To you, they're
just band;
to me, they're my heroes.
To you, it's just a poem;
to me, it's a masterpiece.
To you, they're just words;
to me, they're a weapon, a tool.
To you, it's just music;
to me, it's a religion.
To you, it's just a book;
to me, it's an old friend.
To you, it means nothing;
to me, it means everything.
to me, they're my heroes.
To you, it's just a poem;
to me, it's a masterpiece.
To you, they're just words;
to me, they're a weapon, a tool.
To you, it's just music;
to me, it's a religion.
To you, it's just a book;
to me, it's an old friend.
To you, it means nothing;
to me, it means everything.
I'm
jealous
of those dark nights
that know all of
your 3 a.m. secrets.
of those dark nights
that know all of
your 3 a.m. secrets.
March 28, 2012
Little girl, five years old.
Spends the days playing tag
and living in a world full of magic.
She has a light in her eyes,
full of hope and love.
Little girl, five years old.
Little girl, ten years old.
People called her fat today;
she didn’t say a word about it.
That night,
she went to bed without
food in her
stomach.
Little girl, ten years old.
Little girl, fifteen years old.
She covers her face in makeup,
she thinks that’s the
only way people will
ever call her beautiful.
Everyday, she looks in the mirror,
hating the person starting back at her.
Little girl, fifteen years old.
Little girl, seventeen years old.
Last night, she learned how to
play with fate.
Just a knick of the wrist
and she saw red;
the shiny new blade
became her
new best friend that night.
Little girl, seventeen years old.
Little girl, eighteen years old.
Saddest story ever told.
Once upon a time,
she lived in a world of magic;
now, tragedy has struck.
Tonight, she cut little deeper,
took a few more pills.
A note in her pocket that read:
‘little girl, eighteen years old;
little girl no more.’ (DS)
There's a thin line,
between sad and sadness.
Where it goes from a blue feeling,
to an aching deep within your bones.
Where it takes over you.
Where it becomes darkness that
seems to consume you completely.
You're drowning in a sea of darkness,
not sure if you want to survive anymore;
not sure if that breath you're fighting for
is even worth it anymore.
I seem to have crossed that line,
long ago;
and I don't know how to go back
to the other side.
Honestly,
I don't know if I want to anymore.
between sad and sadness.
Where it goes from a blue feeling,
to an aching deep within your bones.
Where it takes over you.
Where it becomes darkness that
seems to consume you completely.
You're drowning in a sea of darkness,
not sure if you want to survive anymore;
not sure if that breath you're fighting for
is even worth it anymore.
I seem to have crossed that line,
long ago;
and I don't know how to go back
to the other side.
Honestly,
I don't know if I want to anymore.
The beautiful thing
about books is that when you read, you enter into a whole
other world. The characters become your friends; you feel
what they feel. The pain, the sorrow, the happiness, the
joy; it all hits you full force. And even when the book
end, even after that last page has been
turned—it's not over. You can always go back and
start from the beginning, go back and say 'hi' to
your old friends. No matter how long it's been,
they'll always be waiting for you to go on another
adventure with them.
I want to
know you.
I want to know you better
than anyone else has
ever known you.
I want to know what you
do at two a.m.
What thoughts haunt
you in the dead of night.
I want to know every
scar that covers your
body. I want to know
your darkest secrets;
the memories you're
trying so hard to forget.
I want to know you—
the raw, unedited,
unfiltered, uncensored—
you.
I want to know the words
you would speak to me
at three a.m. when your
eyes are heavy and the
rest of the world is sleeping.
Tell me,
I won't interrupt.
I promise.
I want to know you better
than anyone else has
ever known you.
I want to know what you
do at two a.m.
What thoughts haunt
you in the dead of night.
I want to know every
scar that covers your
body. I want to know
your darkest secrets;
the memories you're
trying so hard to forget.
I want to know you—
the raw, unedited,
unfiltered, uncensored—
you.
I want to know the words
you would speak to me
at three a.m. when your
eyes are heavy and the
rest of the world is sleeping.
Tell me,
I won't interrupt.
I promise.
I wonder when it happened;
when I went from a little girl,
with big, hopeful eyes, to this—
empty shell of a person.
When did it go from playing princess,
to playing with the fate?
When did I lose myself completely?
when I went from a little girl,
with big, hopeful eyes, to this—
empty shell of a person.
