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this is less of a love poem and more of athere is something to be said
about resisting the temptation
to start out with a bang.

the hallway of your neck
has never lost its scent
and it's something, i swear,
i swear, i can never forget

because it's something surreal
to wake up while you're asleep
and feel you pull me closer
til our faces almost meet-

but please,
hold onto that almost,
hold onto it like stardust.

you need to touch me in a whisper
because it's been too long
since i've felt the hand of someone
who actually meant it,
someone who actually meant something

and i'm so glad, my god,
i'm on my knees
i am praying to(o,) my god
that we won't burn out so qu

virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
curse-like,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.

and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot c

centre for psychological healthit is three days
until march falls again,
false promises of spring
kissing the air
until it begins again
for winter;

three hours
until i feel my heartbeat
find its way
into the oceans
my blood spills,
poetry,
across porcelain
and skin
mirroring it;

three minutes
until i shift,
unbearable,
in a crimson chair
that begs for me releasing;

three seconds
until i swallow,
a bird,
sticking bones,
and pray for a
tooth of glass,
a jaw of metal, of
sharp,
kiss me,
an instant,
the way
you
once did.

go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.

look-
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories. i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be. but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.

i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt. i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won

write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them

it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be

you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort

comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
an

presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
innocent-looking girl.
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
thong underwear,
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.

it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.

so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without crac

an open letter to a rekindled relationshipwe have travelled thousands of miles;
we have felt spite and fear for diminished feelings;
we have played this game for far too long.

last night we missed hearing others' poetry
to make our own.
i was not afraid of skin,
and you were not afraid to feel.
we were born with instinct for a reason:
follow it.

realising what you want is half the battle.
my other half is hesitation-
my other half is you.

i still swell with emotions my therapist
can't help me label
when i remember how you said
you weren't over me.
and how we joined again,
with an interim year,
and a new understanding of emotion
adding to and balancing the physical.

the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the

scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
vast,
barren,
and sparse.

i begin losing my hair and
scattered grassroots
define me.

i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.

i miss having someone
to tell i love,

but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough

that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
there.

upon knowing the answeryou are punctuating.

i find myself asleep beside you
not dreading the most singular transition
between sleeping and sleeping alone
until i am wrapped
chrysalis
in my own bed
with too much space
surrounding me

i like thinking
of how this is not a memory
this is a moment
that is repeating itself
every time we find
the gaps between minutes
and fill them with ourselves,
like photographs i can't wait to take
and imagine so many times
of the lens reflecting us,
reversed images,
and how that feels

my feet are still unsteady
on a ground too nascent for tectonics
but i am feeling promise
in the way the camera catches you
look

indian summersleepy
sleepless
nights
take their toll
and i start wondering if you're drinking
and feeling stars sink from the sky
to merge with the waves of your stomach
undulations with sparkles of poison
and i wonder
if you're warmer, like copper
or if your arm is snaked
all ribbons
around another girl's waist
or if your teeth
white moonlight
glitter the way they do
when you're sober
and smiling at me
from sleep
or if you even
think
of me,
just for
a
moment

it's hard
to pull away
when every night,
you fold me,
copied paper,
in your arms
until the morning
separates us
again

i will always
pause
in the moments
you say,

barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;

you,
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
sleepless nights
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;

and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.

yo

things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
not yet.

and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
oh,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.

and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
your arms,
eternally.

when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
(change yourself,
find it in your
heart
to feel a little something
for me)
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
my mouth;

uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.

i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.

i have so much to
show you,
i could give you so much
to feel,
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
and there,
you stay.

one day,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
one day,
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shar

glass windowswe are windows,
made of glass
and shattered
in the old houses
of our bodies.

the wood of our
fragile frames
has been dismissed,
extricated from
their interlocking
webwork,
and pulled a
thousand miles
into the heat of georgia.

i will miss the
weighted feathers
of your hands,
the sun spilling
across your face
and painting your
smile,
graffiti,
across the city
of barcelona.

i am terrified
to lose you
to the sea,
ever-growing,
between
you and me.

i just pray
to the same god
you believe in
that if our ship
sinks,
we will each
remember
to float.

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and twist nests, nettled
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why jk rowling embodies depression as dementors

by *ohsostarryeyed, Jul 21, 2012, 10:39:37 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

i wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.

that's when you start having your moment.

the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.

pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great sheaves of skin.
the world is alive, but unfriendly and cold.

so we sink back into what we're used to.
the way settling into sadness
is like settling into bed after a long day.

so they put you on everything they can find.
prozac, where you stayed miserable.
abilify, where you stayed miserable.
seroquel, where you stopped eating
when being treated for having stopped eating.
risperdal, where you became a zombie.
celexa, where you stopped obsessing
until your dose caused heart problems
so you dropped it til you felt permanently
bad.
klonopin, where you got high.
ambien, where you hallucinated.
neurontin, where you got dizzy
and couldn't tell if it was from having stopped eating again
or from the pills that rivaled the size of your thumbs.
effexor, where you cross your fingers and hope
maybe finally something goes right.

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why jk rowling embodies depression as dementorsby *ohsostarryeyed

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~Saidye Jan 15, 2013 Student General Artist

Oh my god, Melissa.

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*ohsostarryeyed Jan 28, 2013

you are so lovely

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~Saidye Jan 30, 2013 Student General Artist

Thank you, you are though.

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~tiajones Jul 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

the beginning of this is just perfection. <3 <3 <3

i quoted it here: [link]

i hope you don't mind. <3

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*ohsostarryeyed Aug 23, 2012

eep! no i don't mind, thank you!

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~tiajones Aug 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

always welcome. [:
it's beautiful

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*Scarlatti Jul 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

So sad

I hope the effexor works for you

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~LiebeLoewenzahn Jul 24, 2012 Student Writer

Celexa

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~TheEmptyChest Jul 24, 2012

As someone who battles depression, I can honestly say this resonates with me very strongly.

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*ohsostarryeyed Aug 23, 2012

i'm sorry :[ thank you, dear

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