Trophy Scars

Each line tells a story,
A story she would never
Want
Or be able to erase.
The story of a girl
Trying,
With valiant force,
To find her place
In this harrowed world.

This girl knew sometimes
The pain became so
Overwhelming,
And she, so weak,
hopeless,
Needing to feel,
Something, anything,
Other than this inner agony.
And there seemed no other way out.
Finding solace only
In sharp razors,
Box cutters, knives,
Slashing, tearing, ripping skin apart
Red warmth healing all
Emotional wounds.

Many years past,
Many scabs picked
Later,
Now healed,
This broken girl
Now “fixed”,
Carries arms covered
In white lined stories
Of her battles
Won ?
Lost?
Survived.

Survival of the Fittest

What a sullen girl
So broken and empty
No trace of affection
Alive in her delicate body.
So full of anger,
So quiet with grief,
For every man she’s taken
The time and effort
To form a connection,
Has beaten, bruised,
And torched small,
But very significant,
Bits of her soul.

She cared too much
Or so they told her.
But when did caring
Become such a horrible concept?
If it were still
Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest,
Would she be killed off for simply
Giving a damn?
Yes, she tried to see the best
In people, the world, love.
But even optimism seems to be
An undesirable trait for survival
In this cold, brutal world,
Where no one cares, and
Everyone dies.

That First Thanksgiving

I wrote this last spring for my poetry class. Not sure how i feel about it...


It was the first Thanksgiving
Since they gave me that
World-spinning diagnosis,
Even just the name of it,
Stuck in my throat with the bile,
Burning my esophagus
As I stared at a full plate.

It had been months
So I must be doing well…
Despite my constant inner battle
Everytime I glanced at myself,
Naked and vulnerable in the mirror.
But I hid my fear,
and disgust,
Only checking labels when I was alone,
And hopping on the scale
when we visited my grandmother
(Ours was in a dump somewhere,
rusting, unused.)

But now,
now I had to take it all in,
The turkey, stuffing, potatoes…
Carbs, fat, and more carbs.
Butter? No thanks, I’ll pass.
Gravy? Never.
They watch me, closely,
Hawk eyes, furrowed on their prey.
Each spoonful tastes sour,
With the anxiety bubbling up the back of my throat,
Knowing they would not be satisfied,
Until that plate was clean of all debris.

I know tonight I will hide in my room
Doing hours of crunches until I cannot bend.
But for now, I clear my plate with a full-toothed smile.
“That was delicious.”

Invisible

This was my first real poem as i started to get into poetry at age 11 as a means to express all the crappy emotions inside me. I was just a kid, but honestly i still feel this way sometimes. the feeling of being unnoticed, invisible, never left me.


Invisible


I am invisible,
Well I might as well be,
No one sees me
No one enjoys my company.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.

I walk into school,
No one knows I’m there
I feel unwanted
Like nobody really cares.
“You’re so great!” I never hear.
“You’re a good friend,” would be music to my ears.
I am invisible,
Well I might as well be.

So I hide,
I crawl into my shell,
Pretend my problems aren’t there
Even though I know well
They will never disappear ,
They will always be there.
I might as well be invisible,
No one would care.

You

You
Empty soulless
Shell of a human being
You
Stole the one person
I never thought would
Could
Abandon me.
But you proved me,
Us,
Wrong.
You
Altered the meaning of
Forever
From solid friendship
to forever,
minus
one year
of agony, hatred,
aches in the pit of
my stomach.
The most horrible
Betrayal
I’ve ever felt.
All because of
You
The filthy miserable bitch
Who ruins other people’s
Lives, happiness,
To make her own life
Look less
pitiful.
You
Don’t love anyone,
Not even your own
Flesh and blood.
You
Destroy everything
Just to stand by
And watch the
fire burn
And people die
And souls turn
black as ash
And clouds of thick
Grey smoke
Suffocate innocent
Bystanders.
You
Will never
Truly be loved
For the real
Monster
You are.
And one day
You
Will burn
For all the people
You’ve maimed
And the destruction
You
Caused.

You
The filthy bitch
Who ruins
All that is
Could
Or ever would
Be good.

