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Sara Jones May 2015
The first thing that you forget, when you stop talking to someone is the sound of their voice.
So I suggest with every voicemail you receive, save it.
Whether it be from your grandma or your aunt or your boyfriend
You'll miss them sooner or later if they leave you.
When It's a healthy time for you, and you miss them a lot,
You'll still have their voice.
The way they spoke, every lisp every stutter
You'll hear it in that old voicemail.

I once loved a boy.
Some know most of  the story, some only know half
But only he and I know every end and out of that year and a half.
I still have his voicemails,
but they aren't only the happy ones.
Matter of fact, he only left me a voicemail when he was angry or when he had news he couldn't keep to himself long enough.
I deleted the happy ones after we broke up.

But I didn't do it because I was angry,
I did it because I wasn't worthy.
And yet, they're still in my trash bin waiting, ready to be recovered.

Because some days, I wonder if he's happy.
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he got his GED.
And it was because of me.
Because some days I wonder if he misses me
Then I'll hear his voicemail telling me he loves me and always will

See, I have a problem: I'm a hoarder
I horde voices.
I horde the sound of laughs and cries,
I horde the angry and the happy times.
I take them all and keep them close.
And I try and keep phones for as long as I can.
Because when the phone goes,
So do the voices that I hold dear.

So darling if you wonder if I still have every old voicemail you've ever sent me the answer is clear.
If I miss you, I press my phone to my ear.

But now it's been so long that your voice scares me.
The old voicemails sit and take up my data since I'm too afraid to delete them.
That means your gone forever
And while I may have broken your heart I hope you forgive me
And I hope this voicemail makes you smile.
Sarah Sep 2013
In the dream I'm running
The beach is fogged
and every breath
Feels like I'm inhaling water,
I'm suffocating.
And I'm trying to save you.
I see your head just barley
bobbing up and down in the water
And I try to jump into the waves that have been home to me for as long as I can remember
But I'm glued to the spot.
Your head doesn't come up
And I collapse to my knees, sobbing
Because I know, that I know, that I know
I'm too late.
I wake up sweating, screaming
3:24
I roll over on instinct and open my voicemails,
It's a muscle memory now,
I've kept those voicemails since you died.
And I listen to your words
And I wonder why you did what you did
And I can almost always tell what your feeling
Your voice tells it all
The memories are there
And I cry for a little girl who thought
every family was like this
I dont know if I can forgive you
For leaving me mom-less by choice.
So as your talking lulls me to sleep
I dream again
"Don't you know, Sarah Bella, that every shell on this beach is different and unique and there are millions of them. That's a lot like people too. People come in different shapes and sizes an colors but they all share the sand, and the ocean, and the sky. So keep that in your heart forever. You always have the sky"
I laugh at my mommy cause her words don't make any sense. But I stop laughing when she pops 4 pieces of white candy in her mouth. She's not very happy when she takes her candy.
"and I'll always have the sky too. Always"
bucky Sep 2014
she told me that this is what it was like to be a firestorm,and i believed her.youre not golden sweetheart,
none of us are.we're not meant to look nice.
this is for our eyes only.dont look me in the eyes
and pretend that you dont know what i mean
take me to the cathedral pour holy water over my shivering shaking bones
build a baby grand out of my corpse,honey,its the only one ive got.
dont pretend you dont feel it too
and even if ill never be as romantic as you,at least ill try
at least i wont leave you here
gasoline on pavement,dying the only way you know how
they told me i could be anything i wanted so i turned myself into a gun,
hollow like your stomach when all youve had to eat the past three days is stale ******* bread.
dont look at me like that.
i know all of your secrets and youre the one still forgetting about my jaw,the one you broke.
i see it in your eyes.we both know how this ends
but I wont pull the trigger on heartbreak hills
not until theres more whiskey than broomsticks beating us ******
cigarette **** wrists against a concrete wall,you always were one for a metaphor werent you?
jesus,babe you look so beautiful in this light.would you let me take your picture with the old kodak we pretend doesnt exist?
im sorry if this is forward of me,but i think id like it if you dug bruises
into my throat
loving the only way you know how,and this isnt the kind of love you see in movies
cause its not really love when neither of you can stop chainsmoking for a ******* second
to look at the way the sun glints off hair at just the right time.
maybe if i had sinners hips youd kiss me,just the way i like
too much,all at once.this,you say,
this is what its like to be a firestorm.
we tell people we're just close friends,like in the way real people are close friends,
we tell people that the bruises on both our mouths are just from the red wine,silly,isnt it obvious?
the train station is too crowded.im fidgety
and the woman in the dress sitting next to me is reading a newspaper article about string theory
i wonder if it tells her about the way i sewed my mouth shut one winter
(or maybe that was you.whatever.its the same ******* thing anyway,isnt it,you say.stop ******* smiling at me like that.you know its not funny)
i wonder if she knows that the needle does not have to be very sharp to pierce the skin.
lesson one:stop pretending that youre the dragon.
lesson two:god.god.god youre ******* annoying.cant you keep your ******* mouth shut?i told you not to tell anyone,you ******* *******.if you show up outside my house again ill **** you.
dont leave someone voicemails after they leave you for the subway station. they will not reply.
this is normal.
you called me a narcissistic ***** and i think you were right but at least i think im worth something,right?at least i havent given up on my collarbones,thrown
them away like they're ******* trash.but what i mean to say is,
at least im not like you.at least i dont have a scar on my upper lip.
stop telling me that the ******* is a ******* metaphor,
this isnt a novel and im not a vampire
and last time i checked your eyes were brown,not black.youre not a monster so stop trying to be one.
the woman sitting next to me on the airplane wont stop reciting bible verses but i dont feel any more holy than i did three hours ago.
this isnt a ******* contest.you cant compete with someone to be the most ****** up,god whats wrong with you
havent you read about cain and abel
this will end the only way it possibly can
stop hanging grave markers on walls,cant you see the marks on your fingers
this isnt a ballad for a dead man and i dont mean to be condescending
but i like the way you kiss people,ten days after the time of death
and maybe ive left you too many voicemails at three in the morning
and maybe i stained your pillowcase with whiskey and secrets
but listen up,honey,you need me more than i need you
dont lie to me,you know its true
youre lying down at the bottom of the gymnasium swimming pool
and somehow youve managed to find comfort in it
dear reader:im sorry.im sorry about the mixtapes,okay,you were never supposed to find them and-and ****,ive messed everything up.bye.see you soon,
i guess.
i am feel uncomfortable when we are not about me?
em Jan 2015
I cannot listen to voicemails
Without picturing you dead
In your parents house.

