i’m having trouble keeping my eyes open, but hey. at least i can drown my thoughts out with high quality television. or books. or youtube. or anything. anything to make it stop. because when you hit the pause button, how come it all comes to a stop, and the thoughts in my head start to pick up, and suddenly i’m falling off a cliff so watch me drop
because i don’t want to think about all the things in this world i don’t know. about the emptiness thrumming in my bones, or about how no matter how much i accomplish i still feel like i’m 11 years old, not sure who i am, and drowning in my own lack of self control, and god. could someone please just call me beautiful?
and i’m having trouble keeping my eyes open, but that’s all right. i mean, i’m pretty sure it’s normal.
and it’s all healthy, teenager stuff. you just need to learn to let go, let go, let go. jump off the ledge, and feel your hair whip in the wind, feel your mind start to bend. and just… just try to forget about it. because it’s not going away any time soon.
Wow, reading and editing poems I wrote ages ago is… a trip. It’s weird–how everything has changed and yet still stayed the same all at the same time. It sounds dumb, but I miss even feeling like this.
you smile. as your fingers melt away into the snow. and as the paper flowers you gave me start to crumple, and wilt. as time continues to fucking flow.
and i’ll make it perfect. because i swear to god, i’m sorry for every crumple, every crack in my soul.
and i’m sorry i wasn’t the supergirl you wanted me to be. i’m sorry i couldn’t fly, couldn’t lift up the stone columns as they fell under the weight of the sky.
i know. i know. i failed you, all right? you don’t need to say it again, until the words are etched into my bones.
but it’s a lot, okay. expecting the world from yourself every single day. staying up so late that in the morning, your eyelids sorta turn to stone.
chiseling away the last remains of baby fat from your cheeks with a kitchen knife and letting
It’s been… a really hard week. I don’t actually remember when I wrote this, it’s been in my queue since dinosaurs roamed the earth probably, but… oof. This pretty much perfectly describes how I’m feeling right now.
so self-centred. i can’t believe you’d do this.
so go on. take a bow. and rip your skull to pieces, and drop it on the ground, because i don’t know who convinced you that you matter, but they were wrong.
your mind is a slippery slope. and it’s time you resigned yourself to the fact that eventually, you’re gonna fall.
because you don’t deserve any of this. so shut up. stop whinging about your problems.
it’s time to go.
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trigger warning: suicidal thoughts mention, self-harm mention, general heavy content. need to talk to anyone? crisis lines are here.
fingers digging into my palms. why do i fantasize about self-harm so much, even on a good day?
why am i weak like this? why did i cut myself again, digging one more tally mark into the row of scars on my broken skin?
and why don’t you fucking get it? no matter how loud i scream. no matter how well i try to explain it. why aren’t you concerned? i just… i don’t get it.
and why… am… i… so… exhausted?
Hey guys. I just wanted to say that, well, this is a vent poem. Basically, I’ve been having a lot of bad days of late, and… yeah. But that doesn’t make any of the thoughts in it true, and I know I’ve said this before, but I feel like it’s important to say again. You’re not a bad person for struggling. You’re not alone, even if you feel like it. Suicide and self-harm aren’t solutions. But at the same time, expressing those feelings is, to me, incredibly important in terms of processing them and dealing with them in a healthy way. So please, if this poem hits close to home with you, reach out. Talk to someone you trust–a parent, a teacher, a friend, a counsellor. Just the fact that you related to this poem is a sign that you’re not the only one who feels this way. And please, hang in there. I promise that someday, someday, we’re not going to feel this way.
buried in the stone-cold silence. and i’m sorry if there was something i was supposed to do, something i was supposed to tell you. i’m a bit of a fucking mess right now, but i promise i still love you.
it’s just… sometimes the worst thing about anxiety is that i genuinely can’t tell what’s just my head and what’s actually the reality.
and how did time manage to pass this quickly? because it feels like yesterday, that we were just kids, running around your back yard pretending for a while that we didn’t have mental illness.
and it’ll hollow out my chest. it’ll carve out all my hope, and confidence, cut the power, turn off the wifi, slam the door. get it through your fucking head. you’re always going to be alone in here.