One Poem a Day

I'm just a writer who writes everything from poems to stories... but this is where I keep my shit.

[poeticyear]

I often have to remind myself of a lot of things,

One of them being love is something that everyone deserves,

Myself included.

But just because I deserve it does not mean it is around the street corner,

That every man or woman is going to throw themselves at me as though I’m a celebrity,

And they’re desperate for my attention.

I often have to remind myself that,

“Hey, you’re not that ugly.”

It’s a little hard when your front-facing camera likes to insult you.

But just because I’m not ugly,

Doesn’t mean every moment I walk on this planet will be a pretty one,

It’s okay for me to be a ugly mess when I cry,

To be unattractive when I’m angry,

I know deep down I’m pretty when I want to be.

I often have to remind myself that success is something I have to achieve,

It will not be given to me,

I do not deserve it without the effort,

Success isn’t a participation trophy,

And there isn’t an award for “Shitty Childhood, Didn’t Kill self.”

I often have to remind myself that,

No matter how much I love people,

They can be shitty and hurtful,

They can be malicious and have only their interest in mind.

I have a hard time grasping that these people can be close to me,

Despite how they’ve proved it to me,

Time after time.

- Feb, 24th 2018

[poeticyear]

I love the way my anquish bounces off the walls of my head, as though it echoed into a vast abyss, only heard by I and only felt by one.

It feels empty when you’re sad & alone.

[poeticyear]

My sorrow is the water in the bathtub, the feeling of being swallowed so completely & wallowing in your own thoughts & feelings.

A lot of times I like to go underwater and see how long I can hold my breath.

My records a few years.

[poeticyear]

I really miss the feeling of holding hands. I miss the feeling of my hand sliding into someone else’s, my fingers lightly finding their way inbetween my partner’s. I miss the slight worry of my hands being too cold, and always holding them up to my face for a quick second to judge. I want to remember what it’s like for my hands to warm up against someone else’s skin.

I miss the feeling of someone’s head in my lap. Their hair all over the place, but yet close enough that I can play with all of it. The feeling of someone gripping onto my legs as they sprawl out across the floor, my bed, or any surface we happen to be on that may be a little too small for them. I really want to remember the feeling of my hand brushing through someone else’s hair, pushing it back & forth, scratching the scalp lightly. I miss bending down to kiss their forehead.

I also miss someone bending down to kiss mine.

[poeticyear]

Woe to the woman who has gold under stone, because these men don’t mine.

January 10, 2018

[poeticyear]

“People can be described,

As the phases of the Moon.

Those who are new,

Dark and sheltered,

As though children again,

They are held in the shadows,

And are much like the secrets kept from them.

There are those who are full,

Bright and filled with pleasure,

Who have smiles of perfect white teeth,

Their beautiful brown eyes act like their creators.

How about, those who are on their way?

The waning, and waxing,

Those who are growing,

And receding?

Further more, what about every eclipse?

People who put themselves infront of others,

As if to scream for the collective eyes of many?

If you could describe yourself,

As the phases of the Moon,

Who are you?”

- December 9th, 2017

[poeticyear]

My blood reminds me a lot like a poison,

Or maybe a parasite,

Running through the veins of my lineage,

Taking control,

Making puppets out of women,

Like we’re hardly all our own.

December 4th, 2017

[poeticyear]

Summer to Winter

One day I’ll have a home,

With two arms and a heartbeat,

2 blue orbs for windows,

And loud mouthpiece.

I’ll have someone who’s the summer,

To my cold winters,

A fireplace,

in a time of blizzards.

Someone who’ll question my isolation,

And remind me not every snowdays a blizzard,

The same I have to remind them not every drizzle is a hurricane.

I’ll have Someone,

Who makes my starving heart feel full.

November 30, 2017

[poeticyear]

My heart is like my stomach, in the way that when it starves, it begins to eat away at itself.

November 29, 2017

[poeticyear]

I love how anxiety makes me feel like my body is too small and I’m just burning like the sun, hoping my skin will melt around me and I can compile into goo, no problems, no worries.

Just sitting upon a slippery slope that goes no where, needs no one and nothing.

[poeticyear]

I want to scream at the sky as my skin burns with excitement on my back and worries in my heart.

I hate my fucking anxiety, November 21, 2017

[poeticyear]

If I were to build a boy, they'd look a lot like you.

They'd have your smile, eyes and height. They'd have your skin, tone and fight.

They'd also be a lot like you.

They'd be smart, dorky and nice, they'd be thoughtful, honest and kind.

If I were to choose, the man I'd next hold, I think it'd be you.

With the way your hugs wrap around my body, and my comfort in the way you speak. I'm hopeful, sure, but that's just who I am. That's just me.

[poeticyear]

The tough girl, the one who was "raised by wolves," wasn't really raised by wolves - if you didn't already figure that out yet.

To be raised by wolves is akin to being raised by pain, and to be molded by life itself. To force yourself to intergrate and assimilate into a world that wasn't meant for you. To come into a place with bones made of iron and skin made of steel and attempt to understand what it's like to feel when your skin is made of paper, and to be accused of being sinister when you can't feel the arrows to your heart, as it's double wrapped around and stuck to your chest behind layers upon layers of armor.

To be raised by wolves is to understand how to love alone. To learn alone. To make do, alone. Yes, you're fed. You're clothed. But do you know what it feels like to have to pat your own back, cause you're well aware of the fact no one else will do it otherwise? Every move you make ought to be televised, it's the only validation you'll ever recieve and it feels so good to see yourself on TV.

As a girl who's been "raised by wolves," I can tell you not every night I felt like I had a feast, but every day felt like a fight. I bit my tongue and played to my strengths and now that I'm here and I'm trying to outlive my past I can only feel the pain of my ways, my instincts, scream at me to not let go, to not go soft, to not leave what I've learned behind...