Slice

This isn't finished, but I honestly don't know where I was going with this. Its an autiobiography of sorts, but also sort of an explanation, and raw inside look to self-mutilation. It doesn't fully explain the addiction by any means, but the basic underlying reasoning behind my self-mutilation was to live..at first anyway. I kept me from feeling so overwhelmingly lonely, depressed, angry, and disgusted with myself that I was able to atleast keep breathing, even if it was a shitty means of existance. I guess...I'm explaining too much. Just read it. If you want.



SLICE

There was no indication that this day would be any different from the rest. Another miserable waste of breath. Another whirlwind of overwhelming emotions. Emotions that most girls her age were not accustomed too, and by no means ready to digest. It seemed to her that she experienced life differently from her peers, which was ultimately her social downfall. Rarely did that phone ring for her, although she longed for someone to call. Anyone. Just someone to reach out to her and let her know that life is not hopeless. But no matter how long she stared at the phone, begging it to ring, it never did.
And today was not any different. Until, she couldn’t take it any longer.
She wasn’t even sure where the idea had come from. School? Television? No. It simply seemed like her only escape. Everything seemed hazy as she fumbled around her bedroom, looking for a sharp object of some kind. She tossed around the idea of getting a knife from the kitchen, but she didn’t want to get caught. Instead, she settled on a mildly sharp pair of scissors. She examined them for a moment, touching the edge to her fingertip to see if it was sharp enough to break skin. It would have to do. She sat down cautiously on the edge of her bed, contemplating her next move. Suddenly, every bit of pain, anger, guilt, sadness, and regret swept over her body like waves crashing on the ocean shore. And not just regular waves, but waves carrying an abundance of sharp rocks, causing agony with each smash against the sand. Tears threatened to escape from her eyes as she held her breath and put the sharp edge of the scissor on the flesh of her forearm. Slice. Slice. Slice. Three times. And that’s all it took. The agony was replaced with warmth, the waves now gentle and calming. Suddenly she felt nothing. And that’s how she wanted to feel all along. Nothing. Because feelings cause too much pain.

Maybe if she had known after that day, nothing would ever be the same, she would had never have done it. Or maybe that was the point. She didn’t want things to be the same anymore, she wanted an escape. And that day, she found that escape from all emotions, and she also found a reliable friend and companion. That friend was self-mutilation.

It became a ritualistic addiction. Always 3 times. The deeper, the better. Once or twice she carved words into her arm, without even being fully aware she was doing it. Once she saw blood, she was hypnotized, which caused her to cut unnecessarily deep at times. She hid her cuts, always wearing a brown zip-up sweatshirt, simply because she didn’t want to explain her habits to people who would not understand. But in reality, she loved those slices in her skin. They were almost accomplishments, to this sick girl. Moments when she conquered emotions, and won! Or so she thought. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she’d sneak a look at her most recent abrasion. Just seeing it there, red and painful, made her feel relaxed. Hell, as time went on, she began to like the scars too. Each scar represented a battle won, and made her feel victorious and almost proud.
Now, no one said this girl was completely sane. But can you blame her? She had been diagnosed with depression by age 12, and was tired of FEELING all the time. Feeling is rather draining, and she had nothing left to give. She was ultimately cutting to keep herself from giving up entirely. She was cutting to feel less, because the more she felt, the more she wanted to end it.

Every cut and scar was a battle for her life.

Soon enough, she was cutting every time she felt something she didn’t want to feel. If she was ridiculed, or embarrassed. Slice Slice Slice. If she was lonely or hurt. Slice Slice Slice. Anxious. Guilty. Depressed. Angry. Annoyed. Slice Slice Slice. She hid razors in her room, and even kept one in her backpack in case she needed a “fix” during school. She was only desperate enough to use it in school once. She was smart, and knew it was more of a private affair…she learned to avoid the mess of blood stains on her clothes. She didn’t need a reason for anyone to question her, and a blood stain was a very hard to hide. Band-aids were a must, infection not an option. Scabs always picked at, to make the cut bleed warm red once again. It was her only comfort in a cold world. The most warmth she had felt in years is after bringing the razor blade to her thin white arm. The blood…oh the magnificent blood…it rushed down her arm in warm streams. And she often let it drip onto a towel, until she was able to snap out of her endorphin induced coma. She was hooked.

