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,the thing they forgot to mention
about being a writer
is that we all live the longest
and die the fastest.
we feast on metaphors
with numb fingers and hearts
until we crawl under a half moon to sleep
and just don't wake up,
because everything we are
is arranged in our work
and we start to become
everything we've written about,
slowly but surely.
and now i'm not so sure
if i want to be a poet.
i just know
that i want to be a writer.
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.
write about it
like you don't care.
try to mean it.
go through months
of shitty pity-leaking almost-poems
before you get one
that actually makes someone feel
say that it was all a mistake.
only feel like a writer
when you're insecure.
fall in love
with someone. anyone.
that's it's just for fun. just for being
actually love the hell out of them.
mess it up.
write about it.
smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,
but with the hopes
of saving your lungs for running
(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)
and drink and drink and drink
until you have the courage
to call up ex boyfriends
or lovers or dead friends
to say that you miss them.
write about that-
like you don't care.
everyone knows that you care.
write about that.
i hated him first.when I was 13, a boy leaned over his desk and asked what was on my wrist, and i showed him, because they were just words. that was when i still wrote on my arms in blue ink; i needed some kind of reminder (though it's hard to say what for). his eyes flickered over my boney arms, and he pushed himself back to his seat and grinned-- then laughed.
"good," he said, "i thought you were cutting yourself or some shit."
i laughed, too, and while i laughed, something in me changed. i hated him. i hated him and his blonde hair and scarless skin and i hated the way that his teeth looked and i hated him. and while i smiled i started to hate myself, too, because i realized how ugly this made me.
but i still laughed.
i laughed because, yes, i was cutting myself, but i laughed because he was ugly, too. i laughed because i was the best actor in the world, and the best liar, too; i never had to lie and say i was fine, because nobody ever asked me if i were.
in that moment, we w
narcissism.you smoke and drink
until you're more lifeless
than the moon at 1p.m.--
tequila and bad thoughts
can be your craters. i
was never your galaxy,
can never be anything more
than a black hole.
collar full.shots taken
on a creaky bridge
in the outskirts of this damned town.
captain morgan and coke
makes my eyes water
but i was so lifeless and bored
so i took it down in ginger gulps.
i called my ex boyfriend
and asked him
to come to town,
i wanted to see him,
and he came.
and i kissed him.
(but he kissed me first, and
i don't regret it).
we drove to the country
and i thought
i was going to throw up
(drank too much,
weighing 110 isn't a plus for holding your drink)
and he offered
to hold my hair.
half empty of bottle in his hand
and me in the other
his skin felt like ecstasy.
the night was never ours,
we pretended that it was.
nicotine.there's something burning
about the numbness of menthols
and his eyes
when they bring back all the fucked up memories.
it's not like
i don't remember. no; i know
exactly what he did,
and i remember falling apart in red puddles
curled up on my bathroom floor.
but his love
is just like cheap cigarettes;
i just can't get the taste
out of my mouth.
we don't want to die. but
we're all going to.
the higher they stand, the harder they fallhe considers her a stranger.
she could've been a singer or a
dancer or a baker or a star, but she
chose to be a fighter because
lovers always lose (in
the ironic, metaphorical sense.)
she could've been happy, but she didn't
choose that path.
because "it is better to have loved,
but sometimes old washed-out poets
like tennyson are not always right.
love is a hurricane of
sticks and stones that may or may not
break skeletal frames and hearts.
once: he considered her a maybe-
infatuation, because eight-thirteenths
of a heart is not,
i repeat not,
enough to love someone.
twice: he considered her just another
feather in a bird flock,
and strangely, that was okay with her.
but she was a fighter and
he was her magnum opus of sorts.
goddamn, did you see that girl
thrash at the waves
just to hold on to a tiny piece
of a man not strong enough to hold his own?
she was a fighter because
he claimed he was a lover, but in the end
she lost and he was still
.you are dead and buried
six feet under yourself,
still feeling the way you did
when you were seventeen
and when you bathe, you still
keep your head under the
water, wrists upturned, red
eyes open, trying to drown yourself
You Made Me Hate Myself,1.
I always thought of you as my sort of homeostasis. And maybe you didn’t always keep me upright, but when I was going down you were the one that pushed your hands upon my breastbone and forced me to go up, because sinking is not the way to get things done.
My equilibrium has never been the greatest, and neither has yours, but you taught me that things will only balance out if you make them.
Sitting in your room, crying in the middle of your floor is not the right way to make things happen. Never have weak moments. Never feel pity for yourself, because you don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Don’t you ever think that you have it bad because being a teenager is nothing t
9 ways to fix someone(9) i don't actually know 9 ways to fix someone
i don't even know one
(8) because i don't think it's right to 'fix' a person
you cannot be the glue that keeps them from falling apart
because if you break too
who's going to put you back together
(7) but please understand
you're still the name that runs over my lips
and it's always going to be a fight
(6) because the scars and wounds on my skin
remind me that i'm still mending
and it's always going to hurt in the places where
i thought you couldn't reach me
(5) how do you fix someone
if there are pieces missing, lost and gone forever
how do you fix someone
if they've hidden parts of themselves
and given some to other people?
