qwerty keys clicking,
rhythmically printing out lines and lines
of lives and the numbers associated with each.
There's the sound of the shuffling papers,
creaking file cabinets,
and the loud angry rumbling of the heater.
My tongue tastes like cheap envelope glue,
and down the hall I hear my boss mumble,
there's another policy that expires on this date
or about more calls about more numbers that are too expensive.
I can hear the tap tap tap of my foot,
followed by another stack of names and numbers.
Lunch is in two hours and after that I can go home in four.
Cheap envelope glue,
qwerty keys clicking,
and the electronic ring of a phone.
A winter job,
something to keep my hands occupied,
and my wallet filled for next semester.
But my mind is already set on 4:30.
The blissful time when I can shut down my computer,
go home and return to the laptop I love.
A new set of qwerty keys,
the job I wish I could do all day.
Escaping from the economic stopgap of insurance,
and returning to the true job.
However it's only 2pm now, I've daydreamed the day away
and there's eight more files that need to be ran through
before I can dream again.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Thursday, November 8, 2018
The dark place
It seems that every time something goes wrong,
I return to the dark place.
The deep crevice of my mind,
a thick viscous black liquid of despair.
So I can just lay there,
and drown.
It's here that I spend most times I'm gone,
when my manicism takes a hold
and I'm choked by the stagnant air
of my own depression and anxiety.
It's the voice who clings on my shoulders
and whispers the worst things to come,
it's because of me this happened.
It's because you weren't as giving.
It's because you weren't submissive enough.
It's because you are a crybaby.
It's because you're lazy.
It's because you were born.
Who would ever love a creature who drives so many,
into the darkest places
because that's where you thrive.
You ruined his life.
You ruined her life.
You ruined her body.
You abandoned them.
You broke his heart.
It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault.
You always dreamed of being an angel,
maybe it's time your walk off the overpass...
I return to the dark place.
The deep crevice of my mind,
a thick viscous black liquid of despair.
So I can just lay there,
and drown.
It's here that I spend most times I'm gone,
when my manicism takes a hold
and I'm choked by the stagnant air
of my own depression and anxiety.
It's the voice who clings on my shoulders
and whispers the worst things to come,
it's because of me this happened.
It's because you weren't as giving.
It's because you weren't submissive enough.
It's because you are a crybaby.
It's because you're lazy.
It's because you were born.
Who would ever love a creature who drives so many,
into the darkest places
because that's where you thrive.
You ruined his life.
You ruined her life.
You ruined her body.
You abandoned them.
You broke his heart.
It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault.
You always dreamed of being an angel,
maybe it's time your walk off the overpass...
Thursday, October 25, 2018
Transitions of Person
She and I are one in the same.
We are two sides of the same coin,
and yet we are the same face.
Without her I wouldn't be here,
and without me she wouldn't be allowed a second chance.
We exist to few,
and many.
The few that remember her
can't stand the thought of me.
The many who know me,
are terrified of the concept of her.
She is the blue in my artwork
and I am the black in the shadows.
She is the hands pressing into my shoulder blades,
and I am the chains keeping myself grounded.
I feel her sorrow, her pain,
all of it hides under the cover of my own.
There's a loneliness to her existence,
and there's trepidation in her actions.
There's a fear that he will never forgive her,
no matter what she does
he can't forgive her first sins.
Then it becomes my job to right her mistakes,
but how can I do that?
How can I go back and fix what was broken?
I'm only human.
She and I are one in the same.
We share the same name,
the same face,
almost near identical personas...
But I am not her.
She may be a form of me, but I am not her.
I am in a rotation,
moving away from my fears about not being good enough,
not being enough
to be close to her.
I thought she was perfect, flawless,
and that's why he sought me out
because I was her.
But I realized, she is far from it.
She was never perfect, or flawless,
and while he came looking for her he found me.
I don't want to be her,
I am not her.
And for the first time, I'm okay with that.
We are two sides of the same coin,
and yet we are the same face.
Without her I wouldn't be here,
and without me she wouldn't be allowed a second chance.
We exist to few,
and many.
The few that remember her
can't stand the thought of me.
The many who know me,
are terrified of the concept of her.
She is the blue in my artwork
and I am the black in the shadows.
She is the hands pressing into my shoulder blades,
and I am the chains keeping myself grounded.
I feel her sorrow, her pain,
all of it hides under the cover of my own.
There's a loneliness to her existence,
and there's trepidation in her actions.
There's a fear that he will never forgive her,
no matter what she does
he can't forgive her first sins.
Then it becomes my job to right her mistakes,
but how can I do that?
How can I go back and fix what was broken?
I'm only human.
She and I are one in the same.
We share the same name,
the same face,
almost near identical personas...
But I am not her.
She may be a form of me, but I am not her.
I am in a rotation,
moving away from my fears about not being good enough,
not being enough
to be close to her.
I thought she was perfect, flawless,
and that's why he sought me out
because I was her.
But I realized, she is far from it.
She was never perfect, or flawless,
and while he came looking for her he found me.
I don't want to be her,
I am not her.
And for the first time, I'm okay with that.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
Ocean Flying
Being on a boat is similar to flying.
We crashed into the water,
slamming against each and every wave
each jump strong enough to send us skimming into the air.
Holding onto the bars of the boat for dear life,
I felt as if the tiniest slip of my fingers
would send me flying into the ocean below.
But in a way I wanted to experience that.
I wanted to know what it would be like,
to be yanked backwards in a brief moment
of weightlessness,
let go by gravity
and suspended by the air.