But I also have only myself to cry to. I only have my own hugs to a tear-soaked pillow to talk to. I hear the voices of others as though they're behind glass walls and I can only here the mumbled sounds until they eventually recognize me for who I am or who I protray myself as and leave.

I have me, and they tell me to open up and they scream and I've even saw people cry, but the doors are locked against my will. I'd open them if I could and I've tried and the success I have made is so little it'd break your heart if you knew how much effort I put in for that much.

And I'm the one who gets to be proud of me. I got to make my own morals and I got to smile and dance to my own beat because the only advice I got from my mother to the younger-me was to be a leader. To bring armies into battle. And when I did that I isolated myself. I became alone. Even "bestfriend" is a word I use for someone I hold at an arms length and hope they'll try to break through.

Dependency is a word that scares me endlessly. I fear the word applying to me again, cause the one time it did I was hurt in every way you could think of, and I'm not ready for it again. I'm not ready for the feeling of everyone leaving me, all over again.

And I've heard people say they'll stay, but they join the rest. I still cry alone at night, I'll never rest. I'm still holding myself until I dehydrate from the loss, I'm still choking on my own words until I'm alone, or least that's what I've been taught.

My mother left, my father had, too. Everyone I've loved, friend or more, has saw me come and go, too.

I'm the lone wolf, I'm the girl "raised by wolves." It doesn't mean what you think it means, and I can only hope it doesn't last forever.

[poeticyear]

I have a heart made of roses, and veins made of thorns, it's what happens when the bush of your flesh, isn't enough to save you anymore.

August 29th, 2017

[poeticyear]

I really want someone to fall in love with me, and no, not anyone. I want someone who is kind, smart and maybe even snarky. I want someone who lives and breathes, the most necessary type of security. I want someone who holds himself happily, or if not, maybe stoically. I want someone who will be romantic with me, but also help me grow to my true potential. I want someone to love me, because I've never felt it before, but just a taste of what it's like to love, alone.

[poeticyear]

It's surprising how safe I feel when I see you. Yes, safe. It's not quite infatuation - though I do like you. It's the feeling of a shield or piece of armor, the love of hope and glamour. The feeling of a child's blanket, the softness of a teddy bear. The sound of your heartbeat could lull me to sleep and the feeling of you next to me reminds me of when I was little and I'd look to my nightlight to scare off the monsters under my bed or in my closet, closing the threshold between me and the demons inside with a small light. It doesn't do anything special. It doesn't try. Neither do you. You just feel safe. You're just safe. And I didn't warm up to you. You didn't become safe. You were safe and are safe. You'll always be safe, hopefully. You feel like a pillow on a barren mattress, you feel like a blanket against darkness. I feel safe with you.

[poeticyear]

I feel an itch, inch of skin, Ringworm? Scabies. Definitely scabies. I feel a pain in my back, a little to the side, I take my hand and pat it, Kidney stones. Kidney Failure? No, little far fetched. Kidney Stones. Definitely Kidney Stones. I guess, You could call it the life, of a Hypochondriac, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like just too-easy access, to sites like WebMD, where every answer is Cancer, and Google helps little, with how every palpitation I get from my anxiety, is a heart attack waiting to happen, and it's search bar is so accessible, it's begging me to go to it instead of a doctor. Maybe Healthcare is to blame, We don't have the money for me to be asking, "Do I have rabies?" To a doctor who'll inevitably tell me no, but when I look up symptoms online, I'll begin to feel them all, or not one, and when I type up the problem, all the keywords point to one: Confirmation. (Confirmation that isn't REALLY confirmation, it's more like saying it's maybe, but isn't that what doctors do anyways?) Maybe, it's just my anxiety, going untreated made it worse, Made every single step I take, and pain caused by this dreaded disease, (and PTSD), wonder if I'm slowly dying, which is my real fear. Not dying, just slowly. Maybe it doesn't help, Everytime I look up a question about my vagina, the answers are the following: • STI's • Cancer • Yeast Infection • Something that sounds like Vagina-itis • and, different deadly illnesses. Nobody ever tells you, Pain happens, Especially not when you have PTSD, and anxiety, and everytime you move it's a nightmare, cause Chronic Pain is right across the corner, and every time you move, you ask, "Is it gone yet?" But, I'll take the high pain tolerance, I'll take the fact I got my wisdom teeth out, and the only medication I needed after was asprin, because I was so used to feeling my legs on fire, for no reason. I'll take getting stabbed in the leg with a cactus, and not noticing, over being dead. I would, at least, if I didn't think I was dying every second, slowly, having some silent illness, like, maybe I have ovarian cancer! Or maybe it's such a silent killer, it hasn't been named yet! Noticed! And it doesn't help I have tons of things like that, Skin tags that aren't REALLY skin tags, hair follicles that turned white and... don't really stop growing. Yeah, it's upsetting, but likely more than you think, cause I went to a doctor about the mole on my ankle, but it's still in pain, and now I'm wondering if it's sprained, or cancerous, but I'm not willing to xray because, of course, that'd just MAKE the mole cancerous, maybe. Maybe. Not likely, but 20% or less is still a chance, and wouldn't it bet sad if I fell in it? You probably ask the doctor, "Am I okay?" and when he says yes you're fine, and when he says no you ask for treatment, but for me the worst way to die, would be with a tube in the underside of my elbow, and falling asleep with sleeping medications in my veins, tied down, where heart monitors are simply chains. But, hey, maybe that's just my new life, as a newly breed hypochondriac, or maybe, it's just some anxiety, or maybe, maybe it's a brain tumor. Definitely a brain tumor.

Hypochondria, My New Anxiety. August 6th 2017