I can't look at the bay
Without feeling my stomach
Drop and churn.

My heart races whenever
I hear a police car or ambulance
Drive near.

I am sorry that I cannot
See a movie or get pizza.

I have grieved you once before.

I don't think I can survive
grieving twice.
I don't remember the last time
I heard your voice
or the last time you spoke so
nice and softly to me
like you used to.
I listen to old voicemails
just to hear that voice again.
I don't know what form of torture you
would call that,
but it's like putting a drop
of water in the desert
making it long for more
but we all know water doesn't
belong in the desert.
you don't belong here
with me anymore.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
When at first it happens I want none of it. I even say no. I discard the plane tickets, the train stamps, the envelopes of money into a safety deposit box some train station off The Embarcadero and just head East. It frightens me, I'm horrified. The potency is developing in my inner organs, I can't cough right, sleep right, I just suffer and complain. Instead of doing things differently, they've made it so you can soak right in. Just strand yourself on the side of the roadway and they've got rules for you too. The sounds are torturous, the rooms are empty, and the men grow complacent and empty. Nothing is as serious as this. Four years ago a car, three years ago a plane, now I just shuffle and complain. I search for a key to my happiness. I look for it in desktop monitors, caramel apple lollipops, new cashmere vanilla candles, consuming six or more bottles of water a day, E-Cigarettes even, even those, I use apple juice, lychee nectar, mango sorbet, and chocolate fudge sundaes. I'm 40 up on the 140 I went down with. All the miles I'd walked in a firm step, a fever, a bag full of cheap wine for a man that works the car park. 43rd between 8th and 9th. Every thing is bright lights and theater nights. More pacing, there is gum stuck to every square of sidewalk, men and women wheel around a block away selling discount drugs in the streets and outside the Subway on 44th, in the Chinese food mart on 7th. They blow blow blow in their little plastic straw tubes and for $12 a drop they ask you to reach your hands inside their pockets, "take what you like and leave the rest. No one remembers it like this, the girls laugh practically upside down, they wear sky-blue light dyed denim overalls, covering all the parts of their shoulders but exposing their ****, they have plastic bags in their boots, and cute bobby bobbing hair cuts like water crest shoots exploding in lime juice. They pace too, but their legs are shorter, their conversations longer, the horns in their heads grow slowly out from midnight. The devil put the hate on them too.

Even the children are bigoted in this bicentennial. The ******'s nook is no longer the sewing shop in the corner of the strip mall up by Deerbrook Mall. I haven't seen a fountain with change in it since the 80's. The newest thing I heard about imaginations are that, "They come out the first and last Wednesday of the month, you gotta check with Game Stop if you want to pre-order the right ones." I think we must be on number 18 by now. There were four of us riding shotgun in the boxcar up to the valley last month, now they don't even run the trains anymore. One third of everything left to go.

I'm growing quiet; if they can't tell it's not my job to teach them. If they can't spell, I ain't gotta word to word combat that's going to come down on 'em. My brain is so uptight I can't sleep before sundown or sunrise. I see legs and oil futures with every blink. I listen to the old phone messages constantly. I make up stories to go with the missed calls. Still I hope everything will work out okay, because nothing is as serious as this. It makes me sick. It makes the guy undo itself with a brass nail, the blood unclogged from the rash from last month, I find out I'm toxic to poisons, and then I'm told that they're a prescription for that too. It wasn't a ******* rumor. The time to back up or move is now. A idle figure in an orange shirt, a tapestry that moves with every hallucination, forty, fifty, sixty hours I've never slept. I may have been years. My stomach is rusting from water with nowhere to go. I feel sick. I feel woozy, but I don't believe in feelings. I sit upright because I'm uptight, I turn my head around and look over my shoulder. But I know that any friend that's worth looking at me wouldn't arouse my spirit at this hour. There is a net that they speak of when everything's gone. It's the madness that transforms nothingness when the devil's around. Whole empires are crashing. Whole bottom drawers of unworn clothing, tagged and abetted stuffed into black crape garbage bags and drove off into the moonlight. I'm sweating and soporific, living half by half two in and two out, if I had the chance I'd try to remember just which way I get out. When I check on the rumors, when I say my goodbye, I know that I'm the only one sitting in this room of cocksure spirit animals and half-plastic book casings, and that no one whispers and no one cries, not even the bereft can produce a lullaby. I am dying to figure out how to move voicemails from iPhones to iTunes, I googled it while sitting down in the city last night. Poor service. 10 months. Not even one blame the famous few.

After tired comes guilty, after guilty the shame, after that apathy, after that I'm awake. I've never been good at being better than me. But those voicemails, I want them somewhere permanently.
Inspired by a Voicemail, Written for Britni West
GoldenAmbitionz Jan 2016
I remember those rainy nights when I would lock myself in my room.
Because I didn't want to become a victim of your hurtful words & fits of rage.
Nothing was ever the way it was supposed to be when it came to us.
& maybe it was better that way .
Because in the end everything that was wrong for other people
Was right for us
But I left you
And all that I had ever loved was taken away from me that night.
The long, run out love letters
The high pitched weeping filled voicemails .
It made me realize
That the endless yelling & countless fights
Were all for not .
& all trickled down to one more sweet love song I could no longer sing
Because now
It was no longer in my key.
Kyle Kulseth May 2014
A day recedes,
     I'll chase down one more night
A lamed and hobbling Spring
     tries to outrun the tide
of all the misspent months
and all this wasted time

          The northern breeze sings cold,
          it sighs through tattered topsails
          sea of questions waits.
          schools of unanswered voicemails

My footfalls share the sidewalks,
                                          steady,
sure­. Still young but glimpsing old and stumbling

Walking outside
soaked lungs need some new air
I'm nervous and shaking
fold the map, don a blank stare
my days wearing on
               fill 'em up with a fool's words
               I'm saltwashed, stuck and
               peeling paint off my memory
               for now.