Being on a boat is similar to flying.
It is different than being in a plane,
because a plane is a metal bird
keeping one confined.
Being on a boat is being free,
you are standing out in the open
ready for the wind to lock its arms around you
and hold you up
and pull you out.
You are open to sun and the sky.
In that moment I felt as though I was truly flying,
soaring.
I felt as though I was free.
We crashed into the water,
slamming against each and every wave
each jump strong enough to send us skimming into the air.
Holding onto the bars of the boat for dear life,
I felt as if the tiniest slip of my fingers
would send me flying into the ocean below.
But in a way I wanted to experience that.
I wanted to know what it would be like,
to be yanked backwards in a brief moment
of weightlessness,
let go by gravity
and suspended by the air.
Being on a boat is similar to flying.
It is different than being in a plane,
because a plane is a metal bird
keeping one confined.
Being on a boat is being free,
you are standing out in the open
ready for the wind to lock its arms around you
and hold you up
and pull you out.
You are open to sun and the sky.
In that moment I felt as though I was truly flying,
soaring.
I felt as though I was free.
Saturday, October 13, 2018
VII
A week of letters end with one of the people
who started it all.
He isn't the most understanding at times,
sometimes he's hard to live with,
hard to understand.
But he was always there.
Even if he stood wordless,
he was there.
Never perfect, usually far from it,
but I couldn't be prouder
and more grateful than I can
to have someone at least willing to try.
I know I must frustrate you,
I know it must be exceedingly hard.
But you try and I appreciate that
because to me someone who tries means more
than all the jewels in the world.
You aren't perfect,
but you're awe-inspiring.
I know its frustrating,
dealing with someone who has as many problems as I do.
And trying to understand the crazy,
that magnates my way
but I'm relieved there is always someone
waiting to at least listen
and offer a hand.
The final piece to my precious family,
a man who is imperfect,
has made millions of mistakes,
but still manages to brighten my darkest days.
Thank you,
to all seven days, all seven letters,
all seven people
that I wish I can give the whole world to.
-Lysa
who started it all.
He isn't the most understanding at times,
sometimes he's hard to live with,
hard to understand.
But he was always there.
Even if he stood wordless,
he was there.
Never perfect, usually far from it,
but I couldn't be prouder
and more grateful than I can
to have someone at least willing to try.
I know I must frustrate you,
I know it must be exceedingly hard.
But you try and I appreciate that
because to me someone who tries means more
than all the jewels in the world.
You aren't perfect,
but you're awe-inspiring.
I know its frustrating,
dealing with someone who has as many problems as I do.
And trying to understand the crazy,
that magnates my way
but I'm relieved there is always someone
waiting to at least listen
and offer a hand.
The final piece to my precious family,
a man who is imperfect,
has made millions of mistakes,
but still manages to brighten my darkest days.
Thank you,
to all seven days, all seven letters,
all seven people
that I wish I can give the whole world to.
-Lysa
Friday, October 12, 2018
VI
This spot belongs to you,
and to you alone.
A letter written to my oldest friend,
the one who was there before all else.
I never truly realized I was never alone,
Until now.
This is my formal apology.
Written the only way I know how,
Addressed to someone who
I'm not sure will even read it.
You were always there,
Watching and guiding
and I took it all for granted.
I mistreated you,
thanks to the misguidings
of those around me.
You never once had a selfish bone
In your body.
But I wish you did.
A silent friend who suffered,
Just to see me happy.
For once I wish you would think
Of yourself.
You are weighed down by an
unimaginably painful melancholy,
And I take the blame for it.
This is my letter to you;
A plead that for once
You will do what makes you happy.
I apologize fot the pain I caused,
And the animosity I slung your way
In the past.
A letter to my oldest friend,
Sent out on raven wings
guided by the hope that you learn
to forgive yourself
before me.
So here is a token of love,
A charm of Sodalite to drop in the ocean
and start a ripple of change.
-Lysa
Thursday, October 11, 2018
V
She is like mother nature.
As cold as ice,
as scorching as fire,
as chaotic as the sea,
and as soothing as the earth.
I had known her briefly,
but among it these last harsh years
she was a new rock I could lean on.
For a while it wasn't always this way.
There was a blind animosity I held,
but over time I learned her presence
wasn't a curse but a gift.
I'm sure at times I more
then she expected to handle,
but above it all she became a confidant and a friend
rather than a replacement.
There's not enough gratitude I can extend out,
or many words I can say to express it.
At first I thought of her as a thief,
sneaking its way into my life;
but now she is a crucial piece to me,
becoming as irreplaceable as the sun
and as constant as the moon.
-Lysa
As cold as ice,
as scorching as fire,
as chaotic as the sea,
and as soothing as the earth.
I had known her briefly,
but among it these last harsh years
she was a new rock I could lean on.
For a while it wasn't always this way.
There was a blind animosity I held,
but over time I learned her presence
wasn't a curse but a gift.
I'm sure at times I more
then she expected to handle,
but above it all she became a confidant and a friend
rather than a replacement.
There's not enough gratitude I can extend out,
or many words I can say to express it.
At first I thought of her as a thief,
sneaking its way into my life;
but now she is a crucial piece to me,
becoming as irreplaceable as the sun
and as constant as the moon.
-Lysa
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
IV
My precious family.
A collection of personalities,
smiles, and obscene language.
You all are a pillar to lean against
and a shoulder to cry on.
Those who have stood beside me
when I was at my worst,
best,
and at my most unreasonable.