When did it go from playing princess,
to playing with the fate?
When did I lose myself completely?
"Say something, please." I pleaded
desperately. I couldn't take the silence, it was
just too much. You sat their quietly,
I wanted nothing more than you to scream, yell, at
me—something. The silence
was suffocating, I could't bare it much longer. I reached
out for you, a desperate attempt for contact that I so
desperately craved. You pushed my hand away violently,
turning around and backing me up against the wall. I could feel
your body against mine, relishing in the
contact—taking anything I could get. I flinched as you
punched the concrete on the right side of my head; I bit my
lip, willing the tears away. I wanted to cry out but I stayed
silent, scared of what would happen.
"How long?" You whispered, your voice tight, thick with emotion. I didn't answer. "Answer me!" You shouted suddenly, pushing away from me. I missed your warmth instantly. "Tell me," You said, a cynical twist within your voice. "How long have you been slicing open your veins!" You reached out and yanked my arm forward, lifting up my sleeve. Tiny, pink lines littered all across my arms. Flawless, beautiful; disgusting, tragic. I bit my lip, contemplating my words.
"Years," I spoke weakly, a single tear streaming down my cheek. I glared down at the ground, scared of what awaited me when I looked up. After a few moments of silence, I forced myself to look you in the eyes. Once beatiful, brown eyes—now lifeless and dull. A heart wrenching feeling shot through me, knowing that it's because of me. "I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing what else to say. "Please don't hate me. Please don't give up on me; I can't take it if you give up on me, too. Please." I knew I sounded desperate, I knew I sounded weak and pathetic but I didn't care. I closed my eyes, awaiting the sound of the door slaming; I counted the seconds—one, two, three, four—I gasped as I felt arms around my waist, holding me tightly. I closed my eyes tightly, a sob ripping through my chest. I wrapped my arms around your neck, burying my head in the crook of your neck, basking in the all-too familiar warmth that I have craved for far too long.
"I will never give up on you, beautiful." You whispered in my ear.
For the first time, I believed it.
"How long?" You whispered, your voice tight, thick with emotion. I didn't answer. "Answer me!" You shouted suddenly, pushing away from me. I missed your warmth instantly. "Tell me," You said, a cynical twist within your voice. "How long have you been slicing open your veins!" You reached out and yanked my arm forward, lifting up my sleeve. Tiny, pink lines littered all across my arms. Flawless, beautiful; disgusting, tragic. I bit my lip, contemplating my words.
"Years," I spoke weakly, a single tear streaming down my cheek. I glared down at the ground, scared of what awaited me when I looked up. After a few moments of silence, I forced myself to look you in the eyes. Once beatiful, brown eyes—now lifeless and dull. A heart wrenching feeling shot through me, knowing that it's because of me. "I'm sorry," I whispered, not knowing what else to say. "Please don't hate me. Please don't give up on me; I can't take it if you give up on me, too. Please." I knew I sounded desperate, I knew I sounded weak and pathetic but I didn't care. I closed my eyes, awaiting the sound of the door slaming; I counted the seconds—one, two, three, four—I gasped as I felt arms around my waist, holding me tightly. I closed my eyes tightly, a sob ripping through my chest. I wrapped my arms around your neck, burying my head in the crook of your neck, basking in the all-too familiar warmth that I have craved for far too long.
"I will never give up on you, beautiful." You whispered in my ear.
For the first time, I believed it.
I'm
not running out things to say,
nor am I running out ways to say them;
no, I am simply running out of reasons to speak.
nor am I running out ways to say them;
no, I am simply running out of reasons to speak.
I'm not a graceful
person;
I'm not an elegant person.
I'm a mess,
I'm self-destructive;
there isn't much to me,
no profound quality that
lies within me,
something that makes me special.
No, I'm just a writer who is lost
within her own mind; scared of
what lies within her.
Who spends her days drinking tea,
and writing really bad poems
(just like this one).
I'm not a graceful person,
I'm not a happy person;
honestly, I don't know who I am.
I'm not an elegant person.
I'm a mess,
I'm self-destructive;
there isn't much to me,
no profound quality that
lies within me,
something that makes me special.
No, I'm just a writer who is lost
within her own mind; scared of
what lies within her.
Who spends her days drinking tea,
and writing really bad poems
(just like this one).
I'm not a graceful person,
I'm not a happy person;
honestly, I don't know who I am.
