I cut my own tongue
on it's razor sharp edges.
Lacerated words arise
from hidden places.
The sweet salt drips
down my cracked lips
and onto my
What have I done?
I need to stop telling myself I'm terrible.
Eighteen RingsI've got more rings
under my skin
than the big oak
in my backyard.
And I feel so paper thin
that I swear
the lines on my palms
are wear and tear marks.
A sign that any second now
I'll crumble up
and sweep under
the feet of the people
cutting me down.
(To build something
But after eighteen years
of the same old
and the same old
with exhausted people
snapping at my heels
for petty mistakes,
I'm used to feeling restless.
Though to get some sleep
a little of the spring
back in my branches.
('Cause my fingers don't
write as much
and my hands don't
draw as much).
I think the lack of
has been getting
to my head.
The fumes leaking
from their noses
when they yell
has filled my lungs so much
I'm not sure
oxygen is an option
I've had so much experience
you'd expect me
to be numb to it
will charge head first
so fast you must react
no matter how much
Aren't A Lot of the Stars Dead Anyway?I feel an affinity towards
a certain kind of sadness
and a certain type of hope.
The stars are so bright
but they are so bright
and my eyes won't adjust
like I was promised.
I Don't Want To Feel NowI.
There must be something
sitting on my chest
that my eyes are blind to.
It isn't hurting me
as much as it is seeping
into my lungs.
(I feel heavy now.)
And my head hits the pillow
like it is north
and the other is south.
But the fields
are keeping me awake
with exchanging currents.
(I feel stuck now.)
I've noticed the wall
beside my bed has bumps.
I've had enough time
to stare at something insignificant,
and now I realize just how much
I've never really cared.
(I feel small now.)
The lights are all blaring
and the clock is behind my head.
But the sunlight through my shutters
is reminding me of my existence
and how much I don't deserve it.
It's 5PM and I'm lying down again.
(I feel worthless now.)
There is too much silence here
and the room is buzzing
like the dead flies
in my windowsill used to do.
Next time I get up I'll make a note
to clean those out later.
(I feel numb now.)
Summer HomeI think you've ruined me
in a way that doesn't quite hurt
as much as it suffocates sweetly.
There's something about
looking back on everything you've said
and finally seeing each lie
as they scraped your bottom lip
on the way out.
I think I was addicted
to the taste of your blood
when I kissed you.
It seemed to mingle well
with my tears
and stained my lips just enough
to mark your territory
as the summer home
that seemed more fun
when you were younger.
Mr. MelancholyI fell deeply inlove with him.
in his gray suit
and his black tie.
He always had an eye for fashion,
and he'd dress me down well.
He'd call me beautiful,
and reassure me that the funeral
they eluded to in their jeers
was a wedding for our souls.
And our honeymoon
would be spent side by side,
as it always should be,
laying down under the stars.
A stone on my finger,
and a stone on top of me,
carefully adorned with flowers,
As my dress turns to lace
and then to dust that slips through my fingers
in rhythm to the ticking of the clock,
he sews my next corset
between my ribs.
It's steel-boned spine crushes me
ever so lightly over time.
The difference so subtle
I wouldn't have known it was real
if it hadn't been for the stares.
I suppose I have gotten thinner,
but he assured me again
I was beautiful.
His design was built to fit a skeleton,
and I wanted to please him.
In sickness and in health,
'til death do us part,
and my parts have
This Place Is GarbageThis place is goddamn filthy
and we are all trash.
No matter how you look at us
or what someone says about us
at the end of the day we all
deserve to be taken out.
I won't deny we are flawed
or even at times disgusting
But at one time we were desired.
Someone wanted us,
maybe even needed us.
But we were broken and used
and then tossed away.
That's how everything fucking works
and you either get used to it
and accept that you are rotting away,
or you realize that you change over time.
We are still rotting.
We are still dying.
But found things can be used again.
An artist's warehouse is a dumpster.
Scraps of cardboard are walls.
Egg cartons are hills.
Broken glass are mosaics
and someone fucking needs you again!
I can not change your mind
on how you view yourself.
Just as you can't change mine
on how I view you.
Call yourself what you may,
my beautiful shard of sharp metal,
you may use yourself to harm yourself,
you may rust and dirty up,
but you are the centerpiece--
The Comfort of Pale-Smile SadnessMy pockets know the back of my hands
like I know the world through
my teary eyes
and just-as-blurry mind.
I'm sure if I ever left the comfort
of closed-lip, pale-smile sadness,
I'd fall right off the orange horizon;
drowning in the migraine-inducing sun.
Because a cold night kisses hard
and love is dropping your legs over the roof
with the gently-used notion to ground yourself,
but instead you just breathe knowing you've already fell.