To all of you there aren't enough words in our language
to express my extreme gratitude that you all exist.
That you all have persisted through the flames,
the bouts of depression,
and the melancholy that plagues you all.
You are my precious family,
the beloved people who helped me
become the person I am.
I would not be here if not for you.
There's no way to step around it,
to dazzle you all with fancy prose
I would rather be blunt and speak from the heart.
If I was to be eloquent and work with metaphor
then the words I truly wish to say would be lost.
-Lysa
A collection of personalities,
smiles, and obscene language.
You all are a pillar to lean against
and a shoulder to cry on.
Those who have stood beside me
when I was at my worst,
best,
and at my most unreasonable.
To all of you there aren't enough words in our language
to express my extreme gratitude that you all exist.
That you all have persisted through the flames,
the bouts of depression,
and the melancholy that plagues you all.
You are my precious family,
the beloved people who helped me
become the person I am.
I would not be here if not for you.
There's no way to step around it,
to dazzle you all with fancy prose
I would rather be blunt and speak from the heart.
If I was to be eloquent and work with metaphor
then the words I truly wish to say would be lost.
-Lysa
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
III
He is the salt of the earth.
A weed growing in the garden of Eden,
or so they said.
You were uprooted from warm soil
and tossed into a cul-de-sac of discrimination
and hate.
You were not a weed but a rose,
just trying to bloom in the sunlight
instead you were trampled and plucked
like a dandelion.
I feel nothing in my heart but pity...
I pity what the world has done to you
leaving you jaded and reliant on other weeds hated by the world.
But you have always been there for me;
a close friend and confidant,
someone willing to reach into the dark
and comfort those
despite being equally as pained yourself.
You are resilience,
a pure ivory tower that is loved
chips, scratches, breaks
and all.
A melody known only to those,
who are willing enough to listen.
-Lysa
A weed growing in the garden of Eden,
or so they said.
You were uprooted from warm soil
and tossed into a cul-de-sac of discrimination
and hate.
You were not a weed but a rose,
just trying to bloom in the sunlight
instead you were trampled and plucked
like a dandelion.
I feel nothing in my heart but pity...
I pity what the world has done to you
leaving you jaded and reliant on other weeds hated by the world.
But you have always been there for me;
a close friend and confidant,
someone willing to reach into the dark
and comfort those
despite being equally as pained yourself.
You are resilience,
a pure ivory tower that is loved
chips, scratches, breaks
and all.
A melody known only to those,
who are willing enough to listen.
-Lysa
Monday, October 8, 2018
II
More than anger more than rage,
a gladioulus with the shape and strength
of a lion.
Your actions speak louder
that the words you struggled to make.
Embracing those around you
rather than speak,
for to you a hug means more than a monologue.
Lost to the feelings unknown to you,
yet still reaching out to lend aid
to those more lost.
An energy of red and blue coursing through your veins;
calm yet passionate,
collected yet manic.
A hurricane of grace and beauty swallowing
all those around and keeping them tangled up
in strands of a vicious yet vibrant wind.
A cherished friend, an ally, and a confidant
until the end.
-Lysa
Sunday, October 7, 2018
I
I'm attempting to capture you by removing myself.
However there is truly no way to speak about you
without talking about him,
and that which pressed into the cracks
that cascaded across your face.
You had to grow up early
and become the mother of nature to all around,
but never truly getting to enjoy the wind
and the sky.
Freedom was marriage.
That was your only escape,
because in your mind two rings of gold
felt less like shackles,
compared to the prison of home.
You wanted to fly.
You wanted to travel,
to see the world on wings of metal and plastic.
But everyone clipped your wings
and they rubbed you into the dirt,
because your father thought it was too dangerous
and your husband was finishing his degree.
You flew to Florida where the wind is hot,
your son is dumb,
and your womb was barren.
Misery and melancholy clipped your wings,
as you bore a daughter while your husband
slept in other beds.
All you wanted to was fly,
but you soar closer and closer to the ground.
Life has been cruel and you'd rather be mad then sad,
'cause all you wanted to do was fly.
-Lysa
However there is truly no way to speak about you
without talking about him,
and that which pressed into the cracks
that cascaded across your face.
You had to grow up early
and become the mother of nature to all around,
but never truly getting to enjoy the wind
and the sky.
Freedom was marriage.
That was your only escape,
because in your mind two rings of gold
felt less like shackles,
compared to the prison of home.
You wanted to fly.
You wanted to travel,
to see the world on wings of metal and plastic.
But everyone clipped your wings
and they rubbed you into the dirt,
because your father thought it was too dangerous
and your husband was finishing his degree.
You flew to Florida where the wind is hot,
your son is dumb,
and your womb was barren.
Misery and melancholy clipped your wings,
as you bore a daughter while your husband
slept in other beds.
All you wanted to was fly,
but you soar closer and closer to the ground.
Life has been cruel and you'd rather be mad then sad,
'cause all you wanted to do was fly.
-Lysa
Saturday, October 6, 2018
New project announcement!!!!
As of today I'd like to announce a new project that will be unfolding here on the blog.
Starting tomorrow (Sunday October 7th, 2018) I will be unveiling seven "letters" I have written. Recently the idea of feelings conveyed through words have been rattling in my brain. Sometimes the human language ignores what it is we truly feel and what we truly mean to say. It is because of this idea that I wish to unveil my feelings the only way I know how: through poetry and words.
All of these will be entitled to different people in my life who have inspired the person I am today. I've been working on this project for some time and I feel as though this is the only why I can express my gratitude to who they are and what they have done for me.
