she who writes

 i write what i feel, and i feel a lot :)

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

love

i want to be loved. I know what you may be thinking, “oh but you are loved, you are!”. but i don’t want to hear it. I’m sorry, but i don’t. because when i say i want to be loved, i mean i want to be loved. i want to be the subject of someone’s desire, and infatuation. i want to look into another person’s eyes and see their soul melt as their heart burns with a fiery passion just thinking about me. about what they want to do to me; with me. i want someone to tell me I’m beautiful, not just because they feel like they have to, but because when they look at me… they just can’t help themselves. i want to be intimate with someone, i want them to make me feel weightless as we explore each other’s bodies and minds. i want to whisper to them my every little secret while they run their fingers through my hair. and i want to listen to their heartbeat drum faster as they tell me their fears, just so i can hold them in my arms and tell them that everything is okay, feeling their body sink into mine, taking shallow breaths of comfort. i want them to see my scars and smile, knowing that they are the reason why the marks are fading, knowing that they are the reason why i smile every day. i just want to be totally, completely and utterly head over heels in love with someone. and i want them to feel the same about me.

is that too much to ask?

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

poison envy

she is beautiful. so perfect, so stunning, it almost hurts to gaze upon and admire her beauty. although, I am not certain I become lost within those huge hazel eyes, transfixed by those perfectly placed freckles aligned delicately along the bridge of her nose; like stars in the galaxy, or stunned by her face and figure, as though it had been carved and chiseled meticulously by the ancient greeks as they strive to create absolute perfection, simply in a state of pure admiration. no. you see, when I look at her, jealousy and envy course through the blood in my veins like poison; eating me up inside. it is almost as though while in her presence, I feel completely unworthy; unworthy of talking to her, looking at her, or even breathing the same air that fills her lungs as she inhales, accentuating her breast as she does so. my body begins to feel hot. I become flushed and so my breath become short, and static. I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed that people have to go from looking at her, to then looking at me. what an unfortunate transition they must make, and how unfortunate is it that I am the one who makes it so… the poison then quickly makes its way to my brain. it seeps into each forgotten corner and crevice of my mind it can possible reach, until it has completely taken over. as it permeates deeper, and deeper, the poison starts to affects my vision, as now I am certain that what I see in the mirror, is not beautiful. while it may have been before, that thought is now far from resurrection… as the toxin courses through my blood and races through my body, with such fury and vigour, its speed ever quickening as it spreads and spreads and spreads until… until, it reaches my heart. then I am gone. I can not be her. I can not match her, nevermind beat her. she is above all of that. she is the envied; she knows it. pursing her lips, squinting her eyes ever so slightly. she knows how others look at her; how I look at her. but perhaps she is oblivious to how deep such envy flows through my veins, tormenting me, every day. and while I know I should simply be happy for her, it just seems impossible. for who can be happy living life in anothers shadow; being out shined by their beauty, while desperately searching for your own.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

my anxiety attack

I have decided to post something different. What you are about to read is not like my usual creative/reflective writing, but my inner dialogue while I was experiencing what I am sure was an anxiety attack, earlier today. I was waiting for a friend in a very busy train station and began to feel very uncomfortable. So, to keep myself busy, I took out my phone and wrote this in my notes. I have not edited, nor corrected what is below, since I wanted to keep it raw and real; showing how I was feeling in that very moment… So I apologise for any errors;

I have gotten the train by myself I am now sitting in the city central station myself music isn’t helping I’m listening to the smiths but I can barely concentrate on it for once the smiths aren't calming me down there is a light and it never goes out there is a light and it never goes out there is a light and it never goes out too much going on my heart is beating fast are you supposed to hear you heart in your ears? my body feels hot yet cold at the same time I’m very aware of everything around me… everyone. there’s a baby crying and it’s very loud I’m surrounded by people but I feel very alone. everyone else seems fine I am not fine how are they fine? ? I bet they're not going to show up… why are there so many people looking at me? I’m being stared at, I can feel it I know I'm supposed to breathe in for 5 then out for 5 Its not working this charming man I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want t

I stopped writing rather abruptly, as my friend had arrived. They gave me a hug (I needed it) and asked me how I was. I ended up having a good day. 

