Manipulation

Is suffering at his hands

And smiling okay

Manipulation

Is ignoring reality

He has to love me

Manipulation

Is waking up tomorrow

And never today

Manipulation,

User in lover's clothing

Re... al...ity.... please no

Re...al... ity... yes so

He manipulated you

A banker's poor sheep

When love is like debt

And you have nothing to give

You best run away

Take it. Go for it.

Own it.

It destroys you, it does. It propels you so much deeper into the abyss of self indulgence, of sin, of self destruction.

It is so very dark here. You cannot see a thing. Temptation blinds you, throws a cloak of darkness over your mind and body, but you aren't scared, are you?

No. You enjoy it, you crave the darkness. The barrier between your wants and your conscience. You enjoy that momentary feeling of numbness, of the world revolving around you, and you alone.

So you give in. Again and again. Until one day, you're caught in the act. Under the covers with yet another stranger, in the store, pocketing packets of candy, at home with your hand in the cookie jar. Guilt washes over you. It threatens to drown you.

But it can't, because you're already sinking into temptation. You realise that, you know that temptation has now overpowered guilt, and it saddens you. You wonder how it got this way. You try to swim back up, out of the abyss, desperately searching for a single speck of light in the darkness. You can't, but you can swim to shallower depths.

You give in to guilt.

Now you are sinking, self hatred overwhelms you, threatens to throw you back and forth in the waves of depression. You continue swimming. You're almost there, almost out of the ocean.

You're at the surface.

The surface, the real world. Filled with nameless strangers, packets of candy, jars of cookies. There it is again. The darkness. The soothing cloak that seduces your mind.

Take it. Go for it.

Own it.

And you do.

#poetry

he says he'll make me his martyr

if i beg him,

that he'll let me feel religion 

if i let him turn the hem of my shirt inside-out,

kiss the cotton out of my mouth,

and spit fire.

he makes fists out of my fingers

until i am back alleys and barbed wire

ready to storm heaven

when his trumpet calls.

he says we were made to make god tremble,

to make kingdoms fall.

so i let his lips linger on my skin.

he tells me to give up

so i give in.

he says my kisses are penance

so i repent on silk sheets,

worshipping a faith

that's got me down on both knees.

no sleep

and the churning in my stomach 

tells me i should be asking for forgiveness,

but i've only been praying for keeps.

he drinks

the blood in my palms

instead of washing them clean,

talks vices into psalms

and scriptures into blasphemy.

i feel sin in my ribs

and him on my lips,

trying to pull purgatory

out of my hips

until i am all fire and brimstone.

i don't know if i want to believe.

he says if i give more, i'll receive,

that even if my faith shakes and my back breaks

he won't leave me alone.

i hit dead ends

and thin walls

to drown out his voice.

i pour my veins into

vessels just to hear

white noise.

he says

he'll make us legends to believe in,

that we'll do too much evil to die in vain.

he abandons me once i am his.

he never tells me his name.

Am I on the right path?

Will I look back and laugh?

At the fact that I thought this

Is how I'd find joy and bliss

Down one path is what I love to do

But the other seems like a short cut through

To the dream of what I want my future to be

But in return will I lose the joys that set me free

See I am split between

Being realistic or following my dream

Being practical or creative

To which will I look back at and say "I lived"

See the realistic

Will make life simplistic

Is structured and reliable

A support so I'll be able

To build what I've always pictured

Killing the present for the unknown future

Is that entirely absurd?

And on the other hand

Is a completely different plan

It is bringing my dream to life

Doing what I love, but it's quite

Shaky, will sway and maybe even tumble

Living in the present and gambling the future

Is it worth the risk to go for double?

Its just a giant game of tug of war

I don't know which I want more

So overwhelmed and unsure

Either way I'll look back and wonder

As we grow up we begin to fear silence

Afraid to be alone with ourselves

As kids silence was a time for imagination

Now it's an internal examination

Ever wonder why so little take the time to pray

Probably because we're trained to keep our thoughts at bay

We are constantly staring at screens

Or engaging in shallow conversations

We hardly notice the time fly by

Rarely stop and ponder "who am I"