She still couldn’t connect with the world around her, but she had given up trying. While other kids her age were discovering the amazing high they got from smoking weed, and how exhilarating it was to steal their Daddy’s beer, she was hiding in her room with a razor blade to her arm. Her peers were finding new means of mental and physical addiction, but she was already a full blown addict. She could barely go a day without it, and there was never a moment where she could shut her eyes without seeing skin being torn apart by a sharp razor. Instead of a small plastic baggy of weed, she was hiding razors and band aids in her purse. She was not a normal teenager. But who really noticed? She stayed out of trouble, got good grades, and kept her bleeding arms covered by baggy sweatshirts. She was invisible. Unnoticed. Which I guess is why no one realized she was slipping further and further into the deep end. It would only be a matter of weeks before she drowned.

One thing that led her to self-mutilation was a need for some kid of control in her life. By cutting, she could control how she felt, if she even wanted to feel at all, which most times she didn’t. However, as her habit evolved into an addiction, her control seemed to disappear. Soon, she was cutting daily, sometimes with no specific reason or emotion. She could be in a perfectly fine mood, but she wouldn’t feel complete until she put three slashes in her arm. She was consumed. She’d plan her life around her addiction. Finding specific moments to be alone in her room...planning appropriate ways to hide her wounds…developing detailed excuses for why there were millions of tiny cuts on her arm, in case some inquisitive soul caught a glimpse. A cat scratched me. A lot. You have a cat? Uhh…no…my neighbor’s cat. Yea. She’s an angry son of a bitch.

She felt herself falling, but every time she reached out, she only grabbed air. She felt herself screaming for help, but her vocal chords wouldn’t make the sound. Still, no one noticed. She slipped deeper. Depression hit full force. Getting out of bed every morning seemed pointless when there was nothing to live for except self-mutilation. She discovered she was no longer cutting to sustain life, because she found herself holding the blade to her wrist on more than one occasion, pleading for the courage to do it. End it all. The suffering. The agony. The loneliness. All of it, gone, with one deep slice on each wrist.

Retail

Them,
With their scrunched-up red faces,
Angry, always angry.
Throwing coupons on the counter
Like a grenade, blowing up
In their own spiteful faces.
Sorry sir, this can’t be used on sale items.
Thunder booms with these words,
Eyes sharp as daggers.
This item isn’t on sale,
It didn’t say so on the tag,
This is false advertisement,
They huff and puff, and
Turn purpley-blue
As they spit on my face
I want to see a manager.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
How are you today?
Good, how are you?
I can smell the lie,
Or perhaps it’s the way
Their face muscles are set
In a permanent frown that
I know they are truly miserable.
I’m just great.
I lie in turn through clenched teeth
Set permanently in a false, yet convincingly
Agonizing smile
Which I’ve been wearing for hours
Despite my boredom/anger/annoyance.
No one can tell, or cares to notice
How horribly my cheeks sting.
Fake.

They
Complain whenever possible,
Yell if given the opportunity,
Demanding discounts, lower prices, special treatment.
I want to see a manger!
With immense emotional strength,
I hold back how I really feel…
(You fucking bitch just pay the set price
Like a normal fucking human being
And get the fuck away from me.)
All this rage for a meager weeks pay.
Welcome to hell,
Full of ignorant idiots and assholes.
Welcome to the world of
Retail.

"You" by Amy Lee

Today is me and the love of my life's one year anniversary...but since he's miles upon miles away from me right now instead of going out on a cutesy date and celebrating...i'm at home listening to this song and crying my eyes out...i miss him and this song reminds me of him.
Happy One Year. <3 Many more to come.

