Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
L B Sep 2016
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?

My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!

of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds

What happens after ecstasy?

Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?

...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….

As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!

If only I could be—

more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy  

But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!

I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....  

Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart

The Ancient Flood was jealous....

Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...

a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Of course it makes a sound.
I will always believe this.  Why I still write.
I'm so thankful for HP.
Julia Gorrie Nov 2018
Worthlessness: The state of feeling unimportant and useless. This type of feeling is one that hits you directly in the center of your core, picking at your soul. One that makes your stomach feel saggy and your eyes like craters of the sea that over flows and blurs your sight.
Worthlessness is one that hinders the passing time as well your ability to move forward and it can come out of the void of extensive thinking.
It can cause your words to errupt and crackle off your tongue, only to be washed away by the heavy rain into a puddle of regret and sorrow.
All I see on the horizon is a dark blue hue that Cascades over the whole world.
All I feel is the bitter, frozen winds and the soft snow that numbs my skin.
All I can think of is black and grey clouds that wrap me up and block out any light that reaches out to me.
All that I receive for my rescue is a big brown ship that says "I'm sorry, the weight you carry is too much for us", then sails away, leaving me to drown in the middle of the ocean.
Rose Jun 2017
You're a red apple
Fallen to the ground
Dear you're turning brown
And I wept, for I thought
You were sweet in your core
But you are oh so rotten.
Jonathan Oct 2018
That got your attention
Didn't it?
Even though I am a stranger
Who couldn't possibly know it to be true
And worth is subjective
Those who know you would disagree
And point out your merits
And you would weigh yourself
To realise that not all parts are equal
Who am I to say such things?

And yet you take the time to read it
Reread, incase you misread
In reading you contemplate it's truth
You are my puppet, and me your puppeteer
How could you be such a sheep!

Why are you amused?
Why does insult carry more meaning than praise?

It's easy to hurt.
Sticks and stones may break your bones
But words can make you think you deserved it.
We are social beings and so
We look for validation
But insult stands out
It leaves a branded mark in our brains
And so we spotlight it

It's easy to be sad.
But it's fulfilling to be happy.
Being positive is hard
But it's worth it in the end.

How could I possibly know?
I couldn't.
But I do.
And soon you will too.

What are you doing now?

You are reading!

Now you are smiling.
You're Wonderful

Inspired by Dennis Willis's "You Are a Hallucination"

Sticks and stones line borrowed from xkcd's comic.
Deadwood Jawn Dec 2018
I think she said to me:
"I only love half of you."
She doesn't remember.
Something I very much believe I heard from her last night.
about being vulnerable af
in sporadic catapults
over barricade top



Dare Greatly
like Brené

I decorated her
with 100+ Post-its
trying to light
a line into my
from the outside

she says blame
is outward face
of shame

that feeling responsible
for ******* up
triggers so much
suffocating heavy
conjoined to past
we push it back
on someone else
as reflex

it's hard to be
in the V

all alone

broken finger reach
ledge slipping
bone crushed cold feet

your rambling self
echoing hollow

((( ... )))

you're not there

but I know
you can be

you got this
Julia Lane Oct 2013
I get it, my problems aren't that bad.
Worse things happen to better people everyday.
I live in a costal, wealthy, yatch club town,
Officially an only child,
With my judgmental sister spending her freshman year in Manhattan.
I live with my favorite parent,
who doesn't care what fun I have
as long as I'm honest and safe,
and of course I get my schoolwork done,
and the other who drives me insane
is fortunately not in the same area code as me.

But it hurts
To be the listener for the people who created me
As they speak horrible things about each other,
Express their loathing for one another.

To be so broken
And not to know what do to about it..
Self abuse is in my rearview,
but I just hate talking about myself so much.
I've gotten really good at bottling up
And moving on
Just letting my bad thoughts and feelings
Dissolve into worthlessness.

But sometimes it ***** to be alone.

I just wish you were here to tell me I'm not
and that you love me.
Matthew Feb 10
mistakes make us
and as
make the same
no longer
see mistakes
i see an unalienable personality
that i can never give up
im trying
to climb a mountain
that goes on interminably

don't worry the end is near
all i need to do is stop climbing
and fall...
zero Nov 2017
Ashen doves float within the waves,
slinking like silent demons in the night.
They curl around my body,
jaws operating like steel machines,
gnashing at my limbs.
I begin to scream for help,
but they ****** my breath,
they drag me under their tides of black,
unleashing my unremitting fear of water predators.
their teeth, sunken into my flesh,
gnawing at my mind,
painting me my new mortality.

These are my demons,
the sharks in the bath when it comes to hygiene.
the fear of the below and the depths of human mentality,
the untraceable percentage of human worthlessness,
the detestable attraction to the demise of our minds,

I float lower into the aqua,
pressure building,
unforgiving and foreboding
I close my lids, and dream of the sand,
praying it to be underfoot when I open my eyes,
but when my lids open, the doves loom closer.

The irony of a hydrophobe,
dying at the hands of the sharks.
The fear of the ocean is the greatest fear I know.
Strands of worthlessness
Dangling beneath rods of hope
Falls to grieving floors
current mood.....sorry.
He is beginning to believe
that they are not "busy".

But rather,
he is just a low priority.

Relish in the worthlessness.
Happy thoughts.
    Happy thoughts.
         Happy thoughts.

The uni students aren't even invested.
They don't care.
They just lie.
They are impersonal.

Ghostly figures who do not exist.
Pale reminders of the neurotic needs.

            I am always trying.
I am always reaching out.
            I am always walking.

YOU'RE NOT ******* BUSY.
"Sorry, I'm busy that day"


           ­           Just.
             ­                         You.
                                   ­          Don't.
                                                           ­     Me.

Wrote this some time ago.
Julia Betancourt Dec 2016
Love and depression are such similar existences. Both are something more powerful, too powerful, to fit under a list of just emotions or feelings.
Both are equally dangerous, and both are the most misunderstood.

But love is a little funnier.
Love can bring us together but as much as it may do so, it's better at splitting us apart.

See there are two types of people in this world; those who crave to feel love, but never will, and those who cannot un-feel love, and wish they were among the others because emptiness and loneliness may be just a little better than worthlessness.
But in the middle of these two chaotically different, demon-filled hells... is balance.
It's where only a few people are blessed with someone who loves them just as much as they do.
And these people live totally different lives than those of us in limbo.

I'm among those in that limbo-state. That state where you already feel dead, where the loneliness makes you feel like you're in some unknown dimension scientists won't discover for the next one hundred years.
Some people break free from this place, some remain floating like a weightless piece of plastic in the ocean, going wherever the waves take them, but never seeing anything more than vastness- always being reminded of how lost they are in the middle of nowhere.

And others... drown.
They die twice; once to join into limbo, join into the ocean.
And the second time they fall deep beneath the waves. And below this surface exists the loudest silence, the most brutal currents, the deadliest scavengers- all among those who won't wait until you've died to pick and tear at your bones.
This love/hate relationship
Human races is
Making me crazier
Than the creationist
Over and over
Repeating the verses
Conversing with ghosts
Who immerse them
In worthlessness
When in response
Only silence reverberates
And the faint something
Of nothing is heard
By the good word
By the spirited leaders
Atop bottom-feeders
Still feeding their people
The crumbs of deceivers
Though stale it prevails
To curtail what the famished
In their desperation
Need filling
When vanished
Their saviors abandoned their
Faith itself banished
To turn to
And yearn through
The darkest night dim
Light's delusional hope
They'll be welcomed back in
A kingdom
Of the Perfect One's
Lording over their souls
Like a dragon does gold

Posted up on a bar stool, I noticed the instant he walked in.
Blue eyes beckoning. I was listening. Hard.

Liquidly courageous, delightfully obscure and entertaining,
I bewitched him in conversation.
Filled his empty pint with my pitcher of Yuengling.
Stealing and donning his sweaty hat.
He had just finished art school.
I was studying journalism.

He kept finding reasons to touch me.
Blocking me from human traffic.
Keeping me close and safe physically.
At one point, some drunken, oblivious, d-bag tried to holler.
He moved between, cockblocking.
Unwavering in eye contact and speech with me.
I can’t remember what we talked about, only how it felt.

He got my number, and we stayed until the bar closed.
And as all the carbon contents poured into the back alley,
he grabbed my hand.
I remember the sweat and energy on his slender fingers.
He was pushing past palpable trepidation.
And in the midst of a hundred swarming,
he yanked my hand toward him and kissed me.
People started cheering.
It was perfect.

Except, I freaked.
Froze. Stopped breathing.
Pulled away as far as his hand would allow.
He reeled me back in for another try.
When I brushed his lips, the panic devoured.
So I pulled away harder, breaking free from his fingers.
Fleeing, scurrying through a sea of drunken bodies.
I shimmied like a silver lure dangling in his face.
Then shot him the-****-down. Twice.

He never called me. But pocket-dialed me the next day.
Left an unintended voicemail. Heard him bemoaning, *I felt SO stupid…

Called him back a few minutes later. Didn’t leave a message.
I could have called again. I didn’t. Ever.

I thought about him every day for months,
inspiring one of my better poems of that era:
A Roller Coaster Ride Ending in Derailment.
Years later, I friended him on MySpace, sent a generic message.
He didn’t recognize me. And I never said anything.
Like a ******* coward.

How is it possible to excitedly charge in a cardinal direction,
only to smack abruptly into:

I’ve had a little time, say 14 years,
to reflect on what made me me run,
and I think it was this:
as soon as he was facing me,
with unadulterated adoration,
all I could feel was terrified and ****.
It was so good. Far too good for me.

I was afraid. Afraid he would eventually see.
That I was hideous. He wouldn’t want the real me.
I didn’t think I could live up to the look in his eyes.
When he saw I was only a spunky, confident model on the cover,
and an insecure shitshow amidst contents inside, he would leave.
A fragile little girl so afraid she is unlovable, unworthy, ****.
When he saw how uncomfortable I could be in my own skin,
he would let go.
I didn’t like me, so why the **** should he?
I ran from connection that night, after tilling it for hours.
Hauling *** with windows down,
I slammed the brakes and careened. End scene.
He reeked of bliss and impending heartbreak.
So I abandoned him before he could leave.

I’m frightened of anyone who truly stirs me.
It makes me feel big, scary feelings. They straitjacket hug me.
Skewing all my outward signals. I come off standoffish.
Pushing away the very thing I want and need.
I’m not good at expressing intense feelings in real time.
Except in ink. And bed.

I get locked up inside. Feels like I’m gonna die.
A fight-or-flight ignition by erroneous head triggers.
I project my unlovable feelings onto others,
in the face of blatant evidence to the contrary.

I’ve done LTRs, just not with the required equipment.
I know the gears are sabotaged out the gate,
but I go for it anyway. It’s safe (or so it seems). And empty.
I crave intimacy, but I’m terrified of showing up entirely.
In front of someone with eyes that can see.
I quickly sense who is capable of meeting me,
and thoroughly **** it up for myself,
by not feeling free. Not authentic. Not open. Hiding.
Editing. Hot fish, cold fish. Rotating masks. Blockades. Running.
Constantly scanning the environment for signs of rejection,
that I’m not enough, indeed. To validate my own self-worthlessness.
I wanna be right.
I’ve only done long terms where I can remain alone, bored and/or dead.
No real intimacy. No full disclosure. No BAMF duo status.
No seeing to the back of each other’s skulls.
No blasting through the cosmos.

I freeze and evade in the face of what I crave.
Shunning delicious plates I’ve just ordered and ravenously drooled over.
I have more examples, but this is the most concise and blatant...

Except, this one time:

I told my gut to shut the **** up,
while I cosigned utter inner *******.
Denied the eyes of my own soul,
as it floated into my periphery.
It took all of my focus just to breathe.

He didn’t turn around,
just looked over his shoulder.
At me. Up, then down.
And drifted away.
Electrocuting my cosmic antennae.
Leaving me reeling. Still tingling.

I almost called your name,
but doubt surrounded fear mountain.
Plus, I thought I was jus straight trippin, err, trollin.
Going crazy. Weaving my own alteration atop reality.
Pretty pro @ that yuh know...

We push and pull and run and chase,
because it feels safer pursuing what’s out of reach.
Until it turns around.
Or looks over its shoulder...

With eyes that can see.
maybe we need a few less chairs, as we have some mutual guests:
Osiria Melody Aug 26
The world is painted vividly and you feel as if
you're a blank spot on a canvas
Just like the trees and never-ending cascade of
greens and dingy benches,
You camouflage into your surroundings

You're at this park, surrounded by smiling folks,
too preoccupied with their activities to notice you
You're a ghost to them
Breathing in life and exhaling death
Your mind runs away to seclusion as your witness
a dog trotting along the gentle blades of grass

The sounds around you cease and you only hear
the voices in your head
Unforgiving, apathetic voices of self-loathing

Drop by drop, tears slide down your porcelain
visage, broken in shards of despair
Diamond teardrops glisten in the scorching
sunlight, momentarily falling and shattering

Dissociated, you can't feel the warm air
embracing you or smell a waft of ice cream from
an ice cream cart
You only taste the familiar speck of bitterness
in your mouth and feel your body tremble
You hear the voices in your head shift from
pitied whispers to shouts of worthlessness

The sun's graceful waves of warmth would soon
take away the shards of sadness
Would it?
Does it care?
The sun's been glaring in your direction, oblivious
to everything, especially you

Your back has been slumped and you've been
standing in the grass this whole time

"Pathetic, right? Everyone would just stare
daggers at you and stab you with derision, right?"
Your mind roars in laughter at you
"You made it this far to go out today since your
depression has held you prisoner in your
home," echoes your mind
Your voices sneer, "Just go back. You're crying and
you look like a disaster. A complete failure."

You stumble backwards and your fall is
cushioned by the gentle blades of grass
Your voices melt away as a friendly face
peers at you in concern

Your dissociation fades and you hear the world
A hand helps you up and you're greeted with
kind words

You're invited to an embrace and you nod,
Letting this stranger embrace you
For the first time today, the suffocating
sensation in your body dies

You hear their comforting voice say,
"I know that everything may not feel
okay, but I'm here for you."

They slowly pull away from you
and the brightest light that
shines is your smile

Together, the both of you stroll across
the park and you open up about
how you've been feeling
With empathetic eyes and caring words,
the stranger gives you comfort
A friendship forms and you forget that
you've cried diamond tears

A scenario played in my mind where a person struggling with depression decided to go out in public after staying at home for a while. They walked to the park and experienced an episode of social anxiety, causing them to cry from feeling overwhelmed. A stranger comes along and befriends them after learning that they both suffer from depression. Just like most of my other poems, this scene progressed in my mind as I wrote. The scene unravelled like a rug rolling onto the floor.
You creep behind refuge, exemplifying human nature
The dearth of your kindness kindles my feature

Your tongue must flavor of dust or dirt
For your falsehoods lay with incessant inert

When God formed you he fabricated sin
Stitched with worthlessness that festers within

I know your deeds and will sing them atop the trees
And your precious pride will perish with my lip's ease

I would do a charity and release your soul from the earth
And make the pain as profitable as your life was worth

Death will wear you as a cape in the afterlife
He'll carve his name in you everyday with a boning knife

It is a sad dawn in hell when you arrive
But it was your fate son, you mustn't deny
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018
Obviously, Teanga is the Irish word for language. "Cad é mar atá tú" is a basic phrase every Irish child would remember from the limited experience of the language that we had then - "how are you?".  I did visit Coole House around 1980 (when I was 10)  but had no idea at the time of its significance as the 'petri dish' of modern Irish culture - the home of Lady Gregory whose influence on many of our great writers was fundamental to their survival & their continuing importance today. "The Children of Lir" is an old fantastical Irish myth that was often read to very  young children during their  "story time".
jae Nov 2018
“bony is beautiful” you whisper as you reach towards me with your luring, sticky fingers extending out as you wrap them around my cold body.
you sharpen my inhales as they cut my heart on their way to my lungs.
you sear your print into my pale skin claiming me as your child of the night.
the previous marks are melting away into something more, pooling at my feet, bathing me in its sick glaze.
you tremble against my skin as you feed on my fear and insecurities, dragging me deeper and deeper into your fiery hell.
you look me in my eyes and wrap your hands around my delicate neck, my vision fades.

you are my demon;
the fear of others and the depths of human mentality,
the untraceable percentage of human worthlessness,
the detestable attraction to the demise of our minds.

i don’t even know what you look like, but i can feel you here.
your dehydrated skin that reminds me of leather
the ashes you were formed from
that are now clouding my lungs and
i cannot breathe

maybe all it took was my change in scenery;
my hair grew longer, and so did your claws.
and i’m now manifested with the scars you materialized.

a permanent body modification

you said i don’t deserve happiness unless i suffer for it.
and now i can never see you until it’s too late and i’m already bleeding.

i didn’t know having you around would make me want to be so skinny
until you were cutting away at all the edges that had grown soft since i finally left him.

it was a topic that flooded my mind for months.
it looked like a strict diet of fingernails and bones crushed into salt.
it was swallowing chalk dust to begin the day, shoving shards of glass into the scars of my heart.
it was ripping myself from the comfort of my own home.
it was being afraid of the dark.
it was swallowing my own heart.                                                           ­                  
and now, you, my demon, hold my body, empty
my soul scooped out of myself
nothing left but skin
i placed my body in your hands
i allowed you to blight my body
you said you would protect me
i scrawled poetry into broken bits and you laughed

but now?
you and him suffocate on my sunshine
the sugar you two injected in me, to keep me sweet and vulnerable,
is dying off.
until the only part of you two that will remain within me
is the notch in my heart.
and it makes my heart beat for three.
in these moments,
i'll find strength.
i'll have courage and fervor to hold on.

when my inner demon taunts me to let go,
when it smirks because the intensity is burning,
and my soul bleeds and bones ache,
and my will is tested

when the ranking of that boy was so high in the depths of my mind,
and he just blew it all away
and you're left to pick up the pieces

but his punches were so so kind
and now all that's left is the presbyopia of love

you're a "pretty girl with a pretty face"
that your demon and he will infinitely chase.
gripping your heart,
and clouding your mind

but it's all in your head

where an escape is impossible to hide.
A L I C E Feb 17
I’m scared to be at home
To say in this house
With or without people there
I’m scared to be in my own room
Scared to lay in bed
Or sit at my desk
Or even sit on my carpet
I’m scared because my room it’s like a whole different world
A world of triggers and flashbacks
A world of “your never good enough “
And worthlessness
A world of self harm and depression
A world of anorexia and anxiety
And not to forget the suicidal thoughts
But the thing is I spend more time in my room then I do breathing..
This room has been painted over and over with torturing memories
It’s been coated in with blood that has been purposely slit open from my self-destruction
I’ve tried paining over it all with white paint what we call smiles but I always see the blood stain on my hands
Scars that have been placed for a Enturnity
When I look at my bed
I don’t see the wall handing place on the wall
I don’t see my grey fluffy throwover or
My polaroid photo blanket
Or my pillows
Or the comfort of sleeping
I see it as a torture chamber
A place I overdosed on
A place I felt scars
A place that I slept on but yet still felt tired
A place where I would stave myself
A place were I cried and cried
A place full of bad memories
When I look at my desk
I don’t see a place where homework should be done
I don’t see decorations
I don’t see paper
I don’t see photos of friends
I don’t see my calendar
I see giving up  
I see a place hiding places for blades
I see new suicide notes
I see lonelyness because friends don’t seem like friends anymore
I see another day of hell of trying not to eat and survive without killing myself
I see a place where I would open blades
I see calorie counts
I see left over food
I see old tissues of blood
Over the years everything that was sad turned numb
All sad music didn’t feel sad anymore
I’ve learnt that you can dead while still living
Your not dead when your heart has stop
Your dead when your heart beat has no meaning

Like mine..
.. </3
Yenson 6d
The Pope talks and people listen
because they love and respect a man of God
All Presidents talk and people listen
because they has been given the mandate to rule
The Teachers talk and most learners listen
because they know they want to acquire knowledge
Parents talk and children listen
because they are guided and trained
The Police talk and most will listen
because they serve and protect us and the Law
The Clergies and heads of Faiths talks and followers listen
because they believe they are representatives of the Faiths
A lover talks and the partner listens
because they love and care about each other
Nonentities, angst-ed, frustrated, envious jealous, semi-illiterate
weak, ignorant, bigoted, racist, inadequate bunch of pale-faced
cowards talk and trolls
Please tell why should anyone listen or care
You have to be respected, informed and appreciated
to earn my attention
How many of us have stopped to listen
to that poor ***** seated by the street corner
Talented people are thinking suicide because of Twitter trolls
cowardly insane inadequate bullies are driving innocents to death
No way in a thousand years will I succumb to sick inferiors
their words do not register with me
why, tell me would worthlessness have meaning
I am too worthy for that and I know it undoubtedly
Like I know who my parents, the Pope, the Presidents, my Teachers, my Priests, myself and other worthy people are....
Solaces Dec 2018
I. The sad ones..
II.Poems about despair..
III.The loneliness..
IV.The sharp and dull cutting of depression..

I. I smile when I am with you. We are not the sad ones but the happy ones through and through..

II. I can write about how despair wants in on our peace.. How hopelessness is trying to break through our little army of hope.. But in the end and always trying to begin our little army prevails everytime.

III. The loneliness is simply lonely. All the time. Simply because if you are not with me you're still by my side.. Loneliness tries and sends isolation toward us.  But is greeted by our friendship and companionship..  Those two form an equation that when worked out over a long period of time equals to Love..

IV.  Depression waves around its sharp sword and tries to stab with its dull knife.  The sword is poison with regret. And the knifes handle is made out of worthlessness.. But regret is but a frame in our mind.  The now and forward create a new canvas that we can paint over all of the regrets.  We can always create instead of destroy.  Make things more grand and full of joy.  The worthlessness simply fades away because of your smile.  Thats all I needed. We paint on each other smiles on our faces everyday.. And its all worth it! Because you are worth it all!
You have the ability to always fight all of these. And you always have the weapons to do it.
Julia Betancourt Aug 2018
I don't want you to search for why,
or how I could have done this at a time in my life
where I was so close to getting out.
The truth is that I will never get out.
I will never live a life where I am not in pain,
or questioning the meaning that I have in others' lives,
not wishing that I could drown in rain,
or questioning the meaning that I have in living out the rest of my life,
not wishing that I could drown.
Truthfully, it makes no difference.
It is like I am in pain but no one is listening.
Everyone chooses to close their ears and tell me, instead,
that it will get better.
I have learned and accepted my life.
I have realized that the rest of my life consists of one under the control
of a mental problem that makes everything feel like the end of the world.
That— every time something goes mildly wrong— I feel like I'm dying.
And when it's worse, I feel like I just might as well do it now.
Nobody can change or save me— no amount of love, or song, or piece of art,
or poem, or person— can help me hang on forever.
People are undependable, which is why, out of all things, it makes sense
why even I couldn't keep me alive.
You should never put your life in someone's hands, and I did—
I put them in my own.
I made myself keep fighting until I felt even the tiniest feeling of
purpose or passion, and I told myself that even the tiniest amount
of happiness was worth it.
But that's not how you would see it in a separate scenario.
You wouldn't tell me to keep myself in a relationship where the other person
only ever gave me the bare minimum, where they only made me happy
one day a week, in that minute where they made me feel worthwhile.
You wouldn't tell me to continue on through all of the feelings of
worthlessness and uselessness and insecurity because, that one small moment
where they make me happy is worth it.
You would tell me to find someone better.
You would tell me I deserve someone better. Then, I would try to find it—
knowing only way too late that I will never find someone that could
possibly give me everything I deserve.
Those people do not exist.
And for me, being alone has never worked quite well.
Because I get in my own head.
I think about all of the things I am not, and how I don't even care to fight
to become them. I just don't care.
I shouldn't have had to fight for this long.
But life seems to disagree. Life seems to keep telling me the battles
will not end, and I think it's the same for everyone.
I just think some people don't want to have to go through it anymore.
I just think some people don't want to not feel alive anymore.
Some people finally are honest with themselves and think, "Why am I doing
this to myself?"
It seems I do to myself what others do to me.
Except it's worse, because I am with me for the rest of
my life, and I can't get away from me.
Hasi May 8
I'm afraid, that I don't have any clue of what I am going to do after school.
Collage is a dream that I cannot afford to not bring into reality- but I also don't know who will survive high school,
who will make sure that others never walk out those double doors.
Will this happen to my school?
We focus on today, because sometimes we all wake up stare at the celing and wait for tomorrow to come.
Both afraid and exited, because we all know what could happen and what hasn't been done to stop it.
I guess we just have to keep going foreward.
I'm sorry to the people that we couldn't protect.
Thank you to the people that tried.
Worthlessness is determined by others.
And I'm so, so, sorry if someone decided that your life was
It isn't. It wasn't.
I'm sorry people are treating it like it is.
Cody Cooke Apr 27
The way history just happened in a way to give these words meaning —

