I am 13, and I have scars, but I'm still standing and these are the stories I tell.
Close your tiny eyes And rest your itty head It's time to sleep my little one, It's time to go to bed. Float off in a silver pool, Drift away from me, Reality cannot compare, The magic you will see.
Pain o pain. rain rain rain. luv is slayn. i feell piann. I am sdaa. o ya so mad. nt vry gladd. jst sadd. poounde mah fist. maek aa list. cutt meh wriesst. lolz i pissed. pain o pain.
Roess r red. vilets r blu. mah sole iz so torn. i is depression. cutted. paine si bauty ya. i is so depreessed. pretteh oshean i is sea ya. ugh. lief. whyy.
Writing doesn't ressurect It buries..
I guess I'm a young cursive girl, stuck in a print kind of world, my heads in a dizzy my soda's not fizzy my hair is flat. Others are curled.
Have you seen miss Glutton, love. Who breaths in food from god above. Screams and wails, she's hungry, dove. Have you seen miss Glutton. Will you visit Mrs. Wrath. Whose seething anger boils baths.
I can't think of a title, how does one come up with that. Sum it up in just about 2 words and a tip-o-the-hat. My poems are complex, you see.
This is NOT a poem, but i'm auditioning for an advanced creative writing program next year at a prestigious Arts school.
I know I post alot of things about pain and hurt and loss. But I look at the world around me, and its goddamn breathtaking.
I leave the door shut and clean just one cut So it's nothing but Echoes and thick streaks of smutt I used to be pretty Life thought it was witty and city, the whole world just granted me pity I'm...
He was a man Envied as coal All of the hate Revealed in his soul. True, he's a hitter. But I still just stayed, Revealing my weakness Of love that is slayed Killing my love Elliot hit me hard.
I'm writing this in a bathtub in a plain green notebook crying.
You Have the breath of a corpse left to rot, Have the feet of a horse left to trot. And your love is not something I sought, But you're mine.
I am a ghost of myself. Of the child who used to play until the sun splotched red on the horizan and the night poked peepholes to heaven.
Yes, I get depressed sometimes. My parents are divorced. But life is not a tragedy, and I'm not in remorse.
The saddest thing is that I can't think of a single person who needs me. It hurts so much. Someone so young shouldn't understand so much pain.
"I am 15 and he is my first boyfriend. He is 18 and 6’4” and his hands are the size of thick textbooks. He says he has a lot to teach me. He is drowning in his sadness.
I feel so bad about kissing you because your lips taste like toothpaste and lies. And your words are soft but cut me deep leaving burns that last years and scars that last lifetimes..
I know what it's like to love someone who's heart is all but dead. Who's words wash over you, exposing every cut your shitty life has made. Who's eyes scream but who's mouth barely whispers.
Ok So I'm a really big fan of Doctor Who. As in a squeel-at-new-episodes-join-fanclubs kind of fan. And I like to imagine what would happen if I wrote the episodes, not Moffat or anyone else.
The soft, airbrushed skin. The bleached, straightened, blowdried hair. The heavy lipstick smeared on.
Gutter child, in her hole. All food she eats, she must have stole. Her mother must've been a troll. She's simply, truely Horrid. She wears rags and works like slave, All for what. Her life to save.
Slut That's my name I'm a dirty little whore. Easy. Hoe. No one knows what I've been through. The thoughts that chill my heart like ice, the night that played again and again in my head. On repeat.
I walk in the shadow of a brother turned bad. He steals and he lies and he's nearly gone mad. He's got a record, quite a big one he had. It's all just going down.
Is that all I'll ever be. A blot on the paper of extistence. The dot in an "i" in the novel of life. A simple screw in a machinery masterpiece. A candlesticks glow in a lighthouse. Unimportant.
What a bouncing baby girl what a lovely little thing. her favorite snack is peanut butter, favorite movie. why, The lion king. she's gone off to school today. first grade class, oh what fun.
The patch of dirt on grassy lawn speaks louder then the stone that lies above the slushy mud where grass is neatly grown. The only thing that I can smell is metal, sterile, clean.
I weep for the girls who can't read Or write Who think size Zero means P E R F E C T I O N .
Your face is river, ever flowing, changing upon every tide, A simple poison is not knowing, whether you should run and hide. But most time it's contained as so by fake, unjust serenity.
It's 2 am, and I'm a ghost Of what I used to be. A whisper of my former self, Calls out, meekly, to me. My blood is wine, and swear to god, My visions getting blurry.
Into 1/2 off late valentines candy Into the eyes of the devil himself Into the color of sunrise in Tampa Into the lava that covered Pompeii Into the screams of shattered trust Into the blood of...
A little wisp of little girl Glides across the stage. To take her place In No Mans Land.
Of ragged dresses draped in white, And bloodstained sun that soaks the night, Could any tale be quite not right As Poor Mad Lady Aceline.