Sal

Bad poetry saves the world + Amateur poet

[badpoemstosavetheworld]

When everyone ignores you then acts sad when you die why dont you act like the words youd say at a funeral are the truth when the person is alive

Me when im illiterate and venting on my shit poetry account because this isnt any different than the poem shit I wojld post

Reigen beam

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Honey

I used to sit there at night, blood dripping down my thigh like honey, comforting yet sickeningly sweet, staining my sheets like I’m eating in bed, despite my mother telling me I shouldn’t.

I used to promise her I wouldn’t.

But here I am, with honey stained clothes and bees buzzing in my brain wanting to make more.

My body is a hive, my thighs are sore.

My bees are working so hard not to break,

but there’s only so much I can take, before I crave something sweet again.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

Codependency

I used to fall apart in people’s arms,

and had them rebuild me in their image.

Cycles of Codependency ended in versions of myself I couldn’t recognize.

Had them tell me who to be,

like poems written uncreatively,

copied personality like lines taken from another’s work.

I used to be a clean canvas,

now I’m made up of so many colors I can’t tell what’s underneath.

They touch me,

sculpt me,

paint me,

to their hearts own desire.

They touch me,

use me,

sculpt me,

like a piece of human pottery.

Codependency is Art.

Art is Codependency.

[maybemediocrepoetry]

good bad days

I think I feel good today.

I don’t feel good but I don’t know it yet.

I think of drowning myself in alcohol, think of having sex, think of smoking a cigarette.

I think I feel good today.

And still I snap at everyone around me,

all bark no bite, hoping it will make me feel right, make me feel less insane.

Make me feel less shame.

The realization of what I’ve been thinking only hits when I’m depressed.

I feel more sane when it gets bad like that. Bad to the point I can’t get dressed, bad in a way that actually feels bad.

Because nobody cares if you drink or have sex.

They only care when you have a noose around your neck or a bottle of pills in your hand, when the self destruction is something they actually understand, not what to them is everyday life.

To me sex is as harmful as a blade against my thigh, so here I am writing a poem talking about how I’d rather get high then admit to myself that I’m not okay.

But maybe it’s okay that I’m not, maybe It’s okay I don’t know, because I’d rather have a good bad day than no day at all.