It's All For YouI know you will never see
what I see in you
because we have different sets of eyes
and different minds.
As much a part of me
as I wish you were,
you're still just you
and I'm just me.
So the person in the mirror you see
is a demon
and I see an angel
and they're constantly fighting.
But evil always wins because it doesn't
like I do.
So you took a liking
to broken glass
at such a young age,
that when you started to grow up,
the skin of your tightly-clenched fist
grew around the shard.
Now it's just as much a part of you
as the knuckles you damage
and the toes you use
to keep your balance
once you finally get up;
maybe to fetch a glass of water.
You've spent every second
trying to cut your own blade
out of your hand,
hoping you'll bleed out
all the mistakes you think
belong to you.
And I know you've heard
a million times
that everyone makes mistakes
but there's truth behind cliches
and those things weren't your fault.
I know you know
exactly what I'm
Art and Other WeaponsI use words like an anchor.
Tying myself down to a piece of paper.
In books my heroes used swords,
I use a pen.
I got a mind as violent as a hurricane.
I could use these words to build me a raft.
Because it’s the only weapon I have.
And this pen isn’t what it looks like.
I finally found some sort of voice.
I can use it. These thoughts inside our heads are like bombs, so let’s defuse it.
It’s my torch.
I could burn the shadows, set fire to these fears.
I could use ink instead of tears.
I could use books and poetry like a night light
Because I never liked the dark anyways.
I could use it like a head stone…
Writing about all of my friends who couldn’t find a flash light
I could write and write
Until my skin was stained with lilies made of ink.
I write because I think
And when you think too much there is no escape.
So I say, when everything is too much
Little dream weaver, you have all the pieces.
Arm yourself with a paint brush,
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
Dear DepressionDear Depression,
I remember so perfectly
The moment I met you.
I was nine years of age,
Wearing a pale pink dress,
My hair curled elegantly,
Falling gently around my shoulders.
And, ha! I thought it would last,
But was I wrong, oh, was I wrong.
I remember the moment someone
Impaled my mind with their opinions
Of who I was as
That, dearest Depression, is the moment
I understood what it meant
And, although it was you,
Who made it hurt,
Who made it throb
And made my thoughts thrash within my
You were my friend.
I turned to you,
my 36-day-long sadness.
I loved you.
But it killed me.
Loving you made me aware
Of what "suicide" was,
And more importantly,
Why is existed.
Loving you brought me happy little moments
Cuts on my thighs.
I listened to you, oh, Depression...
"Find the nearest scarf, rope, thick string"
You'd say these things
Echoing in my bedroom
GayI am gay.
I'm not a disease, I'm not a problem
I'm not an affliction
I don't need treatment.
I don't need help
I'm not sick
I'm not confused
I'm not a sin.
I am gay.
I'm your daughter
Your co worker
A complete stranger
I am gay.
I need love, just like you
I need smiles
I need support
I need a hug
I need a friend
I need a family
I need acceptance
I need understanding
I need you
I am gay.
I know what love is
I know what pain is
I know what hate is
I know what life is
I am gay.
And I need you to love me
The same way you loved me before you knew
I am gay.
And I have experienced hate
From more people than just you
I am gay.
And I wont change.
I wont give up.
I wont back down.
I wont pretend.
I wont lie.
I wont deny.
I wont hide.
I wont hurt.
I am gay.
And that's okay.
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which
you're much stronger than you thinkI'll be the first to tell you
scissors don't need to be brought to a wrist
to cut deep
because cutting off your heart from you head,
or yourself from your dreams,
is also enough
to make you bleed
and there's ink spilled all over these pages,
and at times it seems tears
are cheaper than water from a spout:
these lines need diluted,
these blots are a dark, dark sea
and maybe I'm not too good at swimming,
even if it's just through a pool of ink
but I've learned if you just keep paddling,
you're much stronger than you think.
The Hero With Headphones The hero with headphones.
He has walked a long, lonely road.
He has lost his dad and that is never easy.
He has loved deeply and lost almost all.
He has almost ten million fans who
are striving to do good for those
To be the force for good. The light in the
dark to those in need.
Each of them look up to the hero in headphones,
no matter how much of a goober he is.
He wears a Warfstache and carries a tiny box named Tim.
He plays video games and records himself screaming in terror as
monsters fill the screen.
He commits to charity work for those in need. Always humble.
He is OUR hero in headphones.
Who is this hero you may wonder?
He is the kind of guy people look up to.
He is the leader of a force for good.
He is kind, courageous, and loving.
He is the hero in headphones..
His name will be passed on for generations.
His videos will be shared continuous
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.