(4) i'm still trying to understand
what i may have done
that means the emptiness is still there
i don't know if you know what i mean
it's like this hollow mourning
and it lives in here and peeks its head out
mainly on cold autumn morning
about apologizing,sor·ry, adjective: feeling sorrow, regret, or penitence.
do you still think about me?
do you hear the word
"dance" and think
about a girl who had balance issues
and thought the stage
was her world, but the world was not
do you ever look back and
think about a girl
who referred to herself as a princess
and was located in
a castle a country away?
do you ever remember music
theory and bass guitars and fingers too
short to reach strings,
and when you do, do you ever think
about the fact that you
told a girl you loved her, and then
turned around and told
another she meant something to you,
and do you ever think
about the fact that
it hurts to be not good enough?
do you still remember me?
i fell in love the first of july,
when you told me you liked me like:
"the way angelica likes arnold,
(if you have ever seen that show.)"
i fell in love with you in the worst month of
summer, when teenagers
tangle their legs together under bedsheets and
beaches get colder at ni
dos.she is sitting in the middle of your
dirty kitchen floor,
leaning against the plastic counter
and fumbling with her
and she's got the window open
because there is no
air-conditioning in your one-story house
(which she thinks is
not even close to heaven, but she
deals with it anyways.)
there's a glass half-full of
whiskey and ice and
it's making a ring of sweat on the
corner of your coffee table
with a broken leg.
and when you slide over to her, knees
you can smell someone's spicy cologne
all over her shoulders,
but you inhale it anyways because
your mother was always a
cheater, too, and your father always
drank up his sorrows.
she's winding stems around stems,
cutting slits into it's flesh,
and she's weaving
dead flowers into a crown she knows
will not fit upon your
slowly, and then all at onceand for once, he slips on his wedding ring, to cure the monotony. it slides over his knuckle, a perfect fit, and in the morning release of sunlight the silver gleams at him. it glares, calling him a liar: she is not a whorehouse and you are too broke to own her, you harlot, you. he buttons up, tucks in his shirt tail, and buckles his belt. the clinking of metal parts is the only sound in the room besides the dusting of her breathing beside him. and when he's gone, the only thing he leaves behind are the bruises on her collarbone.
you find him because you're lonely, (well, it's actually the opposite.) he finds you because his wardrobe is black and his shoes are scuffed and he asks you where your castle is. you're the only princess he sees 'round here. the rain soaks into his shirt and he curses it, grinning. and damn girl, you follow him, because you think you see some kinda warmth in his ice blue eyes.
it takes you days t
The World, Our Teacup"Unlike in Beowulf's time, there are no monsters left to conquer."
There is no pondering around the room. Just the scratching of pencils against the lined notebook paper that everyone is writing on. It's quiet. A kid slams his locker door shut in the hallway and grabs no one's attention.
It is a simple assignment: We were asked to discuss what we thought about the sentence in a short essay, either agreeing or disagreeing and telling why (because we were always telling someone why these days.) We were asked to put our name, teacher's name, period, class, date, and assignment in the top right corner and god forbid anyone question why the hell someone would even write such words and put them together in such a declaration of stupidity. Plain vocabulary, plain grammar. There is nothing to even question. But yet, I'm still left wondering the severity of the topic.
Break it down:
unlike - different from
Beowulf - a hero
well, at least i tried.part one// i've never seen an advert
that promoted self-confidence,
without trying to sell me something first
and i think that's why
my mother doesn't think she's beautiful
i can't see it either
part two// i told myself that
i didn't care what louise did anymore
the problem is
i once promised to dive into the ocean after her
and i can't forget that
and i can't tell myself that she's not worth loving anymore
part three// my mother kept on asking me
if i was okay, if i felt alright
and i didn't know a nice way
to tell her that i wanted to die
part four// adam told me that he bitched about me
behind my back but it was okay because he loved me
and i'm starting to wonder now
just how much you can excuse for love
before it turns into cowardice
because no matter how much he hurts me
i'd rather hate myself than be without him
and i guess that's weakness
because i'll fucking tell you now - it's never felt like love
s. Midnight came like a storm. I watched it take him by the waist and drag him away, fingers clawing at his sheets and shivers climbing over his limbs-- fever dreams. Moans died out in the back of his throat. I sat still as a winter night on the foot of his bed and didn't wake him, because the only thing worse for him than being eclipsed in a nightmare was being awake for one. We all know that.
People told me that there was no way that I could have seen the signs; no way to know what he was doing behind closed doors. But they didn't know that I did know. I saw the marks on his arms; not just the ones made by a needle, but the ones that ran horizontal for miles down not just his arms, and the ones I knew father made (another thing that I knew). I was there when he tried to dissect his wrist the first time, and I joined in with the echoes of 'oh my god I had no idea' and 'what a shame'.
We used to sit by the fir
Hath No FearGiving yourself completely up to fear is kinda like falling in love: You can't pin point exactly when it started and by the time you realize that you are surrounded by that sensation it's already game over. Just like the image of the person you are in love with starts creeping out from every unexpected corner, fear never leaves your side when you give it a welcome stay. After a restless sleep, it starts beating anxiously in your heart the moment you wake up in the morning and commands all your thoughts and actions throughout the day. It is nothing short of a prison, except you are the only inmate and the warden never takes a break. Ever.
I do not exactly remember when I let fear occupy my being but I remember the exact moment when I realized I was ruled by it. It was late in the afternoon, everybody was out there 'getting busy living' and I had locked myself inside my bed half awake, not particularly finding any valid reason to get out of it. Then I was awakened from a nightmare by my
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More