Each letter will not be addressed, these words in a way aren't intended for the world but merely for them. Some of these will never been seen by the eyes they are meant for, but that doesn't mean that the feelings that belong to them deserve to be forgotten. Seven letters, each for someone important to me in one way or another, scattered across seven days.
I hope you continue to stay with me on this journey and that my feelings may not only reach those who these are intended for, but may inspire you all to express your own feelings whatever way it is right for you.
-Lysa of The Writers Den
Starting tomorrow (Sunday October 7th, 2018) I will be unveiling seven "letters" I have written. Recently the idea of feelings conveyed through words have been rattling in my brain. Sometimes the human language ignores what it is we truly feel and what we truly mean to say. It is because of this idea that I wish to unveil my feelings the only way I know how: through poetry and words.
All of these will be entitled to different people in my life who have inspired the person I am today. I've been working on this project for some time and I feel as though this is the only why I can express my gratitude to who they are and what they have done for me.
Each letter will not be addressed, these words in a way aren't intended for the world but merely for them. Some of these will never been seen by the eyes they are meant for, but that doesn't mean that the feelings that belong to them deserve to be forgotten. Seven letters, each for someone important to me in one way or another, scattered across seven days.
I hope you continue to stay with me on this journey and that my feelings may not only reach those who these are intended for, but may inspire you all to express your own feelings whatever way it is right for you.
-Lysa of The Writers Den
Monday, October 1, 2018
1:25 am
Steady thrum thrum thrum of my 2nd heartbeat,
Laying on my stomach,
so that my crumpled up paper bird wings
can stretch out and up towards the heavens.
There's a universe in my hands
and a second set of brains rattling around in my skull.
I think about all the things that could have been;
if I had chosen you over the world,
if I had chosen her over myself.
Would it have turned out differently?
Would my wings still be broken, clipped, and destroyed?
Would I still be trapped in a cage
of meat,
bones,
and a brittle human heartbeat?
Would my world be any differently?
Would my desires still be earthly?
Or would they,
reach new heights?
Could it be possible that my desires will reach
that which only the Seraphs could scrape with their fingertips?
The end of each day
I am still made of paper and glass:
a human creature made of fragile porcelain,
held together by strings
and wings that are too heavy to lift me
even an inch off the ground.
Laying on my stomach,
so that my crumpled up paper bird wings
can stretch out and up towards the heavens.
There's a universe in my hands
and a second set of brains rattling around in my skull.
I think about all the things that could have been;
if I had chosen you over the world,
if I had chosen her over myself.
Would it have turned out differently?
Would my wings still be broken, clipped, and destroyed?
Would I still be trapped in a cage
of meat,
bones,
and a brittle human heartbeat?
Would my world be any differently?
Would my desires still be earthly?
Or would they,
reach new heights?
Could it be possible that my desires will reach
that which only the Seraphs could scrape with their fingertips?
The end of each day
I am still made of paper and glass:
a human creature made of fragile porcelain,
held together by strings
and wings that are too heavy to lift me
even an inch off the ground.
Monday, September 24, 2018
No Post Title
This is the hurting.
This is the healing.
I used to hear these words all the time in my head,
I still do.
In a way we all do.
We all hear that jiminy cricket voice in our head,
whispering that what we are doing is hurting
or what we experience is healing.
Sometimes we hear the hurting more than the healing.
In my mind,
I find it hard to believe the ripping feeling in my chest,
the breathless steps I take,
and the agonizing feeling of a heartbeat
is healing.
Healing is being able to smile at those who've wronged you and say:
"I forgive you."
I've smiled and I spoke...
but I never really meant it.
On the other side,
my truest healing came with tears.
I cried, and screamed, and begged...
and then I forgave.
I took the one who did the most hurting,
and I smiled through the tears and said:
"I forgive you."
That was the healing.
This is the hurting.
All these words are bottled up,
begging for release.
I can scream to the heavens but at the end of the day,
this hurt wont dare look me in the eyes.
Melancholy hits the hardest when you're in the dark.
Sometimes you go to sleep smiling,
and wake up suffocated by the invisible hands
of hurt.
These are my first steps;
I know you'll never truly face me,
you'll keep hiding.
And I'm okay with that.
That is your hurting,
This is finally my healing.
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Requiem
Am I truly a good person?
I try and I try and I try
but each time I fall into the same patterns.
Holding my tongue when words demand to be said,
bottling everything up until I explode.
Every time I think I've moved past my scars
I find new words hidden between the pages of my past,
your stench lingers on everything you've touched...
including me.
Does being a good person mean I need to shut up and let you go...
does it mean I'm allowed to do what I wish so that my demon
will leave me.
Goodness is subjective.
In ones eyes I am good,
in another I am evil.
To one pair of eyes I can be both at once.
Am I still good if I give in to my urge to heal?
I don't want to cling to your memory,
I wish to rid you from it all.
To stop feeling so angry and bitter about your presence,
more than anything I want nothing more than to scream and cry;
shaking you by the collar until I see those eyes widen.
I so desperately want you to know how fucked you've made me.
My reality is no more.
I'm constantly playing pretend,
holding onto the idea that I was used.
Because at the end of the day that's all I was to you,
a toy.
I once asked you what would you do,
if the day came that I had outlived my usefulness...
would I just be another toy you can play with until I break?
Am I still a good person for wanting to right all the wrongs done to me?
To want to right all the wrongs done to those around me?
