𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔢

i long to speak in vivid colours yet all my words are black and white

[meticulous-muse]

𝔦𝔫𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

"At a parent's meeting, my English teacher proclaimed that I should start a blog."

Hi!! My name is Hebe, and I have been writing since I knew how.

At age 7, I broke my right arm and taught myself how to write with my left hand purely to continue my flow of stories and such. At age 8, I accidentally wrote a Harry Potter fanfiction so good that my entire class would have me read a chapter to them each week. At age 11, my short story was published in a collection and was illustrated by professional artists. Now, at age 16, I am a burnt-out aspiring musician with a scarily low physics average and a dream.

Writing is my medium—poetry, stories, or songs; its how I express myself, and it is what I would love to share with you!

I am not going to pretend that I am some undiscovered gem, but if you ever see my name in the nominations for Best New Artist at the GRAMMYs, laugh to yourself, because you witnessed whatever this is supposed to be.

𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔪𝔢

𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢: Hebe :)

𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔰: she/her (any at all really)

𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔰: MUSIC!!, sitcoms, doing side quests with friends, inside jokes

𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔰: rude people (why??), physics n maths >:(

𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔫𝔰 ℑ 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢: james marriott, taylor swift, chappell roan, doechii, tyler the creator, iiso

ℑ 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 my life experiences and how I feel towards my own circumstances

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢 I would love to get my stuff seen and hope to be able to represent the unrepresented

[ohwowhereiam]

gonna make a proper intro post like a real blogger but just know that my poetry/writing account is @meticulous-muse :)

[meticulous-muse]

can confirm hehe ^^

[meticulous-muse]

𝔗𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱

Easy come, easy go

My trust is handed out to all

Hear my story, read my thoughts

For misunderstandings are both my specialty

And my worse nightmare

I say this, yet when I deliver,

When my trust is thrust upon you

And you stumble back on impact,

I struggle to believe

That you won’t break it.

I’ll hand you my diary,

Watching the tears well in your eyes

And I’ll accept the chance 

Dare I say assume, that my secrets will soon be

Plastered all over your lips, slipping into the ears of those you please.

Maybe that’s trust.

Maybe trust is the embracing that

You can not be trusted.

Or maybe I trust that I will be disappointed

As I have been time, time again

When you asked me plainly 

“Do you have trust issues?”

I walked a little slower on the way home,

Stewing in your syllables and tossing them on my tongue

I don’t lack trust, I lack faith.

Faith that you’ll keep quiet,

Faith that you’ll wait,

Faith that you’ll understand,

Faith that you’ll stay,

Maybe I trust you,

But I have faith in no one.

[meticulous-muse]

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔬𝔠𝔯𝔢

The orange stared at me.

It screams the stifled and suppressed thoughts my teachers have,

It dares to utter what we have all been thinking:

“You are mediocre.”

I personify everything this school hates

A bold, loud, creatively insufferable mind,

A mind that dares to think outside of the bounds 

Of medicine or law.

My notes are sloppy

I live in the abstract

And my ideas don’t quite fit 

In that meticulously methodical box.

Here, where diamonds in the rough are shunned

By polished pieces of rock,

Bred like animals

To spew structured essay.

The orange finds it way onto my skin and into my skull

And I question my place here

As no matter how far I progress, the percentages don’t quite align

And I remain forever unseen

Forever mediocre

[meticulous-muse]

𝔅𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔇𝔦𝔢

As I gaze over the concrete jungle,

A question burrows into my stomach

Like a leech or a hare 

Festering in my body

Begging to be regurgitated:

Was this what I was made for?

When I was placed here,

When the divine powers that be forged my skin and bones

From the delicate fabric of reality,

Was it to sit at a table

Counting milliseconds to minutes

Until the sweet release of the sacred school bell?

To sob into my pillow 

Praying to be taken back,

For my skin to melt and my bones to break

For my soul, my spirit

To join forces with the soft hands that designed me.

What kind of cruel hands could do this to me?

I was not brought here for this.

To stare into an endless abyss

Of cars and roads and loads of lights

While our planet is crushed by the weight of it all

Blue to brown, green to grey

As we pump our own grief into our airways

I was brought here to feel,

Not to know, but to think

To guess, to approximate, to try and fail

To love and to laugh, to read and write

To use the stars as my guide, not some streetlight.

I was born to live, not to survive.

[meticulous-muse]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 ℑ𝔫 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔰

I do try to get better

I tuck the scale away,

Hidden between Dad’s dress shirts.