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

I was abused by my teacher all my teenage years and got kptsd and esd from it. She has a personality disorder and is highly manipulative. I was totally dependend on her, she knew it and took it to use her power against me. She threatened to do something to me, etc. I‘m still struggling a lot with it, I‘m still kinda dependend on her. Nothing seems to work :/ i try to find words for it, maybe you could help me with writing a poem about it? Thank you so much! XXX

Hello there, love. First of all, I am deeply, deeply, sorry for what you have experienced. I simply cannot imagine what you must have gone through, and am devastated it happened to you at such a young age. However, upon your request for some help with your poetry... I simply don’t know if I can do it. Now this has nothing to do with you, but me. I don’t think that I am an experienced enough writer to help capture your experience, while still ensuring it is personal to you. I find it difficult to relate to your experience and so I fear I will write something completely different from the truth! With that being said, I am more than happy to give you some stylistic tips you could incorporate should you choose to write a poem anyway! Please, don’t hesitate to message me! I wish you all the best x

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

therapy

I sit in the small, beige room once more. taking notice of the same plant on her cluttered desk; brown, dying, showing all the signs of needing help… she picks up her note pad, adjacent to the sad little succulent, picks her pen out of her pocket, fixes her hair (which I notice is beginning to thin; stress?)  and we begin. she has already started taking notes- on my appearance, I presume. perhaps the way I am dressed, or the way I am sitting, am I making good eye contact? so, she begins, how have we been doing this week? we? I find it funny how in this, “we”, I feel so painfully alone… okay, I reply, I had good days and bad days. she puts pen to paper, and I watch as her pen records the words that escape my lips. her ink laps up my secrets like a dog does water on a hot day. she has painted the page with my sorrows, seeming to neglect adding the stories I mention with bright eyes, smiling. she only reacts to my unhappiness. but still, I envy her; I envy her as she writes about me in her little book. I start thinking of my journal, tracing my fingers over its leathery skin, flicking through its beautifully imperfect pages- keeping my secrets safe. I wonder if they feel betrayed, that I have been the one who has exposed them- that I have allowed another to put their own pen to paper as I cry, when it should be me. but I hope they can forgive me. I hope they can understand. I hope they realise that hiding my unhappiness between pages in a journal beneath my bed, is not what my mind needed. And so she continues to write, and I continue to weep, but I shall never forget about my little black book of secrets that hides beneath my bed- my first form of therapy.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

a series of questions

at what point does the flower stop seeking validation from the bumble bee? at what point does sky smile in the absence of the sun? at what point does the star sparkle against the moon? at what point, do I forget about you. at what point do I lie in bed without my mind wandering into your arms? at what point do I listen to “our” song without thinking about the setting sun in the month of may? at what point do I stop caring? at what point do I start living?

at what point do I start being me?

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

closure

morning hours creep under the door.

the clock kisses the hours goodbye.

lying wide eyed and empty,

the pillow no longer dry.

their silence,

their absence,

speaks louder than their

words

ever could.

gather from it what you will,

my darling.

because that it all the

closure

you will get.

“read 2 minutes ago.”

“read 22 minutes ago.”

“read 2 days ago”

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

life is a numbers game

people get caught up in the numerical value of almost everything they have. money, grades, friends… you name it. people are judged on how they look; rated, if you will. scoring a 10 means you're good enough. but if you don't? you're on dangerous ground. we live in a materialistic world. shopping in high end stores automatically makes you, better, than everybody else. why? because it shows how much money you have and can therefore pay, for empty happiness and validation. people are controlled by social media. how many followers you have, how many likes you get, how many comments you receive, all determines your worth as a person. constantly checking and rechecking your notifications to watch the numbers go up. and if they don’t? the post is deleted. because the lack of likes and comments, or retweets and reblogs, simply means it was not good enough. and we submit to what is impressed upon us. because in order to be beautiful as a woman, your dress size would not exceed a 4. we feel like we must record the number of calories in what we eat. and count the number of pounds on the scale. we are forever basing our worth on and validating ourselves with... numbers. counting on that feel good feeling we receive when we get 100 likes on a picture, drop 3 pounds on the scale, or buy that $300 belt. counting on that feeling of, “finally… I am good enough”.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

not yet

not yet, can the world see the hands of mine that inflict so much damage. nor the eyes of mine that weep so many tears. not yet, can the world see the lips of mine that tremble in the early hours of the morning. nor the arms of mine that have stifled so many cries. not yet are they ready. not yet am I ready. not yet. not yet.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

hello, I'm new at I don't quite know what to do, but i found your account, and I think its nice.