Am I still a good person for craving to keep others from your manipulation?
Because at the end of the day,
you said you loved me with someone elses voice,
and then threw me away once I finally gained my own.
I try and I try and I try
but each time I fall into the same patterns.
Holding my tongue when words demand to be said,
bottling everything up until I explode.
Every time I think I've moved past my scars
I find new words hidden between the pages of my past,
your stench lingers on everything you've touched...
including me.
Does being a good person mean I need to shut up and let you go...
does it mean I'm allowed to do what I wish so that my demon
will leave me.
Goodness is subjective.
In ones eyes I am good,
in another I am evil.
To one pair of eyes I can be both at once.
Am I still good if I give in to my urge to heal?
I don't want to cling to your memory,
I wish to rid you from it all.
To stop feeling so angry and bitter about your presence,
more than anything I want nothing more than to scream and cry;
shaking you by the collar until I see those eyes widen.
I so desperately want you to know how fucked you've made me.
My reality is no more.
I'm constantly playing pretend,
holding onto the idea that I was used.
Because at the end of the day that's all I was to you,
a toy.
I once asked you what would you do,
if the day came that I had outlived my usefulness...
would I just be another toy you can play with until I break?
Am I still a good person for wanting to right all the wrongs done to me?
To want to right all the wrongs done to those around me?
Am I still a good person for craving to keep others from your manipulation?
Because at the end of the day,
you said you loved me with someone elses voice,
and then threw me away once I finally gained my own.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Living with Social Anxiety
You don't live with social anxiety.
Living means you accept what you have,
living equals harmony.
There is no harmony.
Social anxiety doesn't coexist harmoniously
with anything.
It clashes, it collides, it commands.
You don't live with it, it controls you.
Even when you think you have it under control,
it keeps you under its thumb
when you least expect it.
'Cause you live under a regime of mental illness,
you can try and try but eventually it continues to consume.
A concept like saying your name and major
asks me to think of my answer 100 times
only to say something completely different and unplanned.
I haven't left my room long enough to properly meet my roommates,
and I stare at myself in the mirror
trying to figure out if I will stand out or look weird.
I change, I shift, and morph into someone
who can blend into their surroundings.
Trying to become a drop of water that will fall into a pond,
and not make even a single ripple.
Yes people scare me,
but I'm equally terrified when I'm alone.
You don't live with your social anxiety,
you barely survive.
Living means you accept what you have,
living equals harmony.
There is no harmony.
Social anxiety doesn't coexist harmoniously
with anything.
It clashes, it collides, it commands.
You don't live with it, it controls you.
Even when you think you have it under control,
it keeps you under its thumb
when you least expect it.
'Cause you live under a regime of mental illness,
you can try and try but eventually it continues to consume.
A concept like saying your name and major
asks me to think of my answer 100 times
only to say something completely different and unplanned.
I haven't left my room long enough to properly meet my roommates,
and I stare at myself in the mirror
trying to figure out if I will stand out or look weird.
I change, I shift, and morph into someone
who can blend into their surroundings.
Trying to become a drop of water that will fall into a pond,
and not make even a single ripple.
Yes people scare me,
but I'm equally terrified when I'm alone.
You don't live with your social anxiety,
you barely survive.
Monday, September 10, 2018
Back in the Swing
Unsure and anxious.
Taking a step away from one pain
and crossing a line into a new world that was once your old one.
I hide in my room to avoid being seen,
trying to act normal
and pretend that I will never not be scared.
The voices in my head that scream and high volumes,
aren't silenced.
They merge together until it's a white noise of anxiety.
Is there an easy way to be normal?
Is there an easy way to act like I can function
without breaking down.
Is there an easy way to pretend you aren't made of shattered glass,
held together by tape and strings?
One tiny push of pressure on the glass and it shatters.
How can one smile and hide the ghostly emotions inside.
Do you walk with your eyes actually straight ahead instead of downcast?
Do you say hi to everyone you pass?
Do you strike up a conversation with every cashier?
How do you not shrink at the idea of talking to others?
Or fear a conversation with people you don't know?
Fear is all around me and what makes me up,
so how do I learn to live without it?
I took a step forward, coloring my hair to try and see if a change will help.
But I'm just as scared.
How do I hop back into the swing of being an individual?
Taking a step away from one pain
and crossing a line into a new world that was once your old one.
I hide in my room to avoid being seen,
trying to act normal
and pretend that I will never not be scared.
The voices in my head that scream and high volumes,
aren't silenced.
They merge together until it's a white noise of anxiety.
Is there an easy way to be normal?
Is there an easy way to act like I can function
without breaking down.
Is there an easy way to pretend you aren't made of shattered glass,
held together by tape and strings?
One tiny push of pressure on the glass and it shatters.
How can one smile and hide the ghostly emotions inside.
Do you walk with your eyes actually straight ahead instead of downcast?
Do you say hi to everyone you pass?
Do you strike up a conversation with every cashier?
How do you not shrink at the idea of talking to others?
Or fear a conversation with people you don't know?
Fear is all around me and what makes me up,
so how do I learn to live without it?
I took a step forward, coloring my hair to try and see if a change will help.
But I'm just as scared.
How do I hop back into the swing of being an individual?
Sunday, August 19, 2018
"Thanks for the Memories"
This poem is inspired by the Twenty One Pilots album "Vessel"
The title is "Thanks for the Memories" by Fallout Boy
"I'm never what I like,
I'm double sided."
I was staring out my car window,
watching the dark raven sky pass.