A day's been seized--
          a metered length of life
Can't place a price on Fall
          and can't outrun the tide
of these layered seasons
as his time unwinds

          The eastern wind comes hard
          and shreds through mended mainsails
          river of answers dried
          so ask the waving cattails.

His footfalls know the sidewalks
                                        leaking
down sidestreets' asphalt tributaries

Walking around
A hitch in his slow gait
A ghost of our town
shuffles on with a fixed gaze,
his days playing out,
               As he strides down the sidewalks
               his life plays a film,
               flashing bright on glazed eyeballs

And I'm southbound,
4 p.m. driving Orange Street
completely drowned--
               --swore I woke up in Gimli,
                Manitoba January
                seared into my youthful memories
I'm freezerburnt
                Autumn heat, don't leave me
I'll hold your hair if you're feeling sickly,
then drive back home.
                Autumn heat, don't leave me now.

                ...Autumn heat, don't leave me now.
Deana Luna Oct 2012
I listened to every voicemail she sent me
I heard us deteriorate through the months
and it was
too
much.
Words that help me get through the hurricane.
Haley Rome Jan 2014
“Hey Mark. It’s Hope. Um, hey. So I know that I’ve left you quite a lot of voicemails in the past few days. I just couldn’t stop worrying about where you were and…and you know how I get. So, finally, I called Rita. And she told me where you were. And now I get it! I understand why you aren’t calling me back. It’s not because you don’t like me anymore or that you’ve grown bored of me, no! It’s not that at all. It’s because…well, it’s because you’re dead. And I know that you’ll never get this and I’m talking into an empty void right now. I can almost hear you laughing at me, saying that I’m just a tree falling in a forest with no one around to hear. But that’s comforting, in a weird way. Especially because of the previous voicemails I left, before I knew where you were. I mean, Jesus, those were so embarrassing just thinking about them makes me want to die! But I’m not dead. You are. Um. Well, I just called because I wanted you to know that you…you were different. You are different. Just because you’ve died doesn’t mean you’re suddenly not   sweet or intelligent or courageous or loving. Now that you’re gone my world is a blur full of colors and light but lacking all definition. I went to your work yesterday. All of your coworkers were swarming around me and I just stared and couldn’t recognize anyone. Not even Rita. I had to ask her name, I was so humiliated. And she…she did something that you used to do to comfort me. I doubt she even knew she was doing it. She must’ve picked it up from you or something. Um. She started to massage my hands, you know, like you would do when I would get too scared to breathe. And I closed my eyes. I swear, I swear that in that moment it was you. I know it was you. You were there calming me down, helping me breathe. And I finally could. For the first time in years, I could. But then she asked how I was feeling and I had to open my eyes. I said I didn’t know. I don’t know. I do know that I miss you. I think it’s funny that when I talk about you to others, and I talk about missing you, I can say it in the present tense but when I say that I love you, it sounds wrong. Like they expect me to say that I loved you, as if my devotion stopped the second your heart did. I still love you. I did and I do and I will. I just don’t know if I can ever-" *Message deleted. Press 1 to record again.
abandoned by her mother and father
to take on this cold world alone
no voice left in my throat
to sing the melodies in the song
such a strong girl, yet I break down every night
never forgive you, you let me take on this fight
by myself, without your help
salvation is what I seek
I call your phone one hundred times
leaving voicemails that pled
yet you still don't seem to care
I face my hard times desolate
deserted, this life is hurting
me, myself, and I
why can't I overcome the trials.
just want to be put to sleep
internally in peace
Arabella May 2014
maybe it's the rain pounding down on my ears

or the echoes of last summers laughter

those perfect yet empty beer cans that used to lie on your kitchen table

are a clear representation of who i've become


with no more love to give.


I'm numb from saving your attention

if only i had known those

memories made one blurred photograph

that you've kept hidden under your bed.



when i told them that after i reach those 4,000 miles i'm done

they sat in silence and nodded their heads because for the past 10 months

they too have been the empty beer cans on your kitchen table

waiting for you to throw them away.
ahhhh this is a draft people help
Hans Taylor Nov 2018
I’ve more or less had to delete you
Ever since your Facebook wall
Turned memorial
But I still had clothes of yours
Now they live in a thrift store
They’re still there, I checked
Not to bad mouth your fashion sense
I’m just now getting used to
Referring to you
In the past tense
I still tense up when I hear your name
I used to do the same
Whenever you popped up in my contacts
I had to erase you to overcome that
And you were the top one at that
To tell the truth when I near your old place,
I take detours
But I suppose that’s a silly way to do it
Since you don’t live there anymore
And anyway,
I swear I see your face in all kinds of places
The parking lot where we sparked a lot
The back of the park, no lights, a good spot
I'm running out of ways to change the subject
When people ask why I never delete voicemails
About once a year I just feel the need to hear it
And I cry a bit
And I’m lying about the size of the bit that I cry
But never mind that
I hop on Spotify and listen to music
Our favourite songs of the time are hidden
In a secret Spotify playlist that I only play sometimes
Like I need some kind of alibi when I think about you
And I still make excuses, you know that
I never visit you
Sorry about that
It still blows my mind how loud a needle drop can be
When you swap a vinyl disk for a friend’s skin
I can still remember you scratching it
And that one time when you brought up six times
That you wanted to die
I should’ve probably seen the signs
But I didn’t at the time
And now I am frustrated
When newspapers
Quote your name as a cautionary tale
There's a whole lot more to you
Than a convenient warning
About the dangers of drug use
You are my friend -
And there you go, I've done it again
You were my friend
And it makes my teeth clench
When people who will never meet you
Put it down to a lack of strength
A missing backbone
But if you’ve checked my bones lately
You’d find they were mostly empty
I have leaned on so many crutches that they have fused with me
Permanently
And I saw you at role call
For “alive”
Every morning
Until the day you died
Even when you hadn’t heard from your dad in weeks
And I apologise for all the missed calls on my part
One too many
My fault
Mea culpa
Nolan Higgins Apr 2016
and he smiled
but then he said "
you didn't return my call"

and I had to tell him I picked up an old habit
and he said "
what's that?"

