Where I’m From

I am from Parma,

Right next to Cleveland.

I’m from board games,

Like pretty princess and Candyland.

 

I am from a pink bedroom

In the only yellow house on the street.

I’m from a wooden swing set

That I hang from by my feet.

 

I am from outside adventures

And enjoying the periodic rainfall.

I’m from pumpkin trash bags

That I stuff with leaves in the fall

 

I am from using my stuffed animals

In my room to build a wall.

I’m from organizing Furbies

And cutting hair off my Barbie doll.

 

I am from bologna and mustard

And SpongeBob mac and cheese.

I’m from going to grandma’s house

And asking for blue blueberry muffins, please.

 

I am from Hubba Bubba

And that skittle flavored gum.

I’m from building snowmen

Until my hands go numb.

 

I am from Skip it and Bop-its,

and an endless supply of chalk.

I’m from dress up and costumes,

And practicing my model walk.

 

I am from being the oldest sibling

And at annoying my little brother.

I’m from accidentally hurting him

And hiding from my angry mother.

 

I am from using my imagination

And having fun with what I’ve got.

I’m from fearing the wooden spoon,

Knowing I’d probably get a swat.

 

 

I am from playing on trampolines,

Doing flips and playing popcorn.

I’m from silly jump rope games

and figuring out many babies will be born.

 

I am from going camping,

Eating s’mores and making crafts.

I’m from archery and horse riding,

And floating on the lake in rafts.

 

I am from sleepovers with pizza

At the apartment of my friend.

I’m from hiding from my mom,

When she comes so they never end.

 

I am from riding my purple bike

Up and down the driveway.

I’m from walking home from school

At the end of the school day.

 

I am from swim meets in the summer,

And playing cards between events.

I’m from eating the orange slices

During soccer games from the parents.

 

I am from licking the bowl,

cleaning it of brownie mix.

I’m from my mother’s distress

When I find all the Pixie Stix.

 

I am from a past

That is vivid and 3-D.

I’m from a childhood

That has made me, me.

 

*I wrote this poem for one of my college papers. I hope you enjoyed it ( And I hope I got an A) *

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The Only Thing I’m Good For

Sometimes it feels like

The only thing I’m good for

Is a warm body.

_________

Is that all I am?

Am I not worth more than sex?

Can’t I offer more?

_______

I am a person.

I have feelings and a heart.

I want to feel love.

Having You Over Was a Mistake

Having you over was a mistake.

Before you came over,

I was already depressed,

But I had at least adjusted to the numb.

Being with you again reminded me

What it’s like to be happy.

But now you are too busy for me.

My happiness isn’t important to you

And I’m falling back into the dark.

The rock bottom is harder than before.

The pain is worse now.

What you did is wrong.

You teased me with a potential

Chance of feeling better.

And then you took it away from me.

I’m destroyed now more than ever.

Having you over was a mistake.

You Can’t Do This to Me

You can’t do this to me.

You can’t keep running

In and out of my life

When I need you the most.

I’m vulnerable. I’m fragile.

I’m physically falling apart.

I’m already emotionally broken.

You can’t act like you’re

Going to make everything better

But then never come around.

I already feel ignored

By everyone in my life.

Now it feels like

You’re abandoning me too.

 

My Drug

 

It’s my drug

and I’m addicted.

It is my only escape.

I need it.

I can get it,

With just the wave of my hand.

Just a touch,

That isn’t special

Is what I need to stay alive.

I use it.

I abuse it.

It’s how I’ve learned to survive.

Sex is my weapon

Of protection

That I use to forget.

Memories

And the flashbacks

Are temporarily forgotten.

The release

Is the relief

My tortured mind needs.

I’m broken.

Can’t be saved.

My drug is keeping me alive.

 

I Can’t Go Back

I can’t go back.

I can’t go through that again.

You said I was fine,

Just an attention whore.

I’d be fine eventually.

I’d get over myself.

 

I can’t go back.

I need the help,

But you said I didn’t.

I can’t be rejected again.

It took a lot of courage

To say the truth,

To admit I wasn’t okay,

And you said it was an act.

 

I can’t go back

and be told the same thing.

I’m even more afraid now

That my cries will be ignored again.