There are never the right words to describe how beautifully I seem to feel things, deeply and passionately, dangerously. I am all in, for everything. And I fall, to the ground and I bruise myself a little, some scratches here and there … but I always get back up, and I always have an open heart. And how many people can say they never let someone change them for the worst? I’ve continued to trust, be vulnerable, exposed, to fall and repeat again. Because every wrong choice and every damaging experience only opens doors to new possibilities. Who knows where I’ll be to tomorrow or who I’ll meet or how I’ll feel it’s all so undecided. Who knows what I’ll do? I play the part of a resident of earth, another number to the population total, a space to occupy, but in my limited space of seemingly limited opportunity, it is mine to do away with, it is mine to feel and fall and explore every last part of it, and no matter what I do or where I go the world still turns, and the sun still sets, and the waves still crash. but maybe if we all stopped and walked backwards for a while we could slow down time for just a minute, and feel as if we’re apart of something bigger then ourselves. I will continue to be me, but sometimes it’s nice knowing if it really counts for anything.
I pressed a bottle of Hennessy to my lips to try and see how good this stupid drink had to be for you to give up everything you ever loved. Your family, your job, your friends, me. I spit it up right away, it tasted like poison…tasted like you.
I said your name out loud, it was just a word. It still burned coming up my throat. It felt weird leaving my lips, a name I had never spoken of or heard in so long. How is it we can move on without ever healing?
Yes this is as crazy as the title would lead you to believe, I genuinely miss feeling awful on a daily basis! I think this is because along with all the tear stains and mental breakdowns, came a writing inspirtation I have yet to reclaim since being “okay.”
Being in a rough patch mentally let me express emotions and feelings I had supressed or been unable to reach. Latley I find my racing mind stuck staring at a blank page unable to even get a single word down. No matter what I read or what events I experience, I am unable to find any inspiration or motivation to get my piece done. I am currently working on a poetry book which will be hardly graded at the end of my term and I have yet to be satisfied with any of my work!
My mother told me when I first began medication for my bipolar disorder that she thought it wasn’t such a good idea. She told me “All writers and geniuses were mad, that’s what made them great.” I had laughed this off at first, but I’m begininning to see that there has to be some truth behind that. Being overemotional about everything always gave me the power to exaggerate my life experiences and pour it into a faction story, but now I am blank. I want to stop taking my meds so I can feel just a taste of my despair again, but I don’t think it would be wise. I’m not happy now, but I’m not sad, I’m just this empty hole devouring my life into nothingness. None of this probably makes sense but I just had to put it out there.
I still can’t say your name
You are my endless poetry inspiration
I only write to distract myself
My heart beats faster with you
I wish I could unlove you
Lovely, only when you are lonely
You’re here, yet I miss you
Nothing that matters is summed up
things can break, people can too
Nothing seems worth the time anymore
His hands tracing your skin are as soft as the lips he kisses you with, but his words are as harsh as the taste of another girls lipgloss still resting on his mouth.
Your love was a fucking lie
I am not what you think
I wish I wasn’t like this
It is so inconvenient to care
My race is not my character
Looks as shitty as my personality
When will I see you again?
Everything good always gets messed up
Time keeps ticking, I stand still
The world does not pity anyone
You didn’t deserve to take it.
For all the sprouts shriveled up on cold december mornings, you are not as worthless as you feel. Your evasiveness to warmth comes from your roots dug deep in your self loathing, never knowing anything but sorrow. Despite what you believe you don’t have to shrivel like this, you are allowed to grow. There is an escape from this labyrinth of desolation, although it is seemingly impossible to view yourself as anything but collateral damage. So kind as to let others take what they did not deserve and grow above you, but darling they are not above you. Little sprout you are a flower in bloom, and one day I hope you will come to see your own beauty as much as I do.