew on that shutter, and that shutter tore me apart,
But there are more than dreams out there and today I am faced with reality
With the reality that this world is not kind and nothing is free,
And when be it the most, dreams go to die as survival is key.
- m.c.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC