One runny nose and two puffy red eyes says she’s being unrational
A barrage of words only partially heartfelt
Unstoppable and not the least bit held back.
Tongue. Teeth. Lips. Air.
For these few seconds of flying spittal and sharp gestures
She almost forgets to breath.
And in the time it takes her to blink twice,
He, is walking, away.
He will not subject himself to
Another episode of
Self pity and Self esteem issues
He has proven his love more than once and
Even if he were to speak it would not reach past her steaming ears
She is blind. Deaf. Hollow.
And full A fool so,
He walks away.
Taking his understanding and his patience and his
Unconditional love with him because
Love just became Conditional.
Love just met the skyrocket price so
If you haven’t got the means to pay
You’d better back the hell off because
There is no more room left for charity.
Not inside his heart.
He’s been hurt, once too once too many so
Love just became Conditional,
And the words she spews at his back in an attempt at damaging
Irreversibly damaging whatever tattered pieces remain of his hope for her,
Despite, the internal whispers crying for her,
Begging for her to stop,
She makes, him walk, away.
And whatever she had really meant to say doesn’t matter anymore because
His love, and her love,
Just became Conditional.
Reliable only at the cost of brutal honesty and no surprises.
She will not entertain any fantasies
And love will come at the cost of
Night clubs and weary glances
Tight lips and guarded stances
Because ten trembling digits and an inability to move says
She’s made a mistake.
Regret the words that sparked the havoc that reaped the end.
Sputter. Blink. He is gone.
He has walked, away.
Reply
He held her hand in his
bone achingly tight;
his jaw clenched with bravado
while his legs shook in fright.
She was cold to the touch,
itsy bitsy chills;
eyes bright with life,
grin broad with thrill.
The edge beckoned them both;
sweet whispers of love:
it’s mouth agape and waiting
to swallow them both up.
One step, two.
Three, and then four:
two little love birds,
no more.
Reply
You don’t know that your fist feels like butterfly kisses,
And your words, as sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes
Don’t phase me.
My face, has been through more abuse than big city sidewalks
And my body, has convinced itself that it’s a punching bag
But I never asked you why you hate me.
Is my existence so insulting that you just had to
Try and snuff it out?
I never knew anyone but my mother to hate for no reason;
I’m not the one that laid down in the back seat
Of an old Ford pickup on that hot
Summer night
I never asked, to be given life yet
That doesn’t stop you from trying to take it,
With your greedy voice and thieving little fingers.
Every time you open your mouth I know
There are such things as demons…
I just don’t believe in angels.
I used to look for angels,
In the dirt-caked tiles of the hallway floors
Whenever you twisted me into
Mr. Fantastic angles but there
Are no such things as angels
Because if there were
They wouldn’t have let my parent’s signature
On my admissions slips be the gates
To my own person Hell.
How can a single human existence be the bane to
My will to live?
Your fists, feel like butterfly kisses,
And your words,
As sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes
Don’t phase me.
Not anymore.
I stopped trying to find God a long time ago.
Clearly he believes he’s made a mistake of creation
And sent his left hand to correct it
Because every time your knuckles connect with my flesh
It isn’t the physical pain that gets me,
But the knowledge that no one will ever
Give enough shits about me to stop it.
You stitched, my lips, with your hate.
Crippled my ability to speak to
Plead my case to
Ask if there was some sort of mistake because
God doesn’t make mistakes… right?
So there’s a reason I’m here, right?
Is there something wrong with your life?
Like
Your step daddy entered your bedroom
When you were twelve and
Ever since then…
Your own personal Hell?
Did you just want someone to know how you felt?
Your fists feel like butterfly kisses,
And your words
As sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes
Don’t phase me.
You just wanted someone
To share your pain because
Nobody knows how you feel
What you feel
What you, see every time you look in the mirror…
Are you disgusted, with yourself?
Are your flying fists
Really just a cry, for help?
Reply
I don’t remember how it started, but if I did
I would imagine it to be like a fog
twisting and pulsating within
the confinements of my brain
A speck
Of dust smudged between “I’m tired” and
"I’ve had just about enough of this."
It grew,
pressing against the inside of my skull,
consuming every happy thought my brain
saw fit to grace me with.
Starving
It didn’t just stop there but spread
Washing over my spine and pouring
into my veins like a drug.
Poison
It turned my food, into oil for the flames
my appetite, a compilation of ash and soot
and the act eating a chore
I just couldn’t sit through.
I lay awake at night.
My body a tomb stone wedged
into tthe earth of my mattress
sheets, delicate foiliage and my spirit
forever trapped in a place that never saw
the light of day.
Depression.
A word in which those of us who actually have it
never speak aloud.
Depression
is for those who have lost a loved one
for those, who have been raped
for those, who have faced the lowest level of hell
and barely made it out alive
Not for an eighteen year old facing her first semester of college
and hoping that with every rise of the sun
she will care enough about herself to
crawl out of bed.
They’re damn right depression hurts,
but they don’t tell you that it is sly and understanding
that it makes excuses
that it turns an exceptional human being into a phantom
walking amongst the living
touched by nothing and no one.
Alone. Trapped.
Depression:
An infection of the mind, body, and spirit that festers and bleeds,
leaving nothing in its wake but suffering.
Put that into the DSM.
Reply
i don’t know how to stop being me anymore
cut out parts of me for the sake of
saving the others
handing them over on a silver platter
like
"hey guys, this is what you wanted from me,
the best of me not the rest of me
the half of me not the whole of me
the me that is holy but wholly incomplete
masquerading and totally indiscreet
the reason why i can’t wear socks on my feet because
this part of me is too hot for you to touch
this part of me knows what to do with love
this part of me knows what to do with love
this part of me has a space for everyone
this part of me there’s no rejecting
no reflecting
no disconnecting from
disrespecting of
objectifying the
steel of fire and ice
lime of the light
highest of price
join or die
no flight but fight
the piece of all the pieces of
me.”
so how do i go about separating that me
from the rest of me
without losing all of me to the choice bit
of me
i think that if you try to shape your mouth around
try to chomp down
bite into
tear apart
grind me into dust
then that might be enough reason for why the
rest of me is not needed because
there will be nothing left to hold the rest of me down
nothing left of me to tarnish the crown
bloodstain the gown
stitch on the frown
poison the ground
remind me why i went looking for myself
in the first place
constructed this collage of
awkward realizations and moments of brilliance
heartfelt and heartbroken
declarations of “yeah i maybe might just a little bit
sometimes like you i don’t know yet”
"these shoes do not go with that dress"
'your face is too round for makeup yet'
'but your face will never be too round for sex'
i jest
the need for you to put yourself down is too serious
the fact that you think there’s something wrong with you
delirious “but seriously you might need help”
you think of things that shouldn’t affect exactly how you felt
like half a world away
women are being sold on the market as sex slaves
children don’t know that water should not be the same color as mud
that women that wear hijabs still know love
that we as a nation really need to decide that enough is enough
i think that you think that there is no way out
that you were born with the pain of the world
and half of you know exactly what i’m talking about
so how do i go about
pushing it out
making it someone else’s responsibility even though that pain
makes up the other half of me
the me that no one asks for because they don’t see
that this part of me cries
this part of me dies
this part of me shrivels up a little bit inside
whenever you pass without a smile
whenever you decide not to stay for while
whenever you don’t see what i see in those eyes with wings
whenever you look at me
so what do i do with the rest of me
when the me that they ask for the me
that they believe to be the whole of me
is incomplete.
Reply
A poem is a poem is a poem
And as I try to fit the abstract nonsense syllables of my brain into candy wrapper bite sizes so that my words will be easier for you to chew up and swallow I find myself marveling
Marveling at just how much pen and paper can come together and create something so beautiful, so lyrical
so perpetually full of bullsh*t that I’m surprised your nose hairs haven’t curled in on themselves
my poetry
is not for adoration
my poetry
is not for your enjoyment
my poetry isn’t a fluffy bunny
sweet smelling flower
pink stuffed animal rainbow
you will not enjoy this
it will not be over quickly
I am not a poet
But a messenger
And you will accept the words that I give you
You will accept the shock that I give you
You will accept the outrage
The horror
The pain
The unavoidable
The uncontrollable knowledge that
A poem is a poem is a poem
Not something to be analyzed
Not a thing to be nullified
The revolution
Will not be televised
And neither will this poem.
Reply
I am telling you
that it doesn’t matter
and you part lips
dip tongue
eye shift
shoulder slump
turn
done
and I am the one
left regretting.
Reply
you folded elbows, knees, fingertips
around the paper thin frame of mine
pulled me close
and whispered
these are the things we cannot control
the little hopes
the just maybe this time I’ll be okays
and I promise this time
it won’t turn out the same and
twinkle eyes
I will be around for a while
and I shivered and said
for once I don’t wish I was dead
it actually doesn’t hurt to breathe
and you fulfill all of my needs and
what is control and order when
pressing against you feels like
being uncorked
one screw too loose
hair whipping in wind
and breathlessness.
We chuckled to ourselves
and ate up the space between us
smoldered air in our lungs
fit corners and edges into
perfect slots
and loved.
Reply
it would be weird if i said
that kissing you feels like
too many melted icecream
summer nights and
scraped knees and elbows
swinging heels over porch edges
*click* “just one more *click*
"one more and then we’re done"
*click* “i promise” *click*
"go change your dress,
that isn’t the outfit i picked out for you”
just a bit too much on my dinner plate
"don’t get up until it is empty"
"it’s my turn to pick a channel!"
"no give me the remote—ow!
i’m telling on you”
*sniffling in the dark*
i know he still loves me
even when i am bad
and in the morning there will be
cartoons and laughter
hide and seek—
"hey that isn’t fair
not the way you play it
i don’t want to play with
you anymore”
*returns tomorrow*
catching crawdads in the creek
mud-caked toes
mosquito bites
lightning bugs
rustling trees
children’s books
messy fingers
joy.
Reply
i keep wanting everything to be alright
but i know that happiness is a fallacy
when my constant state of being is akin
to drifting around in a fog
and these startling moments of clarity
when tears shed unabashed down
cheeks that have been stretched painfully
into smiles
that apologize for lying every time they round
puff up
swell with laughter
that i am slowly withering away
whittling away
the part of me that wants to be free
finds release in bubbled skin and
dry eyes
empty stares and
nights spent alone counting the number of seconds
i can hold my breath before my body begins rebelling
my mind at mutiny with the pain my heart can no longer
bare
and the paths cut down my face from these salty tears
are the truest form
the most honest form
of self expression i will ever write.
Reply
Vyrusliik / Blog
Conditional
One runny nose and two puffy red eyes says she’s being unrational A barrage of words only partially heartfelt Unstoppable and not the least bit held back. Tongue. Teeth. Lips. Air. For these few seconds of flying spittal and sharp gestures She almost forgets to breath. And in the time it takes her to blink twice, He, is walking, away. He will not subject himself to Another episode of Self pity and Self esteem issues He has proven his love more than once and Even if he were to speak it would not reach past her steaming ears She is blind. Deaf. Hollow. And full A fool so, He walks away. Taking his understanding and his patience and his Unconditional love with him because Love just became Conditional. Love just met the skyrocket price so If you haven’t got the means to pay You’d better back the hell off because There is no more room left for charity. Not inside his heart. He’s been hurt, once too once too many so Love just became Conditional, And the words she spews at his back in an attempt at damaging Irreversibly damaging whatever tattered pieces remain of his hope for her, Despite, the internal whispers crying for her, Begging for her to stop, She makes, him walk, away. And whatever she had really meant to say doesn’t matter anymore because His love, and her love, Just became Conditional. Reliable only at the cost of brutal honesty and no surprises. She will not entertain any fantasies And love will come at the cost of Night clubs and weary glances Tight lips and guarded stances Because ten trembling digits and an inability to move says She’s made a mistake. Regret the words that sparked the havoc that reaped the end. Sputter. Blink. He is gone. He has walked, away.
Reply
The Dive
He held her hand in his bone achingly tight; his jaw clenched with bravado while his legs shook in fright. She was cold to the touch, itsy bitsy chills; eyes bright with life, grin broad with thrill. The edge beckoned them both; sweet whispers of love: it’s mouth agape and waiting to swallow them both up. One step, two. Three, and then four: two little love birds, no more.
Reply
Help
You don’t know that your fist feels like butterfly kisses, And your words, as sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes Don’t phase me. My face, has been through more abuse than big city sidewalks And my body, has convinced itself that it’s a punching bag But I never asked you why you hate me. Is my existence so insulting that you just had to Try and snuff it out? I never knew anyone but my mother to hate for no reason; I’m not the one that laid down in the back seat Of an old Ford pickup on that hot Summer night I never asked, to be given life yet That doesn’t stop you from trying to take it, With your greedy voice and thieving little fingers. Every time you open your mouth I know There are such things as demons… I just don’t believe in angels. I used to look for angels, In the dirt-caked tiles of the hallway floors Whenever you twisted me into Mr. Fantastic angles but there Are no such things as angels Because if there were They wouldn’t have let my parent’s signature On my admissions slips be the gates To my own person Hell. How can a single human existence be the bane to My will to live? Your fists, feel like butterfly kisses, And your words, As sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes Don’t phase me. Not anymore. I stopped trying to find God a long time ago. Clearly he believes he’s made a mistake of creation And sent his left hand to correct it Because every time your knuckles connect with my flesh It isn’t the physical pain that gets me, But the knowledge that no one will ever Give enough shits about me to stop it. You stitched, my lips, with your hate. Crippled my ability to speak to Plead my case to Ask if there was some sort of mistake because God doesn’t make mistakes… right? So there’s a reason I’m here, right? Is there something wrong with your life? Like Your step daddy entered your bedroom When you were twelve and Ever since then… Your own personal Hell? Did you just want someone to know how you felt? Your fists feel like butterfly kisses, And your words As sickly sweet as gas station seafood dishes Don’t phase me. You just wanted someone To share your pain because Nobody knows how you feel What you feel What you, see every time you look in the mirror… Are you disgusted, with yourself? Are your flying fists Really just a cry, for help?
Reply
Infection
I don’t remember how it started, but if I did I would imagine it to be like a fog twisting and pulsating within the confinements of my brain A speck Of dust smudged between “I’m tired” and "I’ve had just about enough of this." It grew, pressing against the inside of my skull, consuming every happy thought my brain saw fit to grace me with. Starving It didn’t just stop there but spread Washing over my spine and pouring into my veins like a drug. Poison It turned my food, into oil for the flames my appetite, a compilation of ash and soot and the act eating a chore I just couldn’t sit through. I lay awake at night. My body a tomb stone wedged into tthe earth of my mattress sheets, delicate foiliage and my spirit forever trapped in a place that never saw the light of day. Depression. A word in which those of us who actually have it never speak aloud. Depression is for those who have lost a loved one for those, who have been raped for those, who have faced the lowest level of hell and barely made it out alive Not for an eighteen year old facing her first semester of college and hoping that with every rise of the sun she will care enough about herself to crawl out of bed. They’re damn right depression hurts, but they don’t tell you that it is sly and understanding that it makes excuses that it turns an exceptional human being into a phantom walking amongst the living touched by nothing and no one. Alone. Trapped. Depression: An infection of the mind, body, and spirit that festers and bleeds, leaving nothing in its wake but suffering. Put that into the DSM.