and I told him I picked up an old habit
I told him "
I've been enjoying my solitude"

I couldn't tell him what I didn't want to tell him
I didn't want to tell him "
I think I'm depressed again"

he would have tried to help
he would have said "
Nolan, I want to help"

I would have had to tell him the truth
I would have to have said "
I'm helping myself"

through no fault of his own
I think he would not have understood
jad Sep 2013
There are places I have found. There are places that I have gone. People give strange looks with laughter in their eyes when a child walks off on her own into where the ground is not covered with cigarette butts and nothing is paved. Because of them, I go more often and I laugh louder. I have many of these places that are just for my brain and me to inhabit for a while. When I find a less temporary escape from the sickening truths of my own humanity, probably in an UFO, I hope to find others like me tagging along with the aliens that comes to destroy us. And we will all be laughing our ***** off; we saw this coming and packed our thoughts in airtight containers. For now, my thoughts are packed in a backpack with music, a hammock, and some seltzer water. I am walking to get out of here. I find myself getting lost in cornfields and peeing in the woods. It’s rejuvenating. Fresh air and headaches are a perfect match.
                    I am sitting, swinging, hanging from the dancing trees of the crack ******* forests. I think about how every time I chase a squirrel it attacks me. They are fluffy and cute but they want to get inside my house; they want to pry away at my poorly assembled pieces. I’m so unused to that attention and curious affection. I think about my subtly strange mannerisms and my lack of cautious paranoia. These things have had a tendency to intimidate, to make people leave the crowbars in the basement and eliminate any sort of prying. My attributes are intimidating to all but the squirrels. They only seem to see them as weakness. I am still swinging, but my hammock is slipping from the branches now, clinging onto them, a child to its mother. The instructions told me it could hold up to four hundred pounds but even I can hardly hold the weight in between my shoulders. Heavy thoughts are pulling me down. Ropes are slipping more and I can already feel my *** getting sore from this drop. But I do not get off. I keep swinging. My brain is telling my legs to move, my heart is screaming “Save me,” but my legs are not replying. I stay on this hammock, praying that my legs will pull me off before I fall to the ground. I am afraid of being even near to this littered ground. I want the heights. I call for help but only a sigh leaves my mouth. There is no one around to save me anyways. I chose a place in the woods; I chose a place that could grant me the illusion of seclusion…an escape from the trivialities taken too seriously. I cannot wait for someone because this slipping will not even wait for me. I will crash if I do not save myself. I try to coast and the swings get shorter and shorter until they have stopped and I am stationary. In moments I will have more broken parts than I can count.
                     I lie there silent, unmoving, not thinking any longer. Only waiting...finally, I hear snaps of the branches falling and breaking. The ground came up fast. It punched me. It crowded me. It abused me like a misguided lover. I do not wish to be in its arms any longer. But the ground is holding on to my bones, pulling me in. I hit it hard. The drop was farther than I expected. I have no feelings anymore. My nerves have shut off. I am scared. Someone take me some place safe, some place sound…no, take me some place wild. Lying on my back, numb and careless, my eyes are glued to the blueness of the sky above me. I am so relaxed. I hear screaming. I see blood, but I don’t feel pain. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I keep my eyes staring straight up at the view. I ignore everything but the wind-shaped clouds. My mind is gone, lost like all the rest of time. It wore away because I remembered too many times how my father’s hands smelled of sawdust and how they felt like the sandpaper he that used to make it. I try to avoid addressing the situation at hand, things are turning redder. My eyes are filling with blood and it is hard to see. I think about life and the lack of it. All it is really is just memories, without those the only thing that exists is right now. Which doesn’t exist anymore, it’s a different second, and now another. Life is nothing but the time we are losing. Maybe this view of the tree tops framing the sky will be the last thing I see, or maybe I will lay below them again tomorrow. I am glad that everyone must die. It is more beautiful that way.
                          I gulp, a gust of air fills my stomach and it feels like floating. I am still lying down. The smells of illegality, fire, and cut grass fill my ears just like music. Everything mixing together, all into one entity. I am the only thing alone, still lying on my back in the middle of some trees. The same trees I have been crowded by for all of these years, but dug up and replanted on the other side of the country. All of a sudden, I hear something pop. It is the elevation still stuck in my head, the headache I couldn’t defeat. The pain persists and all throughout my head the places and the people that I had made my home were telling me to stay. I am glad that I did not. There is no place or person who could carry my weight. I am my own constant. I am on the ground, just another fallen leaf,  and I am finding a place inside my brain in an attic of ideas where I can peruse the shelves and maintain my insanity. No matter if I am here or elsewhere, I must maintain. They will not make me sane, I won't have it.  Even the pain I feel now, sticks jabbing into my ribs and fear everywhere else, will not be enough to dull me.
                     I had dipped off the path to find myself away from what was familiar and now it pounds in my head, the lack of altitude. Without it my brain doesn’t know what to do. I am worried what I will become when I am alone here. I hear the chapel bells chime in, four rings and then they fade away. I still hear it ringing in my ear, though minutes have passed since it sounded…
                  Ringing…
        Ringing…
Ringing…

