adlizasueyang-blog1

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

9/2/2016

I would bend the hands of time, just to return to a point when you believed without a doubt– that tomorrow will be better. I would drink the ocean for you– the whole ocean. Why? Because as writers, we are colorful sponges never stopping even for the largest of metaphors. I would learn sign language just to speak with you on the days when you give the world silence. I would stop writing if that would make you smile more. I would give up the most important parts of me just to keep you safe. I would scream our whispers because hearing doesn’t always involve listening and loving doesn’t always mean staying forever. I would search for you in my next life. And the next. And the off switch to our lives would be inside of your smile. I would love to love you until you believed in love all over again. I would smile, but only if you are. Wait. We both can’t be sad. I’ll smile regardless. I would seek you out among the stars and ask you– “how long did it take you to become this beautiful?” I would replace all of your sadness with my arms– I’ll hug your smile back into place. I would bleed into rivers just to tell you that even the bodies of waters loved to feel rosy. I would write until my hands gave out, just to tell you how much you mean to me– In my next life, I’d still write you… poetry. I would.

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

Don’t want to leave it all behind..but I get my hopes up and watch them fall everytime…

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

I’m going to be completely honest for the first time in my life and like everything in my small and insignificant life, this is going to fucking scare me. As a poet that writes every single day about close to little or nothing to say at all, I’m absolutely and intensively afraid to feel things. I have an addiction to feeling nothing and the painkillers help soothe whatever I’ve felt the whole day. Is it normal to be this afraid? I often question why my sensitive strikes me down each night. Maybe it’s because my mother raised me with intentions to be better than my father, what if I can’t live up to her hopes? My father is a drug addict and relapsing like tomorrow doesn’t exist and if the pipe could say anything, it would tell him to take another hit, you’ll feel better. Am I any different? Long day again? It’s okay. I’m here. I’m easy to find and I’m affordable. I won’t kill you if you take me in small doses. I won’t harm you hell, you might not feel a thing. You see, I’m not too different than him. He has a temper, the light bulb is just waiting to pop with ideas that scream out words I can’t say without feeling hurt. My temper isn’t too different. I have an addiction that might be even heavier than his. Light drugs and heavy drugs, what is the difference? I take small pills heavily and he takes hard puffs lightly. I may be more alike than I’d like to admit and that terrifies me. He may not write poetry, but a part of him will forever be a part of me. Half of my rotten apple, it stems from him. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, what if I successfully become my greatest fear? What if I grow apples that are just as bad as me? I’ve not changed. I haven’t changed a day ever since late December and I think I’m slowly getting crazy. I write poetry to make myself feel better, but I can barely recite a line. It’s just words pouring out of my fingertips. I live my life inside of a metaphor, but yet I still wonder why I get so sad so quickly. If I’m an addict like my father and my anger matches his, does that mean that I am him? There has to be more to me. I have to believe that. Although my soul is rotting away with my unedited regrets, I pray for the man I won’t get to be one day. If I do get to be him, maybe he’ll accept my current apologies. These worms crawling in my skin, these flaws scraping down my brain, and these words forever spilling from my pen. I hope he forgives me.

The poetic apple (via poetryleftbyher)

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

Missing...you...?

I don't miss you. But I have to admit my heart does. I don't miss you but I have to admit my mind does. I don't miss you but I have to admit body does. I don't miss you but I have to admit I kinda do.

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

Thoughts...

I don't hate you but I do. I don't want to love you but I do. You make me crazy. Am I doing that to you?

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

The problem is that they say ‘You’ll be okay’ And I think I don’t want to be okay. That’s the thing, I want to be good.

S.Z. // I want to be extraordinary (via blossomfully)

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

So he came back but different but who said I was still with him? I'm just confused why he is hanging around when we have both moved on and neither of us are as sweet as when feelings filled our eyes with love. He is not mine and I do not want him to be, but he does confuse me because why is he still here?

Maybe he sees something that doesn’t exist.

[adlizasueyang-blog1]

8/27/16

So, this is about me and within me is a deep depression. It can be described as a permanent scar because we picked far more often than we should have let it be. They never really tell you how to handle it or why you get so sad, so quickly, so long, so instantly… It’s like a constant dread hanging over your head. Those grey cloud cartoons… now I finally get it. You know, I go to work with a beautiful smile on my face. Nobody knows. I dance when I’m bored. I clap when I’m excited. I laugh when it hurts. I smile to look the job. When does it get better? At which point will the answer be obvious? I no longer know why I feel this way, only that it comes in waves. As if the ocean had nothing better to do, hey, let’s drown today. Am I selfish? Sure. Am I negative? The cup was always half-empty. I drank it. I no longer write with passion, it’s more a dying flame. So, this is about me and the depression that’s usually quiet…

it speaks.

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