Reply
Totally and Completely
i don’t know how to stop being me anymore cut out parts of me for the sake of saving the others handing them over on a silver platter like "hey guys, this is what you wanted from me, the best of me not the rest of me the half of me not the whole of me the me that is holy but wholly incomplete masquerading and totally indiscreet the reason why i can’t wear socks on my feet because this part of me is too hot for you to touch this part of me knows what to do with love this part of me knows what to do with love this part of me has a space for everyone this part of me there’s no rejecting no reflecting no disconnecting from disrespecting of objectifying the steel of fire and ice lime of the light highest of price join or die no flight but fight the piece of all the pieces of me.” so how do i go about separating that me from the rest of me without losing all of me to the choice bit of me i think that if you try to shape your mouth around try to chomp down bite into tear apart grind me into dust then that might be enough reason for why the rest of me is not needed because there will be nothing left to hold the rest of me down nothing left of me to tarnish the crown bloodstain the gown stitch on the frown poison the ground remind me why i went looking for myself in the first place constructed this collage of awkward realizations and moments of brilliance heartfelt and heartbroken declarations of “yeah i maybe might just a little bit sometimes like you i don’t know yet” "these shoes do not go with that dress" 'your face is too round for makeup yet' 'but your face will never be too round for sex' i jest the need for you to put yourself down is too serious the fact that you think there’s something wrong with you delirious “but seriously you might need help” you think of things that shouldn’t affect exactly how you felt like half a world away women are being sold on the market as sex slaves children don’t know that water should not be the same color as mud that women that wear hijabs still know love that we as a nation really need to decide that enough is enough i think that you think that there is no way out that you were born with the pain of the world and half of you know exactly what i’m talking about so how do i go about pushing it out making it someone else’s responsibility even though that pain makes up the other half of me the me that no one asks for because they don’t see that this part of me cries this part of me dies this part of me shrivels up a little bit inside whenever you pass without a smile whenever you decide not to stay for while whenever you don’t see what i see in those eyes with wings whenever you look at me so what do i do with the rest of me when the me that they ask for the me that they believe to be the whole of me is incomplete.
Reply
What A Poem Is
A poem is a poem is a poem And as I try to fit the abstract nonsense syllables of my brain into candy wrapper bite sizes so that my words will be easier for you to chew up and swallow I find myself marveling Marveling at just how much pen and paper can come together and create something so beautiful, so lyrical so perpetually full of bullsh*t that I’m surprised your nose hairs haven’t curled in on themselves my poetry is not for adoration my poetry is not for your enjoyment my poetry isn’t a fluffy bunny sweet smelling flower pink stuffed animal rainbow you will not enjoy this it will not be over quickly I am not a poet But a messenger And you will accept the words that I give you You will accept the shock that I give you You will accept the outrage The horror The pain The unavoidable The uncontrollable knowledge that A poem is a poem is a poem Not something to be analyzed Not a thing to be nullified The revolution Will not be televised And neither will this poem.
Reply
4:56am
I am telling you that it doesn’t matter and you part lips dip tongue eye shift shoulder slump turn done and I am the one left regretting.
Reply
Never Enough
you folded elbows, knees, fingertips around the paper thin frame of mine pulled me close and whispered these are the things we cannot control the little hopes the just maybe this time I’ll be okays and I promise this time it won’t turn out the same and twinkle eyes I will be around for a while and I shivered and said for once I don’t wish I was dead it actually doesn’t hurt to breathe and you fulfill all of my needs and what is control and order when pressing against you feels like being uncorked one screw too loose hair whipping in wind and breathlessness. We chuckled to ourselves and ate up the space between us smoldered air in our lungs fit corners and edges into perfect slots and loved.
Reply
Maybe
it would be weird if i said that kissing you feels like too many melted icecream summer nights and scraped knees and elbows swinging heels over porch edges *click* “just one more *click* "one more and then we’re done" *click* “i promise” *click* "go change your dress, that isn’t the outfit i picked out for you” just a bit too much on my dinner plate "don’t get up until it is empty" "it’s my turn to pick a channel!" "no give me the remote—ow! i’m telling on you” *sniffling in the dark* i know he still loves me even when i am bad and in the morning there will be cartoons and laughter hide and seek— "hey that isn’t fair not the way you play it i don’t want to play with you anymore” *returns tomorrow* catching crawdads in the creek mud-caked toes mosquito bites lightning bugs rustling trees children’s books messy fingers joy.
Reply
Salt
i keep wanting everything to be alright but i know that happiness is a fallacy when my constant state of being is akin to drifting around in a fog and these startling moments of clarity when tears shed unabashed down cheeks that have been stretched painfully into smiles that apologize for lying every time they round puff up swell with laughter that i am slowly withering away whittling away the part of me that wants to be free finds release in bubbled skin and dry eyes empty stares and nights spent alone counting the number of seconds i can hold my breath before my body begins rebelling my mind at mutiny with the pain my heart can no longer bare and the paths cut down my face from these salty tears are the truest form the most honest form of self expression i will ever write.
Reply