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Number 10

It’s sad

Very sad

I haven’t written in a long time

I haven’t made a concoction, a haiku or a rhyme

It seems that the best words come to me when I’m feeling the lowest of the low

But when I’m feeling quite high the words just don’t seem to flow...

I find that writing can be an escape and a way to be free, but how can I write what I write when I’m not feeling like me

See me, I, her, you, is so used to feeling down they’re not sure what to do, when they’re feeling rather happy with no signs of blue it’s difficult to write something so happy and so true.

See poetry seems to be a thing of prophecy’s and about sadness and sorrow and not most of all not knowing if you’re going to feel this way tomorrow

Poetry is for the troubled, the hurt, and the sad and that’s what makes it special- a thing us sensitivitie people really understand.

I’ll continue to write my deepest and my darkest thoughts, as long as you stay with me as a healthy fruit is always healthy till it rots.

I am what I am. I do what I do, I say what I say. And all of that is true.

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Number Nine

Ive been crying for months, maybe weeks, maybe days.

It’ll get better, you’ll be okay, is all anyone’s says.

Go to the doctor, go get your pills, they’ll kill all the bad feels.

A celebrity dies, takes their own life, that’s when they care, suddenly they think they’re all aware.

‘Mental health is a serious issue, check in on your friends’ you say it as if it’s a new kind of cold, but it’s always been there

We fight new battles every day, nothing can make it all go away, nothing can stop the thoughts that I think, I’ve tried beleive me, I’ve pulled myself from the brink.

Instead I’ll sit and I’ll cry, and I’ll write poems about how I don’t want to die, How i want to be safe and stable every single day, but it’s okay because you’ll check on me once another celebrity takes their own life away.

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Number Eight

Talking, the easiest, most natural, everyday occurance.

Except when you need to talk it becomes the most terrifying thing in the world.

Each word you say doesn’t want to come out, you’re forcing it.

You feel like you’ve just been asked the most difficult question in the universe but really you’ve been asked: how do you really feel?

You start to think ‘I can’t say it, why can’t you just cut me open and take a look inside at all these thoughts and find a solution for me?’

You long for someone to care and for you to be able to open up to someone but when the one thing you wanted becomes the most frightening thing in the world what do you do?

You decide to text it, or even write it down.

You find yourself rewriting the text 1000 times, screwing up each piece of paper and starting over again until you realise you can’t write it, you can’t put it in a text.

When you’re able to write it down, when you’re able to put it in a text, when you’re able to turn it into a poem, a song, a drawing, a sculpture, when you’re able to talk, embrace it.

Because there’s still so many of us learning to talk and we would give anything to be able to do what you do everyday, however keep doing what you do because we appreciate you and aspire to be just like you.

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Number Seven

what do you do when you don’t know what to do anymore?

Who do you turn to when you’re in a room full of people but you’ve never felt more alone?

Who do you talk to when everyone’s talking to you but you open your mouth and nothing comes out?

What happens when someone finally asks if you’re okay and all you can say is ‘yeah I’m good thank you, how are you?’

What happens when you’re in the most familiar of places but you continuously feel lost?

What happens when everything’s clear as day but your brain can’t make sense of anything?

What do I do?

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Number Six

It’s getting bad, again.

Worse than it’s been before.

I feel myself detaching from life and burning bridges with the people I love the most.

I don’t want to be around my friends, but I don’t want to be alone.

I have the most beautiful girlfriend but right now I feel like I’m not enough even though I love her to the bone.

My family care, and appreciate everything I do. So why do I detest them and lock myself away at every chance I get?

I push myself at work to be the best that I can be, but it’s still not good enough for me.

I keep thinking I need space, but being alone terrifies me and I miss everyone as soon as they’re not around until I realised it’s myself I need space from, I’m so far off the ground.

My heads a mess, I can barely hold a conversation, my anxiety is off the rails but I force myself to beleive it’s my imagination.

Today I realised I need to talk to someone and make a cry for help, my friends? No. My family? No. My girlfriend? No.

It’s fine I’ll keep it to myself, it’s just in my imagination anyway.

Even though its not.

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I could write novels about her eyes alone. They had so many beautiful and painful things to say.

hella-james (via wnq-writers)

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Many people have come and left, and it has been always good because they emptied some space for better people. It is a strange experience, that those who have left me have always left places for a better quality of people.

Osho (via perrfectly)

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#5

Her eyes are a mystery waiting to be solved, they tell you they want your help but she tells you not to get involved.

Her hearts so warm but she feels so cold, she is the meaning of a story unfortold.

Behind the prepossessing smile and the alluring demeanours, she finds her personal solace in things such as the courtneeers.

Her tales and times make you tell rhymes that no one will understand, but her excistance alone makes you feel right at home and far from secondhand.

whilst she’s everyone’s queen and everyone’s dream - the one they all want to be, she has a dark secret, she thinks she hides well, one the naked eye cannot see.

In a room full of people, and a house full of love, the one they admire, the one they desire, cannot comprehend the above.

she’s a sunflower standing tall, a wonder in its self but she feels so small.

she’s on a pedastal for the world to see but she’d rather you just leave her be.

To us she is worth more than any diamond or pearl but to her she’ll always be lonely girl.

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It’s too late to be a poet now I lost my talent Fell in love with the emptiness of depression I can’t leave the prison in my mind

It’s too late to make art now I lost my passion Found comfort in your obsession I can’t escape your soulless eyes

It’s too late for peace now We lost our empathy Foreign to a life without war We are doomed for life

It’s too late for you and me now I lost everything Befriended disorders to stay warm I can’t survive for long

- Hira

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I thought I was doing great, until suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My anxiety might disappear sometimes, but it never leaves me completely.

Hira (via hedonistpoet)

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