“H­ello?”
“Finally you pick up your phone, I’ve left three voicemails today…are you okay?”
“…”
dusk Sep 2016
beep
"hey, how're you doing?
i-
****, nevermind."

beep
"god, i miss you so much.
i miss your voice,
your touch,
everything about you.
but i guess you don't miss me."

beep
"hey, how've you been? it
started snowing today.
reminded me of you. please
call me back."

beep
"i know you don't want to
talk, but please, please
just let me tell you how much
i miss you."

beep
"do you listen to all my voicemails?
you never pick up the
phone anymore. i guess
you just don't want to
talk to me."

beep
"i must have sent you twenty
voicemails by now. i'm sorry,
but i'm trying to come to terms
with the fact that you're gone."

beep
"this is the last one.
i'm sorry for bothering you,
i just wanted to tell you, to

remember me."

beep
of heartbreak and missed calls
mj Dec 2018
i was lying on the beach
at 3am
cold and completely alone
starring up at the moon
listening to the waves crash against the shore.
while holding the phone against my ear
listening to your recordings you left on my phone
telling me to call you back
that you would be home soon
and that you loved me so much
not even a thousand page book
could describe the love you have for me
now that i can not hear your voice in person anymore
i'm left to listen to the voicemails you left me
imagining you there
holding me in your arms
wishing
hoping you come back
even though it's impossible
starless Sep 2014
i am just a glitch in the system,
a name
on a waiting list which is too long.
i am just a name, one you can't get rid of.
so you tell me i'll wait six months,
it has been eight.

you call yourself professionals,
yet you don't seem to realise that teenagers are –
impatient.
so my mother leaves endless voicemails,
and my doctor sends a string of letters your way,
all in a feeble attempt
to hurry along the mind numbing process.

i don't expect to beat the system,
and there are countless others like me –
but isn't that the thing that scares you?

you know, there is this fashion craze,
where we tie lengths of black cord around our necks,
and call them "chokers".
i wear mine every day, and i tie it a tad too tightly,
because i can't breathe
and i've ran out of excuses as to why.
Ally Jul 2014
5/16
Thanks for driving me home, I had fun. Tell your mom she's a wonderful cook. I'll call you in the morning.

5/30
I think I left my cardigan in your car. I guess that gives us an excuse to hang out after school. Text me tomorrow.

6/12
My mom wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow. Call me if you can. She makes an amazing stew. Love you.

6/29
I love you so much. Call me tomorrow.

7/20
I can still feel your fingertips on my face. I love you.

8/1
I'm sorry about your grandpa, call me if you need anything. My mom made stew again and she wants me to bring it by. I love you.

8/19
I skipped history so I could get drunk behind the football field again. I've already had three shots but I'm sure you could catch up. Meet me down here.

8/20
Thanks for driving me home again. I'm sorry I threw up on your passenger seat. I'll buy you a seat cover. I love you.

9/2
I think I'm more drunk than I've ever been. I don't know where I'm at. Can you come get me?

9/3
I know you're mad at me but you could at least answer my calls.

9/7
Hey, it's getting dark and I'm getting drunk. Come over.

9/30
I really need you. Call me?

10/16
It's almost 4 am. You forgot to call me tonight. That's okay though, I forgive you. I have a lot to tell you. Call me when you wake up.

11/1
The first time you kissed me I could taste the ***** on your lips. When he kissed me last night I tasted the beer you couldn't stand.

11/30
Please come over. Your lips are poison but I'm ready to die.

12/9
I miss you.

12/23
Tell your mom I said Merry Christmas. And take care of yourself, I know you drink a lot during the holidays.

1/1
My new years resolution was to get over you. It was going good until I took four shots and accidentally called you instead of deleting your number.

1/7
You ******* ripped my heart out and threw it against the wall and when I cried you spit poison into my veins. You're a ******* monster.
singingghosts Aug 2016
I've been in and out of therapy and partial hospitalization programs for about 20 years. you'd think by now I would be better or at least discover a new flavor of ice cream I enjoy but nope, I only like green mint.

there's a lot that's wrong with what I've been dealing with so I'm going to short list it:

start therapy
see new psychiatrist
psychiatrist prescribes me meds before my first therapy session even begins
I hate my psychiatrist
I hate my therapist
therapy does nothing
talking does nothing
I start fantasizing about murdering animals
it scares the ******* **** out of me
I tell my psychiatrist
she said it's the meds
she prescribes me something else
the fantasies stop
my therapist thinks I have daddy issues
my therapist won't stop talking about my father
it's annoying
I hate her
I ask to see a new therapist in the same facility
she asks why
she asks about my fetishes
she takes off her flats and crosses her legs
I'm not sure if she does it intentionally
I feel weird
I see a new therapist
I love my new therapist the first visit
my psychiatrist is replaced
my new therapist only sees me once
I tell her everything she needs to know
I feel amazing
I feel like this is good
she was a temp
I am lost in the system
I have no therapist for 4 months and no one sees to care
my new psychiatrist seems great
she likes plants
she's funny
I feel good about this
she cancels an appointment
I try to make a new one
no one calls me back for a month
I get a new appointment
she cancels
I get a new appointment
she doesn't show up
I'm calling and calling and leaving voicemails
no one calls me back
I still have refills until July 28th
I call everyday the last week of July to make an appointment because I need her authorization for my refills now
I call my pharmacy to ask for help because I'm running out of meds and no one is helping me
every time I go off my meds it's very bad for everyone and I start doing drugs
I don't wanna be off my meds anymore
my pharmacy calls her the day of my refill
she denies the refill
I can't even get a few pills until I get a new appointment because she's denied it and they can't do anything if she denies it
I call my general Doctor
she prescribes me for two weeks
I leave a crazy voicemail on my psych's machine
she never calls me back
I can't get a new appointment
I called all day everywhere
no one is taking new patients
I don't know what to do

did you get all that?

my issue with this situation isn't even really about me directly. it ***** for me but if I end up off my medication I know I can always buy it online illegally or just do dissociatives to keep me from being violent or hurt myself or anything remotely alarming.

my issue with this is I know a woman who sees my ex-psychiatrist. she is not well. she goes into these catatonic episodes and can't do anything. she hides out for months. she's in an abusive relationship. she doesn't eat. she can't talk sometimes. she needs someone to do more for her than just have her show up. she needs people to be actively involving themselves. she needs intense help and I know her appointments were canceled as well.

