and decided to virtually string lines from dozens of my old poems together, throw in some new stuff here and there, and make a Frankenstein poem. Workshop on it is later today and I still can’t tell how much I hate it.
Loveless Guilt, Guiltless Love
The definition of coping
lies within my bones
and it hollows them out until there’s nothing left.
but I have torn apart the couch cushions
and peeked into all the outlets in my house
just looking for an answer
to the voice inside my head asking
Where I went wrong.
Did I ever go right?
Some nights the guilt is so bad
that it tears holes in my stomach
and I wake up with tears rolling down my cheeks
and blood flowing out of my wrists.
Burned out vision.
Broken fog lights in the midst
of the haziest night of summer.
When you knocked on my door
you said you could tell
that I hadn’t slept well in days,
and I said I loved that you had
an asymmetrical smile and no twinkle in your eye.
I swallowed you whole and spit out the seeds
and from those seeds sprouted gravestones-
each one belonging to a demon of yours.
but I’ve woken up drunk too many times
to pretend that I fear anyone’s corpses.
I collect them.
Is being able to walk
Around a store
Without being followed
Or stared at
Is being able to smile at
“First world problems”
While people whose smiles
Deserve to live on
Continue to die from
Third world problems
Is being able to use
The “food chain”
As an excuse
Of the only beings
The way blogspot shows you where your pageviews were from, what browser they used, and where the traffic was coming from is weird af to me.
But it’s pretty cool that I had a page view from Malaysia. And Germany. And Indonesia.
BUT I’ve gotten 228 page views in the past two days and zero feedback so now I want to punch my notebook and laptop and pencil box. I guess no one has anything to say.
is now archived on a blogspot blog. Not all of it is on there; in fact, there are only six pieces on there at the moment. I will be revising, trashing, re-vamping, re-writing, and re-utilizing my old poems, short stories, etc. and posting them on that blogspot “portfolio.”
Most of my writing on tumblr is first draft and has never been edited or looked at again after being written. If I’m going to progress, I can’t let all my pieces remain stagnant and unchanged.
I hope you guys can provide feedback and follow. Thanks, y’all.
of studying biology on a pre-vet track, I have finally embraced what my heart has been trying to tell me rather than what my mind and my father have been insisting. For two years, I have found a sense of security in my ability to assuredly tell others what I am studying and what I want to do with my life; however, my confidence began to waver long ago, and I am tired of lying to myself. I may not be able to tell others exactly where I am going or what I will be doing in the future, but I do know that I will not waste any more time trying to be something I am not and do something I am not good at. I know that it is not in God’s plans for me to be a veterinarian and although it is something I truly wanted, I trust that He will set me on the right path. I know that He has bigger plans in store for me than I have ever imagined! I am now an English major, and I am eager to begin a chapter of life that merges my studies and my passion.
With my wrist all painted red
this is the only warmth I feel in such a cold, cold world.
And the blood begins to puddle so dark
that I question if there is any light left within me.
I wipe and I wipe but the gashes fill back up
the way I wish I could refill my happiness.
These paper towels are saturated and there’s no going back now
but the guilt has already set in and overcome me.
I wish the numbness lasted for just a moment more.
Just a moment more.
I cyclically shed this skin
hoping to rid myself of the darkness
but a layer is not enough.
A layer is not enough.
I rip and tear and claw at my arms,
at my legs,
at my chest;
but after all this time I realize,
I’ll never reach my heart.
And the emptiness, the pain, the sadness,
it’s buried far beyond skin deep.
It’s buried deep within the hollows
where I cannot reach.
But I wake up every day
and I hope this layer is the one.
I hope this is the day
where I’ll wash it all off
and I’ll watch the sadness swirl down the drain
with my purple hairs and my leftover mascara
because I don’t just want to be clean
I want to be happy.
I was trapped in the depths of Hell
but it’s something I’d never admit.
And you couldn’t even tell
so the torment would just permit.
I’ve wanted to see a doctor but all I’ll get is a script
and I promise you that medication won’t help me get a grip.
"I think there’s something wrong with me"-
I’ve almost let it slip.
But those are words you won’t comprehend,
and you’ll think I’m just a trip.
So I get faded until I don’t care anymore,
but what happens when that’s it?
I’m lying on the floor
seconds before the pills hit.
You’d think it would be easy,
but it takes more than a bottle of pills and a slit.
All I ever wanted was to kill this pain.
All I ever wanted was to end this shit.
I take a deep breath
but my lungs are filled with vodka
and I’m glad I’m not there because I’d be drowning right in front of you.
My fingers shake as I type words that can’t even explain half of what I’m feeling
and if I could drive home right now, I would.
I search through song lyrics and poetry hoping to catch a glimpse of this emotion that I’m experiencing
but no one strings these words together the right way.
This is where I realize that the spaces between my fingers really were made for yours
and although I lived for 19 years before I was aware,
there’s no going back now.
This is where I realize that I didn’t know what I was missing
and leaving it unfinished was worse than leaving it in pieces.
So maybe we can finished what we started.
Maybe we can pick up where we left off.
I’m ready to write this story since no one else has.
Crimson spotted towels
because I failed myself again.
Three months clean becomes a memory
and it won’t stop flowing.
It won’t stop flowing.
I don’t know how I’ll hide them
but I guess I’ll have to try
and this is my least favorite part,
this is where I lie.
This is where I walk away
This is where I build walls
This is where I pretend I’m fine
It takes me back to the bathroom stalls.
I can form them into metaphors and I can bring these words to life
but nothing can change the horror in my actions
Nothing can make it alright.
I take two steps forward
and one thousand steps back.
These scars are fading memories
but where’s the fun in that?
So I add more as I go
and then I try to erase them too
adding creams and oils and remedies as they vanish few by few.
I take a little time off and I fight my demons well
but no matter what I do
I end up back here in Hell.