shit poetry by a shit person

cas fairchild · i write poems about love and being mentally ill lol

[a-fall-of-stars-deactivated2024]

it burns and it bleeds and it scathes yet still i bear it with a bitter smile @isyourbedroomceilingbored - tysm for allowing me to use this 

[rainbluealoekitten]

i'm know it's been said before, but i really think the key to loving being alive is in the little things. to love life you just have to put on your silly glasses to feel pretty while writing essays, and you have to listen and chuckle about the neighbour's kids while they shout and scream gleefully in their inflatable pool, and you have to lie down in the grass to look at the never-ending sky, and you have to cry at heart-wrenching poetry, and you make warm tea at the end of a long day and think about all the people who came before you and did the same and thought about how much they loved being alive too. and i think that maybe there is no point to humans existing, but maybe we each have to create our own meanings and our own purposes on this blue planet, whether it be to make love or make art or maybe make a mark. i don't know, this is probably silly, but maybe it's the silly things that mean the most.

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

oh shit i forgot i said i'd be posting more, i'm so sorry

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

yeah well

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

and under the hateful flames and lightning glares an abandoned pup is howling

— cas fairchild · isyourbedroomceilingbored

[wqemzz-blog]

Idk man I think these violent delights could have happy, peaceful, retiring-to-the-countryside-together ends if we really wanted them to

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

Tracing his jawline gently, a soft sunbeam peers in through the ajar window. My lover's skin becomes the colour of honey and it takes all my might to not place a gentle kiss upon it. As if having read my thoughts, he stirs and open his eyes. A quiet groan escapes him, and I chuckle, full of a warm feeling that spreads through me just as the subtle sun rays explore our room. Ever so tenderly, I bring a finger to my sweet boy's lips, and outline their contour. My eyes are starving for each detail on his breathtaking face, from the flecks of gold in his mellow brown eyes, to the shape of the little lines in between his nose and his mouth. He smiles, as if knowing what I'm thinking yet again, and we continue to lounge with joy in our hearts.

— cas fairchild · isyourbedroomceilingbored

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

tell me, darling: would you do it again? you already know how this ends but do you love me to the point that you would relive the pain? could you introduce yourself, ask me how my day went, and open your arms for me to fall into, just to feel that someone is there? you know i would always try to catch you, and i'm sorry i missed that one time. you know i tried to patch up those scrapes and bruises, baby, you know that. i'm sorry it wasn't enough. but maybe you would jump again, just to feel that rush of love and see the grin on my face? even if you knew i'd miss? would you?

— cas fairchild · isyourbedroomceilingbored

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

Perhaps my fatal flaw is that above all things, like the foolish human I am, I crave to be seen. It will not suffice for someone to wonder what my lips taste like. I need them to want to memorise all the names of my stuffed animals and their origin stories, find out why they take up so much space on our shared bed. Please do not offer me roses because it's romantic, but do buy me rose bush seeds because you know how hard I tried to grow them the way my great grandmother did when I was a child. I may have failed before, but promise that you will help me tend to them. And when you hear me stumble over my words before clenching my eyes shut, please do not hesitate to say "hey" in that soft way you do before wrapping me into my arms. You know what my tears are really about.

— cas fairchild · isyourbedroomceilingbored

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

i think i'm going to stray away from the short poems because i don't feel like they have the same emotional impact as some of my prose, or at least not on me, and i don't really have the motivation to write them anymore. it was largely inspired by poets like rupi kaur (and many others) and while i still greatly enjoy reading those types of short poems, writing them doesn't feel like my style exactly. i'm a rambler and to condense my heart into such short lyrics is not only difficult, but i feel like it takes away so much for me.

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

oh shit i forgot i said i'd be posting more, i'm so sorry

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

planning to be more active here

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

i've been writing a lot, just not posting, but i'll probably post some of it more often now

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

planning to be more active here

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

it is such a terribly sad thing to fall out of love with someone where i once saw stars are just cargo airplanes the only souls contained are just doing their jobs empty

— cas fairchild

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

and some nights i sing and hold myself in the dark i am alone alone alone

— cas fairchild

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

i have so much rage it bubbles out of my skin like some kind of disease i am scared to touch you in case you end up contaminated too but i am so alone in my suffering will you watch me through the window a while?

— cas fairchild

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

i catch glimpses of my mother in the way she cries as we watch concerts of singers who are dead and people who were happy

— cas fairchild

[isyourbedroomceilingbored]

it is 3pm, although it might as well be 3am given how softly i walk through the house. i reach for the bookshelf and grab my mother's old poetry books before sitting down on the numbingly cold tiles of the hallway. flicking through the pages, i at last find what i was looking for. a bookmark: ripped from a notebook with my mother's scrawling words marking it. she has written out poem titles and their pages, and i eagerly flip to each, eating up her annotations, experiencing her feelings as if my own. as i do each time, i abruptly stop and think about how this is the only way to connect with who my mother used to be. before she figured out who she was, before she gave birth to me, before she learnt that my own sick and fading brain was a thorny tentacle trying to strangle me. but as i read through the poems on suicide, the poems on losing your childhood, the poems on poems, i know the old her wouldn't have withdrawn from me. she would have recognised herself, as if i was her reflection in a shattered mirror, and perhaps she would have held me.

my mother's bookshelf

— cas fairchild