The words have been drained from this pencil
Sweet words that I want to give you
And I can't sleep
I need to tell you
Goodnight

When we're together, I feel perfect
When I'm pulled away from you, I fall apart
All you say is sacred to me
Your eyes are so blue
I can't look away
As we lay in the stillness
You whisper to me

Marry me
Promise you'll stay with me
Oh you don't have to ask me
You know you're all that I live for
You know I'd die just to hold you
Stay with you
Somehow I'll show you
That you are my night sky
I've always been right behind you
Now I'll always be right beside you

So many nights I cried myself to sleep
Now that you love me, I love myself
I never thought I would say this
I never thought there'd be
You

Joyce Carol Oates

Here is another amazing poet. I figure its just as important to share the work of those that inspire as well as my own. This poem is dark, but I relate to the emotions tangled inside the sensation of self-mutilation.


Passing An Afternoon
by Joyce Carol Oates

Blood transforms the warm bath water
and, in it, I see weakly
that this was a mistake.
The razor's cut is not deep, nevertheless
the blood rushes out happily in the warm
water as if kin to it, the same
tender substance.

Rising
a new person
transformed with an icy
sense of error
I go to the sink and turn on cold water
which is not friendly to blood.
The cut is deeper than imagined.
It hurts.

Splashes on the pale gold tile,
bright red bursts like sunlight,
like exclamation points—Another Error!
I wrap a small towel around my wrist.
A small towel indicates a small error.

Soaked through
the towel's gold is tarnished.
There is an innocent joy in the blood's
flow that the towel and I cannot absorb.
These spurts, worth twenty dollars a pint
on the market, sense themselves unmarketable now.

Another towel wrapped tight in terror
slows everything down. On a blue velvet
love seat from which love has wandered I
sit waiting. I am an angel with an alert
backbone. I am purified from the business
of panic.

Sharon Olds is a genius

I recently discovered Sharon Olds in a poetry class last year. She is an amazing poet so I decided to share some of my favorites because they deserve to be read over and over again.


Last Night
by Sharon Olds

The next day, I am almost afraid.
Love? It was more like dragonflies
in the sun, 100 degrees at noon,
the ends of their abdomens stuck together, I
close my eyes when I remember. I hardly
knew myself, like something twisting and
twisting out of a chrysalis,
enormous, without language, all
head, all shut eyes, and the humming
like madness, the way they writhe away,
and do not leave, back, back,
away, back. Did I know you? No kiss,
no tenderness---more like killing, death-grip
holding to life, genitals
like violent hands clasped tight
barely moving, more like being closed
in a great jaw and eaten, and the screaming
I groan to remember it, and when we started
to die, then I refuse to remember,
the way a drunkard forgets. After,
you held my hands extremely hard as my
body moved in shudders like the ferry when its
axle is loosed past engagement, you kept me
sealed exactly against you, our hairlines
wet as the arc of a gateway after
a cloudburst, you secured me in your arms till I slept---
that was love, and we woke in the morning
clasped, fragrant, buoyant, that was
the morning after love.


The Pope's Penis
Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.


The Promise
Sharon Olds

With the second drink, at the restaurant,
holding hands on the bare table,
we are at it again, renewing our promise
to kill each other. You are drinking gin,
night-blue juniper berry
dissolving in your body, I am drinking Fumé,
chewing its fragrant dirt and smoke, we are
taking on earth, we are part soil already,
and wherever we are, we are also in our
bed, fitted, naked, closely
along each other, half passed out,
after love, drifting back
and forth across the border of consciousness,
our bodies buoyant, clasped. Your hand
tightens on the table. You’re a little afraid
I’ll chicken out. What you do not want
is to lie in a hospital bed for a year
after a stroke, without being able
to think or die, you do not want
to be tied to a chair like your prim grandmother,
cursing. The room is dim around us,
ivory globes, pink curtains
bound at the waist—and outside,
a weightless, luminous, lifted-up
summer twilight. I tell you you do not
know me if you think I will not
kill you. Think how we have floated together
eye to eye, nipple to nipple,
sex to sex, the halves of a creature
drifting up to the lip of matter
and over it—you know me from the bright, blood-
flecked delivery room, if a lion
had you in its jaws I would attack it, if the ropes
binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them

Advice to Close Lovers

Don’t take for granted
Every hug, kiss, smile, touch,
Everytime you hear his voice,
In the same room, so close you can smell his breath.
Don’t get annoyed
At the little things he does,
You’ll miss them when he’s gone.
Embrace the little moments of boredom,
Solitude, staying in, watching TV,
Nothing to do, but
There’s no one you’d rather do nothing with.
Smile when he snores,
That sweet exhausted lullaby,
Without it beside you, you would not sleep so enjoyably.
Savor the companionship, the warmth,
The fitting half to your whole,
Don’t ever let go,
And treasure every second
You are entwined in his strong arms,
For living life without him
His smile, his laugh, his snoring,
His warmth, his kiss, his touch….
Is unbearable.