The trees were blacker than the sky,
soaring around our small car.
My eyes fixated on a point far beyond me,
lost in the lyrics that reminded me of you.
Everyone tells me to dissociate myself away from you.
To move past the pain and the abuse
and go to live in a house of gold.
I pretend I'm above it all;
acting unphazed and uninterested
almost as if it didn't matter.
But when the trees turn black
and the sky is painted with the juice of blackberries
I listen to the migraine in my head,
and think of you.
I think of the two of us screaming and dancing,
laughing,
huddled on the ground crying.
I remember your hand in mine,
singing a prayed to me while I slept.
I remember back to a time when it wasn't all bad.
The happier moments hiding behind my manic depressive memories.
It's two o'clock in the morning in more than one place.
But in this moment I remember;
the millions of two in the mornings,
the billions of smiles, tears, and laughs.
We are finished,
but when the sky is dark
and I watch the blackened woods pass by my car,
I think about your face
the cheeky little right sided wink
as you sang to me.
I thank you for the good moments;
the nights where we sat and listened to vinyl records,
letting the music swell throughout the room.
And I thank you for the bad.
Because of the bad I've learned to be stronger,
to be more in tune with my emotions and learning to do more
for myself.
You taught me to give and the craving to take.
We are finished
"But I know we've made it this far, kid."
The title is "Thanks for the Memories" by Fallout Boy
"I'm never what I like,
I'm double sided."
I was staring out my car window,
watching the dark raven sky pass.
The trees were blacker than the sky,
soaring around our small car.
My eyes fixated on a point far beyond me,
lost in the lyrics that reminded me of you.
Everyone tells me to dissociate myself away from you.
To move past the pain and the abuse
and go to live in a house of gold.
I pretend I'm above it all;
acting unphazed and uninterested
almost as if it didn't matter.
But when the trees turn black
and the sky is painted with the juice of blackberries
I listen to the migraine in my head,
and think of you.
I think of the two of us screaming and dancing,
laughing,
huddled on the ground crying.
I remember your hand in mine,
singing a prayed to me while I slept.
I remember back to a time when it wasn't all bad.
The happier moments hiding behind my manic depressive memories.
It's two o'clock in the morning in more than one place.
But in this moment I remember;
the millions of two in the mornings,
the billions of smiles, tears, and laughs.
We are finished,
but when the sky is dark
and I watch the blackened woods pass by my car,
I think about your face
the cheeky little right sided wink
as you sang to me.
I thank you for the good moments;
the nights where we sat and listened to vinyl records,
letting the music swell throughout the room.
And I thank you for the bad.
Because of the bad I've learned to be stronger,
to be more in tune with my emotions and learning to do more
for myself.
You taught me to give and the craving to take.
We are finished
"But I know we've made it this far, kid."
Friday, August 10, 2018
Internet Morality
Monsters can be good,
angels can be bad.
Recently I've been thinking about that which is around me.
The air I breathe has been weighed by something,
that I can not yet understand.
Smog created by a grey area of mortality have plagued my mind.
I have met demons who are good,
and angels who are bad.
I have witnessed monsters that are kindhearted,
and "just" humans who have terrorized the innocent.
I view a world that is plagued by hate, but preach love;
and people who preach a different kind of love,
are ridiculed by hate.
We live in a world where the idea of,
"you decide what's right, you decide what's good"
is gifted to people who advocate their morality
for a vote,
but those who truly and openly speak are targeted
regardless of if what they speak is acceptable.
This is a society that clings to weapons of mass destruction,
rather than take a look at the real nuclear missiles.
Our words are the most powerful thing we possess.
Using leaps and bounds in technology and science,
we create new outlets for words
but still haven't grasped the full gravity of them.
An apology can be meant useless by the words that follow "I'm sorry"
We mistreat the living
but strive to honor the dead.
I've come to question the morality of those around me,
the people I've believed were just
are now as bigoted and close minded as the people they hate.
Wishing death upon someone for politics has become a new norm
that I can no longer accept.
Monsters are living among us, but it is not those we first see and think of.
It is the monsters who live within the words on the screen,
and the anonymous comments we leave.
Morality is preached by those with very little,
their judgement is clouded by their opinions.
Belief trumps logic,
and understanding is undermined by experience.
angels can be bad.
Recently I've been thinking about that which is around me.
The air I breathe has been weighed by something,
that I can not yet understand.
Smog created by a grey area of mortality have plagued my mind.
I have met demons who are good,
and angels who are bad.
I have witnessed monsters that are kindhearted,
and "just" humans who have terrorized the innocent.
I view a world that is plagued by hate, but preach love;
and people who preach a different kind of love,
are ridiculed by hate.
We live in a world where the idea of,
"you decide what's right, you decide what's good"
is gifted to people who advocate their morality
for a vote,
but those who truly and openly speak are targeted
regardless of if what they speak is acceptable.
This is a society that clings to weapons of mass destruction,
rather than take a look at the real nuclear missiles.
Our words are the most powerful thing we possess.
Using leaps and bounds in technology and science,
we create new outlets for words
but still haven't grasped the full gravity of them.
An apology can be meant useless by the words that follow "I'm sorry"
We mistreat the living
but strive to honor the dead.
I've come to question the morality of those around me,
the people I've believed were just
are now as bigoted and close minded as the people they hate.
Wishing death upon someone for politics has become a new norm
that I can no longer accept.
Monsters are living among us, but it is not those we first see and think of.
It is the monsters who live within the words on the screen,
and the anonymous comments we leave.