I eat two meals instead of one, 

Distracting myself from the fat rolling down my throat 

Coating my stomach and crushing my self esteem.

I turn the shower all the way up

Sizzling my skin and fogging the mirror

That way I can’t see her

That girl in the glass.

I play the part while no one is watching

A good actress immerses herself in her role

And my giggles and smiles look great on camera

At least, that’s what the fans tell me. 

But behind the scenes, as the take ends

And I make my way home

The porcelain breaks, and I become

The girl in the glass.

The girl in the glass claws at the wardrobe doors

Counting each milligram to perfection

Wailing when the digit is off

The girl in the glass sticks her hands in my mouth

Coaxing me to the toilet

To be pure again.

The girl in the glass wipes the steam

Showing me what I really am.

She whispers sweet nothings into my ears

Calculating the cost of “getting better”

“Is it really worth fussing over?”

She brushes my hair, cleansing me

“You will be beautiful one day.”

“One day, you will be clean again.”

She sends me to sleep, sobbing into my picture frame

As I watch my shine die with me. 

My younger self watches me in return

Wondering why I was so upset.

“Maybe she fell.” 

She shrugs, noticing my scratched legs.

They chuckle, I don’t

Because even now,

In the face of their mockeries

I do try to get better.

[meticulous-muse]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔱𝔲𝔭𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔓𝔬𝔢𝔪 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯

I live in constant fear of being basic.

While others liquidate their souls into their writing,

Each line reflecting their inner turmoil and divine desires

I waste my pages talking about being sad and stuff.

My writing is not a sight to see.

I don’t use similes’ like weapons

Slashing, stabbing my letters one by one

My metaphors fall flat, tumbling in formation

Rocks with unstable bases 

I didn’t speak English much in middle school. 

My fear of unoriginality is overpowered drastically by my fear of judgement.

Black ink flows in my bloodstream and 

Irrelevant rhymes fill my mind at all times.

Yet my words are nothing but all of me

But what am I without pad and paper?

Will I be remembered for my words or the way I used them?

Will they immortalise how I spoke or how I stood?

What will be left of me when the dust settles,

And they have no choice but to begrudgingly honour me

For what I was

But, what was I, really? 

Was I ever?

Was I ever real or did I just exist?

Shooting stars all crash and burn someday, right?

Will I shine before I burn?

Was I ever a star?

Or was I the black hole, created to destroy

Am I the master of my legacy?

Will these words be the ones inscribed on my tomb

All gloom and doom.

Maybe I can rhyme.

[meticulous-muse]

𝔐𝔞𝔯𝔶'𝔰 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔏𝔞𝔪𝔟

Grinding my dagger against my skin

Because the battle I faced wasn’t worth the win

My blood spills onto my own hands as

I spread the streaks along the canvas

Seeing scars on my limp figure

Every night when I look in the mirror

Reminds me of what I truly am

A pet, a sidekick, a lamb

Prim and proper, 

Waiting for slaughter

Hoping my bows will be enough

To spare my soul from the rough

Stroke of someone else’s blade

Inserted into my heart, raced

Towards my mouth and out

To turn my speech to spout

Maybe if my own skin is scratched

Others won't feel the need to snatch

And claw and grab and tear

Until I can't bear

The weight, the heat, the fire

The desire to turn to shreds

What once shone like gold

Until then I continue to hold

My own dagger

To my own skin.

[meticulous-muse]

ℑ ℭ𝔞𝔫 ℜ𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯

I can remember

You dotting your T’s and crossing your eyes

Because you know how it makes 

Me giggle

You leaning over the table to catch a glance

At me while I scribble on my sheets

You’re the monster under the bed and

The wind in my sails

I can remember

You texting songs that 

I scoured for drips and drops of scattered affections

I even googled John Lennon’s birthday

October 9th was the coldest night

I sat on the borderline 

Hoping the trains would come to a halt

Anything more than a glimpse is a blessing

I can remember 

My ragged breath as

You asked for the truth

You are

My truth is long and painful and stuffy

It takes up my throat

I have no mouth, I long to scream

I beg to be noticed, scared to be seen

I can remember

But I wish I couldn’t

Lovesick isn’t fun

When you can’t stop throwing up

My blood-soaked pen no longer writes how I feel

It only writes my reality

In large red letters

It has sprawled my truth

I can remember

When you were just a face

When you weren’t a place 

I long to forget

I pray 

You never find the letters

Each one crafted like a stab through the heart

I hope my truth

Doesn’t set us apart