I can't stand the thought of how many people are in this field who are not doing their job. how unprofessional to literally cancel my refills the day I need a refill because I need to "make an appointment" like ***** I haven't been trying?

what kind of ****** up spiteful **** is that?

that's not right. I don't even know HOW to deal with this. I feel like what she did is illegal or at least negligent. but also that this is something that must happen all the time because these people know they are treating people who are unwell and maybe don't know how to help themselves.

I don't know. I wanted to share this in hopes someone has dealt with something similar and knows the next step or if there's something I can do to have my psychiatrist dealt with. do I call the facility? do I talk to someone about it? who? she knows I don't know the first thing about how to do this and I know I'm not the only one.
Ally Jul 2014
5/16
Thanks for driving me home, I had fun. Tell your mom she's a wonderful cook. I'll call you in the morning.

5/30
I think I left my cardigan in your car. I guess that gives us an excuse to hang out after school. Text me tomorrow.

6/12
My mom wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow. Call me if you can. She makes an amazing stew. Love you.

6/29
I love you so much. Call me tomorrow.

7/20
I can still feel your fingertips on my face. I love you.

8/1
I'm sorry about your grandpa, call me if you need anything. My mom made stew again and she wants me to bring it by. I love you.

8/19
I skipped history so I could get drunk behind the football field again. I've already had three shots but I'm sure you could catch up. Meet me down here.

8/20
Thanks for driving me home again. I'm sorry I threw up on your passenger seat. I'll buy you a seat cover. I love you.

9/2
I think I'm more drunk than I've ever been. I don't know where I'm at. Can you come get me?

9/3
I know you're mad at me but you could at least answer my calls.

9/7
Hey, it's getting dark and I'm getting drunk. Come over.

9/30
I really need you. Call me?

10/16
It's almost 4 am. You forgot to call me tonight. That's okay though, I forgive you. I have a lot to tell you. Call me when you wake up.

11/1
The first time you kissed me I could taste the ***** on your lips. When he kissed me last night I tasted the beer you couldn't stand.

11/30
Please come over. Your lips are poison but I'm ready to die.

12/9
I miss you.

12/23
Tell your mom I said Merry Christmas. And take care of yourself, I know you drink a lot during the holidays.

1/1
My new years resolution was to get over you. It was going good until I took four shots and accidentally called you instead of deleting your number.

1/7
You ******* ripped my heart out and threw it against the wall and when I cried you spit poison into my veins. You're a ******* monster.
Michelle Garcia Jan 2016
She held more secrets than seconds in a day,
mumbling pained confessions in hushed whispers
that bled out like stab wounds trailing paths
on white snow,
painting a china doll façade made of scarlet
as an eloquent attempt to mask the fragility
she aspired to hold

And that is just what she did,

She held,

onto hopes dangling from the edge of skyscrapers,
breath permanently stolen from her lungs
despite shaking hands itching to let go

storing memories made of dust within damaged pockets
even when the weight got so gruesome
she could no longer bear to walk
with a soul made entirely of gray matter,
training heartstrings to stretch
and cradle every delicate moment
she feared losing
before they could even take place


She is the girl who will collect your voicemails,
hoarding letters like seashells
resting along abandoned shorelines
due to the danger of losing the soft breaths
of the only one who was capable
of breaking all of her rules,
who whispered her name like
unfinished stanzas of a poem
she did not know how to write

Fear,
and fear alone-
of the potential that the ocean could swallow
the glass shards and kiss the remnants of her joy
goodnight
before she could even feel them
splashing against the same skin
she never felt at home in
Maddie Fay Sep 2011
Your ******* voice,
Your stupid words,
Your sickening pet names.
The familiar cadence,
The rise,
The fall,
The simpering, whining,
Saccharine tone.
Is it really any wonder
I’m afraid to touch my voicemails?

His smell, his marks, his bruises,
The evidence of his passion,
His anger,
His destruction.
They faded away before
His body was cold,
Before I’d even had time
To begin to miss him.

But you, your words,
Your ******* voice.
The soft, frayed edges of
The things you meant but didn’t say,
The things you said
That meant nothing.
These insignificant things
Fill all the dusty, untouched
Corners of my life.

Today, I began the process
Of erasing you.
Your voicemails are gone.
Your power is fading.
jad Sep 2013
I am sitting, swinging, hanging from the dancing trees of the crack ******* forests. I think about how every time I chase a squirrel it attacks me. They want to get inside my house; they want to pry away at my poorly assembled pieces. I’m so unused to that attention and curious affection. I think about my subtly strange mannerisms and my lack of paranoia. These things have had a tendency to intimidate, to make people leave the crowbars in the basement and eliminate any sort of prying. My attributes are intimidating, but the squirrels only seem to see them as weakness. I am still swinging, but my hammock is slipping from the branches now, clinging on to them, a child to its mother. The instructions told me it could hold up to 400 pounds but even I can hardly hold the weight in between my shoulders. Ropes are slipping more and I can already feel my *** getting sore from this drop. But I do not get off. I keep swinging. My brain is telling my legs to move, my heart is screaming “Save me!” but my legs are not replying. I stay on this hammock, praying that my legs will pull me off before I fall to the ground. I am afraid of being even near to this littered ground, I want the heights. I call for help, only a sigh leaves my mouth. There is no one around to save me anyways. I chose a place in the woods; I chose a place that could grant me the illusion of seclusion…an escape from the trivialities taken too seriously. I cannot wait for someone, this slipping will not wait. I will crash if I do not save myself. I try to coast, the swings get shorter and shorter until they have stopped and I am stationary. In moments I will have more broken parts that I can count.

