Sometimes writing poems let's me forget about the huge sums of debt I'm accumulating while at college
One of the worse parts of anxiety
is the irrational worries and fears
it puts in my head.
Or maybe it’s the hours spent up at night,
lying in bed crying,
where I whisper to myself that it’s not real.
they’ll never happen.
Just keep pushing past them.
But what am I supposed to do
when one of those fear turns out to be true?
The pain going through my being
is inconsolable.
How do I tell myself that nightmares
are not real when they become reality?
Lips on a bottle
are the lips of death coming
to greet me at last
A wise characer from a book
I once read long ago
believed that that only way out
of the labrynith of suffering was
straight and fast.
Maybe she was on to something.
Maybe she was crazy.
Maybe she was lonely.
Maybe she was depressed.
Maybe she was a lot more like me
than I’d like to admit.
But maybe she was right.
After all this time
of growing
and learning
and experiencing
and hoping
and dreaming
and living
and memories
and thinking
I still want to die.
I’ve never been one to mind a little rain.
Everything needs a little water to grow.
It’s when the hurricanes hit that I begin to quake.
A little rain won’t hurt they say,
but what do you do when you’re drowning?
Drowning in despair, emotions, thoughts
with no idea when or why the storm had to strike now.
Maybe you’ll get some false hope
in an eye of the storm where
you’ll let yourself believe
that it can get better; it will get better
only to be hit by the other half of the storm,
far more furious than the last.
All you can do is bunker down and stay inside,
hoping that this storm won’t be your last.
But that’s hard to do when you know at the end,
when the sun decides to make a reappearance,
you’ll be faced with the devastation and despair
that came from the havoc and furry of the beast.
It’s hard to let yourself rebuild everything up
when you know that at any moment
another hurricane could strike and tear you right back down.
I’d like to believe that horrible cyclones are few and far between,
but I’m more realistic than that.
Whether I intended to or not, I have to realize
that my life has set its roots on the coastline
and I am forever destined to keep being hit
by bad hurricanes over and over
and the only way out is to either succumb
or get my shit together and move out,
but that’s a lot more strength than you’ll find
behind these batters doors .
A year ago, I entered a writing contest on Wattpad and came very close to winning.
It may very well be one of the best pieces I’ve ever written but I’ve always been too scared to share it with you. It’s raw. It’s passionate. It shares a part of myself that I’ve often found myself too scared to admit to. I’ve always feared that sharing this piece would hurt me in new ways beyond my imagination. I’ve always known that it may ruin my life as I know it.
I wrote the piece anyways.
Because sometimes you have to say the things you’re scared to say, even if it’s not out loud.
Even if it kills you.
In celebration of the anniversary of when I spoke my truth, I wanted to share it with my followers.
Enjoy!
https://www.wattpad.com/626691710-to-the-only-boy-i%27ve-ever-loved-my-unsent-letter
(Good chance this might be the last you hear from me for a while so soak it up).
Things have changed since then. I know things now that I didn’t know then. And while yes I know I’ll never be enough and some questions are left unasked or answered, I also know if you don’t let some things go, they slowly eat away at your soul.
I’m also very drunk and there’s a good chance I’ll regret this tomorrow, but a good friend told me that if it’s your time, it’s your time and this feels like it. I don’t know. What’s the worst that could happen? I lose my will to live? ha! Jokes on you I already did.
We have choices, choices, choices
to be made with difference voices.
And sometimes you speak too loud
because you’re feeling way too proud.
Other times you sit by, mute
your own horn afraid to toot.
It’s hard to tell when to take stand
or when to simply wave your hand.
You want to speak up for yourself
but may only hurt yourself.
It’s hard to learn to love yourself
if you never get off the shelf.
I’m tired of the game
and trying to explain
just how you hurt me.
With all of your words
I’m split into thirds
thinking what are we?
Your power you flaunt;
don’t know what you want.
You keep changing your key.
You’re back and you’re forth
What is my worth?
Baby, what are we?
You’re up and You’re down
I’m flipped around;
a ship lost at sea.
You’re always my choice
but I’m losing my voice.
What about me?
Decide our plot.
Want this or not?
What are we?
Sometimes all I can do
is share just the tip of the iceberg
of what makes me depressed.
It’s usually som superficial reason,
I know.
But I can’t find the words to share
about the tons of heavy ice
beneath the surface
that actually make me want to die.
So no one really understands
what the things weighing me down are.
They just see the silly, stupid things
that set me off on a plunge
and think I’m not worthy of help
or love
or attention
because why would sleeping in
be enough reason to kill yourself?
Nobody cares about that.
So no one hears about all the things that came after
like the dreams
or the self-destructive thoughts
or bringing my worth down.
Or feeling like a failure.
Because why would anyone
understand that all these things
are just a result of sleeping late.