We grew up to believe in a Jesus ,
Were raised to want somebody , something to save us ,
To need that more than the confidence to save ourselves

And then bombs killed the sun ,
And radio filled the sky with waves ,
God’s old realm become a vast ocean of voices and other sounds

And we listened to the static for something with faith ,
Something like a Jesus , somebody to save us from a modern **** nation ,
Some note of some harmony in static

And when some people started to sing and dance ,
We made them do a Jesus, spit cameras in Their faces and committed Them to celebrity ,
Painted Their faces on cities like graffiti written on the wall

And then we made a box like a church to frame Their living image ,
Put it in our living rooms, arranged our thrones around it ,
Worked overtime at the pollution office so we could see Their faces in color

And that box just got better , got sharper in vision ,
And we worshipped it like we’d finally found faith with a remote and a bag of potato chips ,
Always upgrading the box with Pandora trademarked on plastic

And now we have that box in our ******* pockets ,
All the Jesus , facts , vileness , and worthlessness of life ,
All that is bad and maybe good for our species , the size of our palm

And it recognizes our ******* face

And we wanted it this way ,
We asked for it , voted for it , fought for it
******* paid for it
Kassan Aug 11
Force me to bed, but I don't want to fall asleep tonight.
Soaked my pillow in tears from a couple days ago.
Living through the high points of my life, but only on the low.

But I don't want to close my eyes for a second more while that empty darkness gives me a fright.
I don't want my mind to run away from the nightmares in my head, neither helping me to rest.

I'm wearing rubber clothes tonight in linen sheets. Forgive me for being a little depressed.

Forced into this worthlessness, but I would not stay there on a rich heart.
Drowing in blood, how my high blood pressure is going to prey on me tonight.

I'll pray for something warm for me to wear, but so sorry I only have these rubber clothes. Carrying the dirt of black mud.

I got a few rubber clothes, a few pieces of plastic to sew into my smile.
A few pieces of man that they wishing to take back.
A few pieces of doubt, and pieces of flesh to feed my bones along in the mile.

A rubby heart, plastic choking me from inside.
I'm wearing these rubber clothes cause I don't have anything much to hide.
Kelly Burns Jan 29
Falling deep into the emptiness of space

loneliness miss guided and missed placed

A sinking feeling a cold shiver
A life time of tears float within one river

Darkness and sorrow a feeling so hollow

The bitter sweetness of life but no dreams  to follow

Lives ruined hearts crushed

A whirl pool of pain continued to be flushed

A broken soul that tries to mend

A shattered heart that fears the end

A battered body a soulless  smile

A mountain filled with sadness
That  stretches over a mile

My heart that once loved
Has been corrupted by hate

My  world has been left in a darkened state

A brewing storm that's  on the rise
To cover up my guilt to hide all my lies

The mist setting in my shield of cover

The thickening of the air as I continue to smother

Stuck  on  an endless cycle that continues to go round

******* with my demons
I'm emotionly bound

This viscous cycle of self destruction

A broken spirit that can no longer function

A tainted young soul that can no longer cope

A mind so brittle Its lost all hope

Standing on the edge ready to let go

The pain this girl felt no one should ever know
jonas ernust Aug 13
I cried for you
like a little baby, and here I am at 5am writing a poem for you because I can't stop thinking about you and how you touched me in a such a profound way.
I'm not even angry anymore, and you deserve most of it, but it just seems so abrupt and cold this end.
I can see you online witg your posts, but you're not here. You have fundamentally vanished, decased, erased from my life, and I can't accept it.
There's too much invested, but you're gone,
And I'm gone too.
And you're heading off to some brilliant future with a newly kindled love in a city with potential, and I'm still here.
I can't just spontaneously love like you can or others can. I take ******* years.
I dont let anyone in. Noone knows me, not even my mother.
I will still be sitting here and I want to reach out.
I'm tired of the failures, and you leaving just amplifies my feeling of worthlessness.
I can't keep being alone, and a recluse. It is killing me,
I can't keep hiding, I can't keep dreaming,
I need to be free.

Free by any means
Next page