Somersaults

Stars shine empty in this dark night
Arms outstretched to the ghostly moon
Hoping to reach far enough to grab ahold,
To something, anything that I know we both share.

You are m i l e s a w a y ,
Surrounded three sixty by murky waters,
But you’ve never left your original place;
Home sweet home in this aching chest
Beating, and broken, but my heart never rests.
Infinite, it drums on, to the rhythm of your laughter,
Doing somersaults at the sight of your smile,
Bare, cracking, and cold when you’re so f a r.

I hope when you look at the moon tonight,
You’ll see me holding tight amongst the stars,
And smile and laugh to the beat of my heart
As through the night sky we both do somersaults.

Saved (2006/2007)

This was a story I wrote for my Creative Writing Class in high school. It's really depressing...not gunna lie....

Saved
It was 3 a.m. and the streets were ghostly vacant, except for a few homeless people huddled under blankets in attempt to block out the cold fall wind. I held my cigarette to my lips and inhaled a long, final drag before I flicked the cigarette butt into a nearby sewage drain. I pulled my jacket closer to my body and shivered, suddenly cold from the steady wind blowing against my frail body. I enjoyed the cold. Feeling the coolness on my skin and feeling my muscle contract in attempts to keep warm was the only thing that could keep my mind from racing, even if just for a moment.
It was late (or should I say early?) and I was walking the city streets aimlessly, with no known destination and not a care for my own safety. I had been walking for what seemed like days, but in reality it had only been an hour since I left the warm apartment in attempts to escape his shouts. But even though the apartment was miles behind me and his shouts shielded by closed doors, I could still hear every word he said echoing in my head.
“Worthless! You’re worthless! All you do is eat all my food in my goddamn apartment and then hide in the bathrooms puking it back up. You’re disgusting and worthless. You’re lucky to have me, no one else would put up with your shit!”
I began to feel dizzy as I replayed his words over and over in my mind. Worthless. Disgusting. Worthless. Disgusting. Suddenly I could feel a sweat break out on my forehead, despite the cool breeze, and I began to feel nauseous. My stomach began to twist and turn, pushing bile up my throat. I ran into a nearby alley and let my insides escape out of my mouth. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as what seemed like a mixture of coffee and blood surged out of my stomach and splashed onto the pavement. There was no solid food to be found in my regurgitation, for I had forbidden myself from my disgusting habit of eating his food and purging every bit of it into his white porcelain toilet. In attempts to punish myself for my worthless, disgusting habits I vowed to ingest nothing but coffee and water. The blood, however, did not worry me. The first time I noticed blood in my vomit, I had panicked and told him I thought I was dying. He had slapped me, called me a moron, and refused to take me to a doctor. Eventually, the sight of blood didn’t faze me. In fact, I had convinced myself that everybody pukes up blood, that I was completely normal.
However, in the back of my mind, I knew my body was slowly breaking down. My bleach blonde hair was thinning and my entire body ached. My bright green eyes had become dull and sunken in, no longer glowing with enthusiasm as they once did. I was constantly throwing up, even when it wasn’t intentional, and my throat was red and sore all of the time. I used to have a bright white smile that would light up any room, but my teeth were decaying and had recently turned a bright yellow hue from a mixture of coffee, cigarettes and stomach acid. My bones jutted out at awkward angles in my short five foot, two inch, 95 pound skeletal frame. I was one giant bruise, from his constant “love taps” and angry shoves.
“If you walk out that door, don’t come back. You can live on the goddamn streets for all I care. It’s where you belong. You’re filthy.”
I shook my head as if I could shake his voice from my thoughts, but they remained, gnawing at my soul. I finally wiped the remains of vomit off my lips on to my coat sleeve, and shoved my hands in my pocket as I left the alley, my heart cold and my stomach empty.