I lie there silent, unmoving, not thinking any longer. Only waiting...finally, I hear snaps of the branches falling and breaking. The ground came up fast…it punched me. It crowded me. It abused me, like a misguided lover. I do not wish to be in it's arms any longer. But the ground is holding on to my bones, pulling me in. I hit it hard, the drop was farther than I expected. I have no feelings anymore. My nerves have shut off. I'm scared. Someone take me some place safe, some place sound…no, take me some place wild. Lying on my back, numb and careless, my eyes are glued to the blueness of the sky above me. I am so relaxed. I hear screaming. I see blood. But I don’t feel pain. I don’t want to know what’s going on, I keep my eyes staring straight up at the view. I ignore everything but the wind-shaped clouds. My mind is gone, lost like all the rest of time. It wore away because I remembered too much about the times my father’s hands smelled of sawdust and how they felt like the sandpaper he used to make it. I try to avoid addressing the situation at hand, things are turning more red, my eyes are filling with blood. I think about life and the lack of it. All it is really is just memories, without those the only thing that exists is right now. Which doesn’t exist anymore, it’s a different second, and now another. Life is nothing but the time we are losing. I am glad that everyone must die, it is so beautiful.
I gulped, a gust of air filled my stomach and it felt like floating. I was still lying down. The smells of illegality, fire, and cut grass filled my ears just like music. Everything mixed together, all into one entity. I was the only thing alone, still lying on my back in the middle of some trees. All of a sudden, I heard something pop. It was the elevation still stuck in my head, the headache I couldn’t defeat. I had dipped off the path, away from what was familiar and now it pounds in my head, the altitude. Now without it my brain doesn’t know what to do, I only worry what I will become. I hear the chapel bells chime in, 4 rings and then they fade away. I still hear it ringing in my ear, though minutes have passed since it sounded…
Ringing…
Ringing…
Ringing…
“Hello?”
“Pick up your phone, I’ve left three voicemails today…are you okay?”
         "....."
Melissa M Bates Feb 2012
I can no longer be a poet,
For I feel no anguish deep in my soul.
There is no two timing lover,
Nor bruises marring my heart.

And there is nothing here to startle you,
I offer no sting to make you feel alive.
There is no vicarious pleasure to be had in these words.

I cannot lament missing voicemails,
Or rage against machinations,
There is no more fodder for my word press.


Now I only sigh over ***** dishes,
Or anticipate primetime television.
My heart flutters for clean sheets.

So I cannot help you cry,
Because I fell in love
And so I must retire.
Klaryssa May 2016
My phone dings with familiarity of notification
I fail to reach
Failing to  identify the messenger
Thoughts all point to one thing
My chest constricts with fear as a sharp inhale shakes my body
It could be you
This knowledge, this esoteric ideology about who you really are, limits my tounge.
I can't speak
I can't explain you to anyone because the classic Marvel villian is much too kind.
Realization dawns on my face
I then exhale- slowly, taking comfort in the truth that eases my fragile heart: death prevents all forms of communication-especially druken texts after midnight.
We are drunk in our fears
We are high in our passions

We still-cangetbacktogetherright?
         wrong!
You are my best poetry
Written in longhand
Spoken all in one breathe
But death
Prevents
Sending
Text
Messages
And leaving voicemails
And coming to my house
And calling my mother
And harrassing my sister
And-well, moving on is hard when you, still want to move in.
Special thanks to Joshua Trevino
Kirsty Feb 2015
youcouldhearourflesh                                 rip
                                                                ­                apart.

(as though it had ever beentogether
as though we were ever
                                                            ­             more
than car crashes
than house fires.

I held onto your address, you know
when you held on to my hand;
when you held up the traffic;
when you                                                        left
 ­                                                                 ­                  me
and drank
                                                           ­     
                                                           ­               Copenhagen
through a paper straw.


The whetted splendour of it all:
I wonder if the drowned ever
noticed
how the sun kisses                                     The Sea?
                                                            ­                                
down
                           ­                                  
                              ­                      we
                                        ­                                                  
sank.

Did your feet touch the bottom or
did you                                                              ­ swim
to the sound of -

to the sound of br ea k ing vi oli  n s ?
I snapped each string
like I was                                         pulling teeth.


Your address  folded into
                                                         wav­es,
your house burned to
                                                         dust,


the kind god                     keepssafe -
“one last
                                                        keep sake”
in his pockets.



If I tightened my hands,
doyouthinkicouldchokeonthis
                              ­                                      cable?
Wouldthatstop                              time or
your voice or
my voice;                                       the voicemails;
the answer machine that
no one                                            ever
                                                                ­  answered?


My blueeyed boy was born in              goodbyes
he sleeps in seas                        
                                    ­                            irrevocable:
and The Tide washes him home to me
                                                              ­  every day.)