thank you x

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

I'm new to Tumblr, and I was wanting to know if you could tell me the gist of it please? I ran across your page and I really love your poems, especially your sunflower one❤️

Sure! I’m still fairly new to tumblr also, but I use it as a platform where I can post my writing... but you can post anything you like! Look up hashtags to get some inspiration and follow some blogs to see what people are up to x happy tumblr-ing! (and thank you for your positivity ❤️)

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

sunflower

I am the sunflower in a patch of weeds. drowning out their whispers; embracing mother nature; stealing kisses from the sun.

~ a sunflower does not concern themselves, with tales from a weed.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

as a girl

it frustrates me; being a girl. you may be wondering why. well dear reader, you're in luck, as I am just about to tell you. my frustration is not triggered by the fact I am a girl… but rather how I am treated because of it. while having a conversation with a male, while being completely engaged and articulate, he felt the need to stop me mid sentence, just so he could point out the “unnatural” facial hair upon my upper lip that I apparently, “had to get removed”. I composed myself however, forced out a disheartened chuckle and went about my day. but upon walking through my front door that afternoon, I cried to my mother- telling her to “take it of, take it off”… something I did not feel the need to concern myself with, has now become one of my biggest insecurities as, evidently, the words that pass my lips do not matter, but something as human as the small hairs above them, do. as a girl, I am expected to be sweet and bubbly. I am expected to be a constant ray of sunshine- all smiles and giggles. I am expected to uphold this act without excuses. so when I sit in a coffee shop and begin to write, engrossed in words that begin to pour out of me, a man feels the need to tap me on the shoulder simply to tell me to “smile, because I’d look prettier without such a harsh expression”. and of course, I do. give him a grandiose grin, before he walks off… my body is looked at, judged, and rated, on a regular basis throughout my school day. they think I don't see them, they think I don't hear them... but I do. and as a girl, it seems I do not deserve kind words delivered to me face to face. no. as a girl, I must simply have to make do with numbers out of ten I hear directed at me, followed by a whistle, as I walk past a group of boys. they have no trouble looking at my body how they want, treating my body how they want, but anything natural that comes with it is is seen as quite the opposite.

unnatural.

if I have a bad day, I must be PMS-ing. when I’m on my period, I’m seen as disgusting. If I wear makeup, I’m seen as fake. when I don't wear any, I’m told I should. I am told to love my body, yet am given “tips and tricks” on how to change it by losing weight. my bushy eyebrows prove that I am untidy, and my teenage skin implies that I am not beautiful. as a girl, I can never win. there is always something I have to do, I have to be, I have to say. I can never be content with my natural self. why? because as a girl, society has influenced me not to be.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

my mind

my mind and I should never be left alone together. she always uncovers the moments I have tried to make her forget. surely she knows, no good can come of thinking about the good old days, while wallowing in the bad.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

exams- the bane of our generation

and to think, I am ruining my mental health, simply to receive a letter on a page on results day morning, that supposedly determines my overall intelligence, capability and therefore, my future.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

puppeteer

at the end of the string you have attached to your finger, you can find him; and each time he and I come close? you tug him back. because you, darling, are the puppeteer- always in control. or, are you? because perhaps our friendship, our bond, our closeness, makes you feel like the knot around your index is loosening- makes you insecure, controlling and thus manipulative. but, why must you come between us? divide something so pure, so beautiful, by filling the ears of others with whispers and lies. one day, I hope he sees what I see. and when he does? I’ll gladly hand him the scissors.

~we are just friends… nothing more, nothing less.

[she-with-simple-thoughts]

the proof of a deeper hurt

why? why, whenever I put pen to paper, he is the only one who seems to let the ink flow? my mind, blank… but still he creeps out of my memories. so I sit back and watch, as words of pain, and hurt, wander over the page. they look sharp, and serrated- embodying my anger, and my frustration. my grip tightens and my brow furrows. my pace quickens and my pen bleeds, as things once embedded deep in the forgotten corner of my mind, make themselves known, through smudged ink and scored pages. the proof, of a deeper hurt, that can only be uncovered in a dark room, pen in hand, and one question in mind; why?