I had no place to go. No one to call. After the fall out with my family, I had moved in with him in the city. Eventually, however, things turned from bad to worse. At first it was just hurtful words, but it soon escalated into hostile shoves and angry slaps across the face. I stayed around because if I didn’t have him, I didn’t have anyone. My family disapproved of us because of the age difference (him being 28 while I am only 18), and after finding me passed out on the bathroom floor from a mixture of alcohol and some pill he had given me (he said it would get rid of my headache, and I guess it did), they refused to allow me to see him anymore. That was when I packed up my things and moved into his small one bedroom apartment. That’s when I began using food as a means of control. That’s when my life became meaningless, and empty.
All I have is him.
Tears streamed down my pale, freckled cheeks at this thought. It was right then, at that moment walking through the streets of the dimly lit city that I realized that he was gone, and there was no one left. I was weak, both physically and mentally, and now I was alone. Life had become a meaningless painful event, and I wanted out.
I continued walking, listening to the crunch of fall leaves beneath my feet. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going, but I knew in the back of my mind what I was about to do. There was nothing left for me here.
He was right…I am worthless.
I moved briskly, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead of me. I wandered my way through the streets, shivering once again, this time out of excitement. As I walked through a nearby park I noticed a woman curled up under bits of clothe and newspaper, shivering and moaning in the cold moonlight. I stopped for a moment, unzipped my warm coat, and laid it over her shivering body. She stopped shivering, and began to snore lightly.
Enjoy the warmth while you can have it. I won’t be needing it.
I continued walking towards a bridge which loomed over dark water. The sound or the water hitting against rocks and speeding down stream in a fast current gave my skin goose bumps. I stood silent on the bridge, looking up at the dark, starless sky. I felt a tear drip down my cheek, but I didn’t feel sad. I felt relieved, numb to my normally aching body, vacant of all thought.
I climbed on the ledge of the bridge, but I didn’t look down at the water. Instead I stared straight ahead into an abyss of darkness and lost hopes. The night breeze brushed softly against my cheek, like a cool hand of death, beckoning me.
“Goodbye,” I whispered, and took in a deep breath.
Suddenly, I felt my pocket vibrating. It was as if my mind had been dragged out of a horrible dream and back into consciousness. I began to shake as I reached for my cell phone. To my disbelief, the caller ID flashed one comforting word: HOME.
Shaky and nauseous, I made my way off the ledge of the bridge. I could feel hot tears stream down my face as I flipped open the phone.
I sobbed into the phone, unable to control the sudden rush of emotion. Every muscle in my body ached, and I found myself paralyzed on the cold ground.
“Oh no. What happened? Are you OK?” I heard my Mom’s voice ask in fear.
“Mommy…” I squeaked out between heavy sobs. “Mommy. Come get me. I’m cold.”

Darkened Beauty (cirrca 2006/2007)

I took a poetry class my senior year of high school and we had to write a villanelle....well...this was my attempt at one. Not sure how accurate it is, but it sounds nice.


Darkened Beauty

The wind blows gentle in the night,
Whispering their melodies through the trees,
Peaceful as the moon glistens bright.

Pitch black, but the stars bringing light,
As leaves rustle beneath weak knees,
The wind blows gentle in the night.

Hollow echoes through the dying forest does fright,
Despite the lasting sweet breeze,
Peaceful as the moon glistens bright.

A quiet "hoo" as the nightly owls take flight.
Catching unsuspecting prey as they please,
The wind blows gentle in the night.

Calm and still, yet busy beyond sight
The glowing hue shall not deceive,
Peaceful as the moon glistens bright.

Breathing in the sweet scents with delight,
Taking comfort in pine needles and fallen leaves,
The wind blows gentle in the night,
Peaceful as the moon glistens bright.

Hello Dear Friend (circa 2006/2007)

This is an old one. I found some stuff I wrote my senior year in high school. I like the rhythm and flow of this, although some parts are a little corny.