it sounded like                             fingers
tangled in                                             phone wire
and br ok e nv io l in  s.
Amanda Goodness Jul 2013
This is killing me.
You are killing me.
You sick little ****.
I'm not going to answer your calls.
It is making me feel like I'm in a baracade.
And you have opened fire.
You're trying to luer me out
With ****** voicemails
"Baby I wanna *******".
"I love it when you scream no".
"Make me a sandwhich doll face".
"Let me ******* to death".
I will rip out my own heart before I answer.
Before I leave my bunker.
******* you sadist pig.
Natasha Jun 2014
My mother once told me love was dying for that person over and over again and still feeling your heart race at the sight of their smile.
But it isn’t. Not my love.
Love was feeling your presence around me and feeling my entire body radiate warmth. It was running late at night trying to disappear when I realized how in love with you I truly was. Love was needing you to hold me when I thought that the blood in my veins would spill over from feeling too much all at once. Love was getting high in the pouring rain with you next to me and still feeling sunshine pour over me. Love was seeing you in tears and feeling my entire body naturally comfort you with no hesitation. It was 3am phone calls when you contemplated suicide the first time, the second time, and the third. Love was peaceful.
I know love in a past tense. Love was all of you running through me like a marathon. I don’t have too many details about something so inexplicable.
But heartbreak. Heartbreak is present tense.
Heartbreak is aching for your fingertips on my arm or your lips on my cheek, on my lips. Heartbreak is calling you at 3am when I contemplate suicide the first time, the second time, the third. Heartbreak is leaving you 16 voicemails in complete silence just to hear your voice again. Heartbreak is looking at the ocean no longer admiring it’s beauty but thinking about jumping in. Never coming back up. Heartbreak is hearing your name and my whole body breaking- each bone slowly breaking with how much pain radiating through me knowing you don’t even miss me like I miss you. Heartbreak was loving you and you running away from me. Heartbreak is you constantly coming back and hurting me over and over again. Heartbreak is me dying for you slowly and you stepping over me like I was just concrete.
John Carpentier Nov 2013
Send me a yellow envelope filled with your tears.
It will be soggy, and sloppy, but that is how it should be,
like crying:
Messy, undignified, and reserved
for those who deserve to see it.

I love you
with bloodshot eyes and frizzy hair,
taking short, sharp breaths
while your nose starts to drip.
I love you
with no walls between us.
No makeup or small talk.

You can show me your fear
and I will cherish it,
like a shooting star I found in the pit of a peach.

You will teach me how to be soft
and I will stare, full of awe
at vulnerability.
At the the strength of admitting weakness,
and emptiness, and shame.

I will hold you
and bring you peppermint tea.

I will tell you about how I am afraid
of mirrors, and voicemails, and family dinners.

I will tell you about being afraid to pick a profile picture
and how close friends can hurt you gently but deeply.

I will tell you how laughter can cause tears
like a lamp casts shadow.

I will tell you about losing a father, almost losing a mother,
and constantly losing myself.

I will tell you how hard my shell is,
and how soft I am underneath.

How I cry reading paperback novels.
How I love rom-coms and
how there is a girl who fills my belly
with butterflies when she kisses me.

Share your weakness
and I will share mine.
You are so brave
with your tear-stained cheeks.
Teach me how you cry.
Lía Oct 2014
three years later
and i still doodle your name
in my margins

i wish us an infinite supply of
smiles
hugs
and kisses
goodnight texts
and good morning voicemails

here's to many more
Ryan M Hall May 2015
Bloodshot eyes with red veins.
He cannot sleep without her.
Missed calls keep him awake at night.
Victoria Ruth Aug 2014
1) Do you know I've fallen so in love with the sound of your voice that I sometimes play back your old voicemails.
2) Sometimes when I think about all that we used to be I go back to that park and sit on the swings you used to push me on. Back and fourth. But then I look over my shoulder and you're not standing behind me.
3) When I look at old pictures of us I remember exactly where we were in that moment. I dive into the photo and relive the memory. I wonder if you remember them the same way.
4) I used to think if you missed me, you would tell me. But what if you're just worried I won't miss you back? Well, I...miss...you.
5) You remember that old teddy bear you gave me? I still sleep with it every night. Close to my chest.
6) It's our anniversary today. Happy anniversary.
7) I was thinking about our first kiss earlier, and how my legs were shaking and your lips pressed up against mine slowly and how you tasted of fall leaves and pumpkin.
8) I saw you kiss her.
9) Do you love her as much as you used to love me? Does she make you smile as much as I used to? Does she care about you enough to remember every detail about you?
10) You kissed her without any thought of me. It hurts to see that you've moved on, but I'm happy you're happy. *delete
I still love you, but you love her now.
Magdalynn OLeary Mar 2012
I fell in love
with you for a minute
on a stranger's couch
funny
whip its
with a derby girl
a shameless makeout
sesh
in front of another
lesbian and a couple
strange bodies
disconnected
poetry
and some ***** in
a plastic cup
stolen metal chairs
in various colors
her braids
her shaved head
a symphony
to my defeat
I'm half-way out the door
but I can't get up off
this couch
she's taking my key
and pretty soon my car is gone
my so-called girlfriend
leaves me tearstained
voicemails
but while you're
here your lips
make me forget
every promise
I made this girl
she said
where you go I go
how quickly we forget
when we find ourselves
in the arms of another
and just like everything
else the promise disappears
an evaporated drop of
rain from the side window
of my re-poed car
I need to get that ink off
I need to get inked
to sober up before A.A.
to eat before this adderall
eats my insides
I want to feel a
lot more full
a lot more *******
full
say goodbye
you never knew me
a $2 bus ride
takes me where
I need to be
freezing hands
and the itchy
scars I sliced
into my arm
in the wrong
place the wrong
direction
I was never right to
begin with
a text message at
2AM "stay safe"
that's the extent
to which I'm cared
for
and that's good
enough for me
just so long as I
can afford smokes
and the key to
my car is safely
under the mat
dear mom,
last night when you called again in a drunken rage,
i tried my best to do the obligatory, "yes, mom", but i was
tired and disinterested in your antics.
when i woke up this morning, you had left two voicemails & one text:
i am possessed by a demon.
i don't deserve my hyphenated last name.
i carved on myself as a teen just to **** with you.
you only gave birth to my sister because i wanted one.
i better watch out because you're getting really mad.

you pulled this all the night of my 13 year old daughter's birthday party.
you jealous *****.
Chris Jul 2014
I fell out of love with the bottom half of the sky today.
It reminded me of home.
I've grown weak carrying a half splintered heart.
It only floats on the third Wednesday of the month
and holidays that start with "yesterday."
It's all the same.
I'd rather drown.
I think home is where you don't feel so alone.
I've tried, you know.
It's all the same.
I've left two voicemails for whoever lives here now.
I think they're sorry they're so empty.
It's just been so quiet lately.
I am tired,
and so very far from home.

— The End —