Morality is preached by those with very little,
their judgement is clouded by their opinions.
Belief trumps logic,
and understanding is undermined by experience.
Hard Knocks
Your age doesn't ever matter.
Your knowledge and intelligence doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter what you experience,
or the way your eyes view your world;
compared to he who stands above you
We. Are. Ignorant.
We are of the generation that sees the hypocrisy around us,
we trust a 15 minute voice on the internet,
rather than the corporate heads that tell us
what is important.
Because of people like you.
The people who undermine our views because we are young;
yes we are young,
but the young understand more than those who have been around longer.
It is not us who are ignorant or live to undermine you,
it is you who cannot see beyond your nose.
There is hate when there should be understanding.
Politics rule your compassion,
and when you should be open to new ideas and new concepts
you want to focus on the political views of he who spoke them.
We cannot change our world by focusing on a two party system,
We cannot change our problems if we focus on hate.
Opinions should not dictate views,
just like politics should not dictate our morality.
Your knowledge and intelligence doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter what you experience,
or the way your eyes view your world;
compared to he who stands above you
We. Are. Ignorant.
We are of the generation that sees the hypocrisy around us,
we trust a 15 minute voice on the internet,
rather than the corporate heads that tell us
what is important.
Because of people like you.
The people who undermine our views because we are young;
yes we are young,
but the young understand more than those who have been around longer.
It is not us who are ignorant or live to undermine you,
it is you who cannot see beyond your nose.
There is hate when there should be understanding.
Politics rule your compassion,
and when you should be open to new ideas and new concepts
you want to focus on the political views of he who spoke them.
We cannot change our world by focusing on a two party system,
We cannot change our problems if we focus on hate.
Opinions should not dictate views,
just like politics should not dictate our morality.
Friday, July 27, 2018
Cut My Hair Meme
Get
a load of this train wreck.
She
keeps floating around,
Drifting
between person to person.
Thrown
around like a cheap plastic doll than a human.
She’s
cut her hair.
I
guess that’s how she transforms…
Evolving
from a girl who dreamt of love
Into
someone who is okay with not having it.
She
hides to avoid the pain of falling out of it.
Everyone
she’s touch wilted and burned in her hands,
Driving
them insane before her eyes.
She’s
a disease.
A
scourge…
A
virus.
Get
a load of this monster.
I’m
haunted by the wraiths of my past.
Watching
them swirl around me,
My
lungs filling with water as I drown.
Being
held under the water for my crimes.
Everyone
I love I burn.
My
existence to them is a scourge.
It
drains them into someone they never thought they wanted to be.
Obsession.
I
drive people to obsession.
I
drive them away into monsters of their own…
And
then I let them go.
“Some
thoughts are better left unsaid.”
“Some
people are better left unloved.”
Everyone
I’ve touched burns in my hands.
I’m
the snake in the garden of Eden.
I’m
the black plague.
I’m
the monster in the rose garden.
I
deserve to be alone.
I
should stay that way.
It’s
as if god is punishing me.
Everyone
I touch go someone I can’t reach,
And
now it’s time for them to heal
Because
I stepped in.
I’ll
cut my hair.
I’ll
abandon who I was before.
Sometimes
I wish I can go back to the days,
When
it was just me and you in the garden.
When
it was us against the world…
I
wish I can rewind time;
and
I chose you over the world.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
Monday, July 23, 2018
Requiem for a Demon
Inspired by the lyrics of “Requiem”
from the musical: Dear Evan Hansen
“Why should I go and fall apart for
you?”
Every breath I take goes to you…
Every heartbeat belongs to you.
In your head you are my world…
“Why should I have a heavy heart?”
You were supposed to always be
there for me.
You were supposed to catch me when
I fall…
But you never did.
Don’t you dare tell me we are black
and white,
Don’t you dare tell me how I should
feel.
Don’t question me for my lack of
tears…
I’ve sung too many requiems for
you…
I’ve given you too many breaths…
Too many heartbeats have been
thrown away by you.
I tried…
to let you be everything for me.
I tried…
to be the goddess you wanted.
I tried…
to be the angel you needed.
I tried…
I cried once for you.
Seeing into your eyes,
watching the memories disintegrate
into wisps of smoke.
That was the one time I cried,
The moment I felt my heart truly
beat for you.
Since then I never felt the same heartbeat…
Even when we were one I was two.
You struggled to accept my duality
But begged that I accept yours.
“Why should I go and fall apart for
you…
“Why should I say I’ll keep you
with me?”
I will sing no more requiems…
You’ve died too many times for me
to give you my tears.
If I cried it wouldn’t be genuine
anymore…
It’ll be as fake as your “I Love
You”
It will be as tainted as your
reality…
It will be as fake…
“Why should I have a heavy heart?
“Why should I go and fall apart for
you?”
I have given you too much.
I have given you…
I tried to be human for you.
Don’t you dare tell me that it was
real.
Don’t you dare question my lack of
tears,
If I broke down and cried right now
It’ll be as fake as you.
You were supposed to stay.
You were supposed to be my pillar.
Why did I end up being only yours?
Why did our love become a contest
of pretending?
Was there even enough love to start
the game?
I will sing no more requiems…
tonight.
Insomniac poetry vol 1
Poets will always be tortured souls.
We enjoy the misery behind every syllable.
We relish in the words,
bathing in the putrid sorrow of pure humanistic melancholy.
It's disgusting.
It's revolting.
It's so painstakingly beautiful that one can't tear their eyes away.