Hello Dear Friend

Hello dear friend, it sure has been a while.
But I have been informed of your thoughts so suicidal.
I’ve worn those shoes and walked those miles.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to diminish your pain.
I’m just here to show you that the rain does and will go away.
The sun will break loose and warm your pale flesh,
And you can smile to yourself and take in a deep breath.
Now the rest is up to you.
You can keep on moving on or find yourself lost in another sad song.
And maybe I’m wrong,
But I don’t understand how I made you feel worthless
When all I did was show you life’s purpose.
But what hurts is
I’ve emotionally drained myself just to keep you breathing.
I’d give you the world just to keep you from leaving it.
So whats deceiving is that fact that friends are rarely forever.
Even if I gave my all, I could always do better.
Because apparently all I seem to do is dampen your weather,
When all I want for you is sunny skies
And I realize sometimes the truth can be brutal when you’re used to lies.
But sugarcoating has obviously got you no where in life.
So maybe I spoke a little too honestly.
And maybe you’d rather hide behind your suicidal philosophy.
And maybe you wish I wasn’t always there
And maybe you’d be better off if I didn’t fucking care.
But I’d like to think I was nothing but your friend,
By your side through the end, keeping you alive through thick and thin.
And if I hurt you, I guess this is my apology.
This is my sorry, my regrets of giving all of me.

The Ultimate Deciever (old)

So this is old, but I found it and decided I really like the raw emotion and sarcasm held throughout. So i want to share it. I'm sure many people can relate to feeling this way. It's not exactly a poem by any means, more of prose? Or a journal entry? I don't know. I started writing it BEFORE we broke up, when I was beginning to realize that I didn't know who this person was that I was "in love" with. I then added more after he fucked me over....but overall it keeps the same feeling of anger and disapointment and disgust. I like it. Maybe other people will too.

