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Literature Text
1. someone came up to me the other day, and told me
that if i didn't start using capital letters in my poems,
she wouldn't read any more of them.
i just told her in a quiet voice that i was tired of screaming
at people who would never listen.
the thing with me is that i always
read too much into things-
people, newspapers, fucks, metaphors.
and usually i fall in love with things that
could never love me back.
2. i destroy the things that mean
the most to me, and i've never gotten the hang
of writing in stanzas.
most days i walk around reciting numbers
and other people's poetry, but usually
i just count the seconds i spend falling apart and
avoiding the things that make me whole because
self-destruction will always be my forte.
3. broken people seem to have a way of finding each other.
like we work under this assumption that we can find
perfect in each other's missing pieces,
even though we all know two wrongs will never make a right
"do you want me to fuck you?" you ask,
because you want to hear the yes, the affirmation that
someone could love you as much as you don't love yourself.
and i say yes, because your happiness will always be worth more than mine
but really i am saying, nononono,
i want you to fall in love with me.
broken people do not help other broken people.
we destroy them further, even if we do not mean to.
4. sometimes people ask me why i seem so grown up.
they ask where my childhood went.
sometimes i tell them that peter pan raped my mother,
or that i've crossed out too many 'grace and _____ forever'
or that the government cancelled my ability
to reach for the stars.
i never tell them that i think my childhood
just got very good at hiding from the bruises and
black eyes that threaten its life.
it sits on my collarbone and inside the dip of my ankle
and i will always keep its secret.
there are days when i want to be a poet,
and i have to remind myself to care about others.
i was always the kid in the back who
chewed on blue colored crayons and told herself
that silver was the bestshe could ever achieve
5. i make my houses out of photographs and help the wolf blow them down.
for so long, i've held my fists closed and now
i think i've forgotten how to let go.
This Is Me Screaming At You.
that if i didn't start using capital letters in my poems,
she wouldn't read any more of them.
i just told her in a quiet voice that i was tired of screaming
at people who would never listen.
the thing with me is that i always
read too much into things-
people, newspapers, fucks, metaphors.
and usually i fall in love with things that
could never love me back.
2. i destroy the things that mean
the most to me, and i've never gotten the hang
of writing in stanzas.
most days i walk around reciting numbers
and other people's poetry, but usually
i just count the seconds i spend falling apart and
avoiding the things that make me whole because
self-destruction will always be my forte.
3. broken people seem to have a way of finding each other.
like we work under this assumption that we can find
perfect in each other's missing pieces,
even though we all know two wrongs will never make a right
"do you want me to fuck you?" you ask,
because you want to hear the yes, the affirmation that
someone could love you as much as you don't love yourself.
and i say yes, because your happiness will always be worth more than mine
but really i am saying, nononono,
i want you to fall in love with me.
broken people do not help other broken people.
we destroy them further, even if we do not mean to.
4. sometimes people ask me why i seem so grown up.
they ask where my childhood went.
sometimes i tell them that peter pan raped my mother,
or that i've crossed out too many 'grace and _____ forever'
or that the government cancelled my ability
to reach for the stars.
i never tell them that i think my childhood
just got very good at hiding from the bruises and
black eyes that threaten its life.
it sits on my collarbone and inside the dip of my ankle
and i will always keep its secret.
there are days when i want to be a poet,
and i have to remind myself to care about others.
i was always the kid in the back who
chewed on blue colored crayons and told herself
that silver was the best
5. i make my houses out of photographs and help the wolf blow them down.
for so long, i've held my fists closed and now
i think i've forgotten how to let go.
This Is Me Screaming At You.
Literature
Constructive Criticism
"Tell me what you think."
"Of the poem?"
"No, of my face. Yes, the poem."
"I was going to say, because your face is just stupid."
"Very funny. Read."
"..."
"What did you think?"
"Why did you write this?"
"I wrote it for you."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"You make me self conscious when you say things like that."
"I know."
"I'm not worth this you know."
"What does that mean?"
"I am half a girl, and I deserve half a poem."
"That is not true, and you still haven't told me what you really thought about it."
"It's as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it's blood. There
Literature
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
She always fell for boys who needed saving.
Giving them kisses in the dark
to numb their headache from
drinking too much and yet
not enough to kill lust.
She was always adored by boys, who,
if given the chance, would rebuild
the world for her.
But she wanted to be the heroine
and refused to see
she needed saving, too.
Literature
Bones mend, but tell no lies.
You have cataloged your scars
like your body is a library-
to be read through &
learned from.
You think of
all the little boys
whose greedy fingers
graced
your pages.
You are angry-
none
cared for you
properly:
folding
creasing
& breaking
your spine.
They left you
on a shelf
to gather dust.
& why
should you ever
forget that?
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this isn't really a poem guys. it's just little fragments put together, but i am too tired for anything else. and i'm still trying to find me, so this is a list of everything i already know.
because there are thirty minutes left in thanksgiving, i am not thankful for the sound the trees make when they tap on my window, but i am thankful for my family. i am not thankful for ladybugs or marshmallows, but i am thankful for my friends. and i am not thankful for "broken", but i am thankful for this life.
thank you and i hope that you are thankful too.
EDIT:oh my god guys. what. why? guys. oh my gosh. thank you all so much~ you know, every time i log in after submitting a poem, i, like, tell myself "don't get your hopes up, maybe there'll be one or two new messages." and this? oh god, guys. i love you so much and now i'm going to log off before i hyperventilate because front page
because there are thirty minutes left in thanksgiving, i am not thankful for the sound the trees make when they tap on my window, but i am thankful for my family. i am not thankful for ladybugs or marshmallows, but i am thankful for my friends. and i am not thankful for "broken", but i am thankful for this life.
thank you and i hope that you are thankful too.
EDIT:oh my god guys. what. why? guys. oh my gosh. thank you all so much~ you know, every time i log in after submitting a poem, i, like, tell myself "don't get your hopes up, maybe there'll be one or two new messages." and this? oh god, guys. i love you so much and now i'm going to log off before i hyperventilate because front page
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Comments69
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"broken people do not help other broken people.
we destroy them further, even if we do not mean to. "
This. I really like this.
we destroy them further, even if we do not mean to. "
This. I really like this.