I'd never thought I had the niche for poetry, let alone that I would write so many pieces throughout the year, but here I am—having surprised myself once again. I met someone in a very strange point in my life, but when isn't a strange time? Within the passion and love, I soon found heartbreak. From that point onwards, my love for self-expression grew. I found myself pouring my feelings onto paper, and wanted to share my thoughts with all of you.
I am not a place
you can lay to rest
a mere pit stop between
my spread thighs
for you to release
the stress
with your heavy hands
there is no vacancy
no space empty
for you to come
as you are not willing
to stay
— for all the time you knew you didn't want me yet, you touched me anyway
————————————————————————————————————
I fall in love with people too quickly, and far too deeply — I let them in even though I’m terrified that they’ll leave somebody.
— and I’ll never tell you this was my biggest fear
————————————————————————————————————
But I can’t help but let all the thoughts of people around me make me lose faith in my own judgment. I don’t think I’m wrong to love him, when I see his eyes light up around me. I don’t think he has intentions to hurt me when he cares so deeply about me.
— and I was wrong
————————————————————————————————————
What did my hands do before they held him?
What did my heart feel before experiencing this love?
sorrow and misery.
————————————————————————————————————
he treats me like a book in the library
decides when he wants to bend back my spine,
read me; secrets spilled over the pages like ink.
sometimes he decides,
he can tuck me away, on a shelf.
only for him to read,
being his without belonging to him.
————————————————————————————————————
I haven’t got the slightest clue what I’m doing with my life
but I see him and I know I can see myself with him forever
I know I’m ‘too young’ or foolish or reckless in love
and you say that he probably isn’t the one for me
but who are you to judge what real love is
who are you to tell me who I can and can’t love
to tell me he isn’t right
you hardly know a single thing about him
I constantly contemplate death and he makes me want to hold on to my life just because there is hope that he’ll be by my side
he makes me feel alive without even having to touch my frigid skin
don’t tell me i don’t know what love is when what this is feels so real
without him the days wouldn’t be days I'd go back to cutting them short with harmful thoughts and actions
don’t tell me he isn’t mine or isn’t right for me.
don’t you dare when all you’ve done is made mistakes with your choices;
don’t tell me he doesn’t respect me when he hasn’t asked for a single thing from me
don’t tell me I’m low when you don’t know the circumstances
don’t tell me he doesn’t love me when you can’t hear his hushed words at 2am.. don’t tell me it isn’t real- shattering my fairytale
About the Creator
Pink Floyd
just another brick in the wall.
Keep reading
More stories from Pink Floyd and writers in Poets and other communities.
Skinny Does Not Define Me
Skinny; This has been a word that’s ruled my life from the moment my mother first put me on a scale. I can remember her vividly — clicking her tongue, and shaking her head at me. My mother would always make me regret eating one too many oreos, or eating oreos at all for that matter. The day she told me I’d become too big for her to recognize from a distance, that’s the day it all spun into a downward spiral. She didn’t realize all the damage she’d done to my fragile mind; opening the doors to a whole world of self-destruction. Soon enough, something was possessing me. She’d woken up my demons, and they were looking for anything to do. It wanted to consume me, define me. I succumbed to that voice, that told me I wasn’t good enough. Eventually, I didn’t realize that that voice had become my own. I used to fear the people that were unhinging, the one’s that could hold cigarettes to their shaking lips, and use knives to cut their hips. I became the spitting imagine of all that I feared. Birthday after birthday, I’d spend it with my head hunched over a toilet; my knuckles were bloodied. My obsession with perfection, to be what my mother wanted was slowly killing me. I tried anything to lose the weight in the least amount of time. I couldn’t shake the voice that told me all the awful things that made me clutch onto my disorder. I had lost the energy to fight back, so I let it stay. I let it curl up with me in bed and I let it isolate me to the point I could no longer handle social interaction. I couldn’t stand seeing my reflection in the mirror, the sight of my body and I’d be sobbing uncontrollably. The numb moments spent in the kitchen, where I'd stuff anything I could find in the pantry into my mouth, those were the ones I despised myself the most. I’d purged myself to a point of ulcers in my mouth, and even with the pain it caused I could not stop myself. And it was wicked, that I smiled from ear to ear the first time I successfully purged. I was terrified of that person, but I clutched onto her cause she knew what to do. She knew how to make me skinny, and although years have passed since those dark times. They still threaten to resurface — every single day.
By Pink Floyd7 years ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.