The Ultimate Deciever

I am deeply afraid that I have fallen in love with a person who does not exist. To come to this realization, and even accept this as a possibility, is almost impossible for me at this time, but the idea keeps bouncing around my skull trying to make me wake the fuck up. Is it true, then? I can so easily be swayed by words that are rarely followed up by actions? Am I that infatuated that I have become blind to what is real? Who is this man…or boy, it seems…that I have so haphazardly fallen for?
You did a good job. You kept it going, kept the lies flowing until I had no other choice but to believe them. You seemed to study me for a while, but you learned fast. You knew what I wanted, what I needed, and how vulnerable I was. You knew I had a weak spot for you since day one, and you also knew how to use that to your advantage.
You did a great job. You know how to use those words so eloquently that you poison the minds of vulnerable (possibly a little needy) girls. Who can deny your charm? The way you mold yourself into this creation of an amazing guy, talented, musical, intelligent, charming, funny, caring, and we can’t forget, hopeless romantic. No sir. Can’t forget the romance. You know, the constant lack of interest in whether the girl you “love” is nearby. Or how about all those grand dates we went on? Like that one time you bought me coffee…or maybe a diet pepsi at a local convenient store. You spoil me rotten. Christmas came and went without even a card to tell me you care. And then Valentine’s Day, without a card or rose, or corny box of chocolates to show you were thinking about me. Some days, you’d leave me alone for hours to “write” and get high…and me being the sorry pathetic son of a bitch I am, sat by the phone and the computer waiting for a call or to see you online. Yea, it’s pretty wonderful when I drive to your house to hang out, and I sit on the couch watching movie after movie while you run around, skate, smoke, write, record, get drunk, do as you please while I die of boredom. Oh baby, you are SUCH a hopeless romantic.
You did an excellent job. You conceal the truth with such ease. You make lies into poetry, and force people to believe it. It’s really quite a talent, so bravo. Medal of Honor to the ultimate deceiver. And your excuses aren’t too shabby either, but they could use some work. Or maybe it was my eagerness to believe you. Who knows. Me being a silly drunken-in-love girlfriend to a lying man-whore, WANTED to believe you weren’t flirting with girls behind her back. Online. Offline. I guess it’s pretty foolish to assume that your boyfriend (who claims to be IN LOVE with you) would be perfectly content with JUST you…no one else. And, I suppose I shouldn’t worry if you tell other women how beautiful they are and how you’d LOVE to hang out with them. I mean…its all honesty, right? Well I mean…you did try to hide it (fail). And you did lie when I confronted you (fail). AND you did try to turn the situation around on me, so you could take the blame and guilt off of you (fail). But in the end, you realized you were breaking the perfect mold, and apologies came pouring out. And I eagerly accepted ever lie you fed me. And you knew I would.
You are so talented. The way you spray out lies like a can of Krylon on a blank, unsuspecting wall. “I love you. You’re my everything” slides out of your crooked mouth without a moment’s hesitation. And I soaked up every lie like an eager sponge, wanting to be drenched in every possibility that you TRULY loved me. But you don’t, and you never did, and it’s only now that I can see I poured my heart and soul into a cold-hearted shell of a human being. But I finally opened my eyes which had seemingly been sewn shut with my own love, and found you were never the boy I knew. You were merely an illusion, using your infinite vocabulary to your advantage to keep me blinded from the truth. A plus work. I ignored all the signs, the warnings, the disappointments, only to find out I wasted months of my life on someone who was never worth a moment of my time. And you knew all along. When you got caught, you were so desperate to tell me how much you loved me and didn’t deserve me. And then you ran away, like you always do. When things start to get serious, you run like a scared puppy with your tale between your legs. Congratulations. You are officially the most pathetic human being I have ever had the unfortunate luck to have met. You hide behind this mask of words and deception, but you don’t realize. You’re so “talented” you’re fooling yourself. Your “friends” think you’re scum (and I’d have to agree). The girls you pursue don’t take you seriously (and they shouldn’t, I made that mistake). You are so afraid of actually having to grow up, that you sabotage and run away from someone who actually loved you for who you were…or rather…who she thought you were. But don’t worry; fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. But know that you will NEVER fool me again.
You amaze me with the bullshit you say. You try so hard to be someone else that maybe you don't even realize the pain you cause others. But you can’t hide from yourself forever. The selfish con-artist. 26 with not much to show for it except a couple dead brain cells and some crazy stories of drug induced fiascos. You work one day a week...if you feel like it. Other weeks you choose not to go into work at all, despite the fact you've NEVER taken your girlfriend out to dinner. You have this dream of music making you millions, but what if it doesn't? It takes a lot of effort to make it big in the music industry. Tough skin. Hard work. Determination. All qualities which you appear to lack. 4 more years and you'll be 30. And alone. Mooching off your parents, friends, and any unsuspecting lover that makes the mistake of stumbling into your outstretched arms. But not me. NOT ME. And maybe one day you'll see yourself for who you really are and you'll change your ways. But by then every "I'm sorry" you say will sound like a lie.

Wake up (I did)

Waking up
Is realizing
Words can lose
Their meaning,
Honesty can cease
To matter,
Guilt only exists
As time passes.

Seeing reality
Is understanding
A kiss meant less
Than a handshake
Until my lips
Weren’t there to kiss.
And my love
My all, my tears,
Meant nothing
Until they dried up.

I woke up,
I now see reality
It’s cruel, at times,
But with purpose,
And meaning,
For the agony
You put me through.
And now I see
Leaving you,
Your all, your tears,
Your polygamist lust,
Was the best decision
I have ever made.
I will never regret it.

One

Together they were one.
Two carings soul,
in one beautifully entwined body.
And maybe one day
They will share one bed,
in some tiny one bedroom apartment,
with one blanket warming
two naked bodies.

And Sundays will be
their one day
to sleep in.
Awakening at noon
groggy and bare, but warm.
Always warm.
And she’ll steal one kiss
from those welcoming lips,
inviting him to taste
one sweet taste of lust.

And Sunday evenings
they would make dinner,
that one little kitchen
humming with their Love.
Later that night
they curl up, cozy
on that one ratty, torn couch,
indescribable happiness
in each others’ arms.
The football game,
or movie buzzing in the background,
as she puts her lips close to his ear
takes one deep breath
and says:
“If I could freeze time,
And be stuck in this
One moment,
With only you,
I would.”