Poet introductions always seem like interventions.
"Yes I am a poet."
"Yes I am a poor tortured soul."
"Yes I have been abused by the world and by god."
"Maybe I like it this way."
God has punished the creative;
he has given those with the eyes that truly see
a blackened dark labyrinth and a candle,
told us to take the walk of faith
and see the world on the other side.
We stumble, feeling the crumbling walls along our fingertips,
guided by the ghostly hope that there is in fact
something on the other side.
"Will I ever see it?"
"Will I ever feel the sunlight on my paper skin?"
"Will my inky blood finally cease?"
Poets are tortured, lamenting souls.
If we were to finally reach the end of the labyrinth we have found peace,
we fear for that day.
If we step into the sunlight, then we cease to suffer.
And if we stop suffering then our art is finished.
We enjoy the misery behind every syllable.
We relish in the words,
bathing in the putrid sorrow of pure humanistic melancholy.
It's disgusting.
It's revolting.
It's so painstakingly beautiful that one can't tear their eyes away.
Poet introductions always seem like interventions.
"Yes I am a poet."
"Yes I am a poor tortured soul."
"Yes I have been abused by the world and by god."
"Maybe I like it this way."
God has punished the creative;
he has given those with the eyes that truly see
a blackened dark labyrinth and a candle,
told us to take the walk of faith
and see the world on the other side.
We stumble, feeling the crumbling walls along our fingertips,
guided by the ghostly hope that there is in fact
something on the other side.
"Will I ever see it?"
"Will I ever feel the sunlight on my paper skin?"
"Will my inky blood finally cease?"
Poets are tortured, lamenting souls.
If we were to finally reach the end of the labyrinth we have found peace,
we fear for that day.
If we step into the sunlight, then we cease to suffer.
And if we stop suffering then our art is finished.
Personality Disorder
Can a being only exist to one person?
A persona only allowed to some but not all
One for each facet I allow the world to see;
each holding it's own validity,
it's own will to breathe and thrive.
She is the persona seen only by family.
They are the form only known to those caught in inter-webs.
While she is the mask seen by her friends.
He only sees her in the dark, when the moonlight can't escape the curtains,
and his pupils can't see anything past the tip of his nose.
The matriarch keeps them all locked away;
safely secure within their own solitary prisons.
Lost in the threads that keep them tied to this world.
When one outlives her use she is executed...
her remains scattered among the survivors.
She lives, but she is never intact.
It's a game.
"How many lives can I live before someone realizes I'm not real?"
I'm a fantasy,
a beautiful disgusting dream.
An enigma left only to those who dare to dig for her.
She who is left, chained away by all the masks.
The sorting system of masks are in shambled.
It is a disorganized mess of masks and false smiles.
The matriarch weeps every time she wears the wrong one.
The disorder is all she knows...
all she wants to know.
Nothing else matters but her disorder of personalities.
And sometimes among the chaos,
the real her swims to the surface.
Only for a moment...
Only for a glimpse,
before being dragged back to the bottom.
Back into the abyss.
A persona only allowed to some but not all
One for each facet I allow the world to see;
each holding it's own validity,
it's own will to breathe and thrive.
She is the persona seen only by family.
They are the form only known to those caught in inter-webs.
While she is the mask seen by her friends.
He only sees her in the dark, when the moonlight can't escape the curtains,
and his pupils can't see anything past the tip of his nose.
The matriarch keeps them all locked away;
safely secure within their own solitary prisons.
Lost in the threads that keep them tied to this world.
When one outlives her use she is executed...
her remains scattered among the survivors.
She lives, but she is never intact.
It's a game.
"How many lives can I live before someone realizes I'm not real?"
I'm a fantasy,
a beautiful disgusting dream.
An enigma left only to those who dare to dig for her.
She who is left, chained away by all the masks.
The sorting system of masks are in shambled.
It is a disorganized mess of masks and false smiles.
The matriarch weeps every time she wears the wrong one.
The disorder is all she knows...
all she wants to know.
Nothing else matters but her disorder of personalities.
And sometimes among the chaos,
the real her swims to the surface.
Only for a moment...
Only for a glimpse,
before being dragged back to the bottom.
Back into the abyss.
Sunday, July 22, 2018
Daffodil
Symbolism: Sympathy, inner
reflection, rebirth, new beginnings.
I was given a daffodil;
a single sunlit bulb made of
velvet.
Holding the stem between my fingers
I felt as though
I was holding the world.
Desperately wanting the flower to
thrive.
For its petals to reach up high,
and bask in the wind and the light.
Humming songs as I kneed the soil
around the stem,
the music feeding the roots.
Kneading the root of the stem into
the dirt,
I felt as though I was caring for the
world.
Despite the sunlight, the water,
the tender love and care
It does not grow.
Instead the stem sags,
The petals wither and curl.
It’s vibrant golden face, bruised
and brown,
As if each teardrop was spilt into
an open flame.
This was my daffodil.
The only one of its kind.
Its bruised petals,
A thread for a stem,
Its curled and insect infested
leaves,
This was still my daffodil.
It was precious to me,
Not for its looks or potential,
But for the time I spent trying to
nurture it.
Yet with all my love and care,
It had been smothered and
suffocated.
Gasping rather than breathing.
But it was still alive.
Against all odds the roots were
healthy,
The leaves still received enough to
keep going.
Against all odds it still wanted me.
I was given a daffodil;
A single golden bulb filled with so
much promise and hope,
Yet despite being trampled
somehow it thrived.
But not with me.
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