So worried about our image that the surrounding eyes reflect

That we don't self reflect and behind our own eyes inspect

With others opinions we'd be less concerned

If we took the time to look within and learn

Who we are and who we want to be for ourselves

And quit letting others determine our self wealth

A set of average eyes. Ordinary body shape. Wavy hair that is ever changing, from blonde to purple to green, down past her back and back to shoulder length. Skin littered with scars. Insecure. Not a single hint of perfection, and yet I like her. I like the way her eyes shine when she talks about a fanfiction, of stories that she will one day make a reality. The way she's brave enough to stand out, even if it means she's at a higher risk of harassment. The way her poetry curls around me, her words tattooed in my mind, the way she has never, and will never lose her love for words. I love the way her inaudible songs ring in my head, the way the darkness wraps its arms around us like second skin, as if the only thing lurking in the unseen is one another. She is angry, and also sad. Broken, but whole. Every angry scar on her skin makes her so much more complete. Late night talks- as late as "late night" could be- about where we could be, what we could do. Doing mental trust falls again and again and again, and knowing that the other will always be there for us at the edge of the cliff, always the branch we grab on to in desperation, our support until we can finally pull ourselves back up onto the surface. Finding the smallest loopholes in our timezones, sharing little infinities in early mornings and late nights. Finding comfort in just knowing that the other person is listening on the other side of the line. We know that love doesn't automatically fix everything. There is nothing special about her, but she captivates me in the strangest ways, hiding away all her perfection in her shell of imperfection. Everybody wants to be perfect, strives to be perfect. She strives only to be good enough. Some see it as a weakness. I see it as a strength. She doesn't need to be perfect. She isn't and will never be perfect, and I like that. She's the imperfection in this world that strives for perfection. My imperfection.

I can think

of a hundred ways to die

and a hundred ways to do it

but I can't think

of a hundred ways to live

and a hundred ways to do it

so I lock myself away

for hundreds of hours

and hundreds of days

and try not to think at all

He wept. He wept for all the things he wasn’t- the things he’d never be. He wept for the people he’d hurt and for the disappointment he’d caused them to feel. Mostly though he wept for himself. He was a failure. Certifiably broken. He wept because he wanted to kill himself and he knew that wasn’t right but he wanted everything to stop and he didn’t know what happiness meant or how to achieve it. He wept because nothing was right and he didn’t know how to fix it nor how to pretend. He wept because everything hurt and the only way to alleviate it was too many pills or a rope and chair or a knife or a gun.

He didn’t remember a time when the darkness hadn’t blocked his view of the sun, hadn’t seduced his foolish longing for a future of contentment. The only thing he knew was how to fill the void. He spent his days trying to appease the pit with hours of trivial t.v. and inconsequential books and pointless bouts of school work.

He wept because he was hollow. And he knew there wasn’t any help for this kind of vacancy. He wept because it didn’t make sense for blood to be pumping through his veins when he didn’t have emotions. It was more than that because nothing made sense and everything was confusing and empty and fucking meaningless. He didn’t understand why this was happening to him, what he did to deserve this- if there was a cure. He just wanted release.

She didn't know what happiness was;

what it felt like,

looked like.

She didn't know what it did to your head,

your heart.

She had never gotten a taste

of the elusive, talked about feeling,

the one that was supposed to make her forget pain

and smile so widely people thought she was high.

The one that would make her want to get out of bed,

hangout with her friends,

or just compliment the cashier when she got her coffee.

She often wondered what her malfunction was.

Why she was the only one

who was perpetually,

cripplingly sad?

She took her vitamins,

slept enough,

was surrounded by love-

yet.

Yet the sun made her wince,

her future made her sick

and life seemed torn between dull and nerve-racking.

Never in a million years would you have thought

the girl was having such a confusing time

because she did smile.

She got out of bed and grumbled just enough.

She said nice things to strangers,

she took the pills they gave her,

she encouraged others to put down the razor,

get off the ledge,

to stop reaching down their throat.

No one worried because there wasn't a reason for her to be anything but happy.

The truth was she should be happy.

She just wasn't.

I took a deep breath, inhaling bitter smoke.

Nothing was better, I decided, watching in rapture.

This was what is was to live without fear,

to be high without crack,

to be invincible without steroids.

This was fucking ecstasy.

Yes, I decided.

Nothing was better then the feeling

of lighting a match

and watching a building burn.

My stomach twisted deliciously.

Elation coursed in my veins as the fire consumed the faded house.

I stayed until I heard the sirens.

I walked away intoxicated with the feeling.