Bad Writing

Built on a foundation of brittle bones

Eerily dull but full of life

Nice to visit once a year, but no one truly will ever live here.

A distant echo of sombre screams

Hollow silhouettes of dead memories wander the halls

Haunting my body for the life they wish they had

It makes me want to scream.

When I grow up I want to take over the world in spite of everything you have done to me.

I will not be your last sip dripping from you lips as you curse at the wind from the bottom of the bottle you decided to drown yourself in.

I filled the pages with tear-stinging eyes of what I was going to do the next time you decided to knock my body, kicking down my door without an invitation.

Convincing the tear-stained pages in my little orange book with prayers that one day the urge to write a poem would become greater than the urge to write a suicide note. These are the words that reclaimed the innocence that was stolen from me.

Today, I chose the poem.

If I had the pleasure of dining with the professor of dead poets society or the angriest man in Brooklyn, I would run out of words for the first time in my life.

I am nothing special, I am actually quite flawed but, I can't help but applaud the dynamic figures up there with promising careers. In my mind, I am diving deep into a motion-filled ocean with sirens, so enticing luring you in with their words. I am conquering Everest with a pickaxe the size of a fingernail, feeling air so rough it puts the wind in win some reminding my lungs just how much they love the taste of frosty air.

Not liking to put all of my eggs into one basket. On cold Sunday mornings, I am a ruthless writer, carefully knitting my words, stitch one pearl two, stitch one... at a time into a tightly sealed package that will never be delivered.

Mondays. I put on the hat of a self-employed digital marketer having built something out of nothing, over- analysing every SEO statistic from a brand audit with language so sophisticated you will need a calculator to understand.

Wednesdays. I read Cerulean sea for the six hundred and sixty-sixth time, paying homage to the writers we want to be as the witty words of Lorelai Gilmore wipe my slate of a mind clean.

Twenty-two years young, only 5'2 on a very good day but being built on a short story is finding a lesson in the tallest tail in the room.

So enticing, luring you in with my words,

Praying on the men that flourished at the expense of pain, griping them tight making them regret all of the disrespect they drowned me in.

I am a women that talks to much about the ocean.

You were the ocean.

The ocean that swept me up and sang to me sweetly just to grip me by the throat and cover my body by the vast blanket of the crashing current rolling in pinning me down.

Will you kill me today? Will you drag me to the depths of the ocean that I once built a home in, kicking down my door and threatening to drown me.

Sometimes I wish you would.

You are not a victim.

To defend a killer is to see something of your self in them.

I hope in your next life I am the ocean,

The killer holding you hostage, drugging your drink without asking your name, ripping your body from your soul before you could say no, I infiltrate you with a current of words you can no longer interrupt me in.

To be a siren is to be a prisoner, held captive repaying your debts from your previous life.

What did I do to deserve to be a siren, will I ever stop bringing flowers to the grave of the person I used to be?

Hides in every dark crack of my soul, we are not fond of each other.

A blind date, like twin flames that dance so closely intertwined.

We are not made for each other.

Repelling like two magnets, we should have never met.

She is all the worst parts of me.

Draining as if she were a parasite, latching on and absorbing your soul.

She is the dark days, The days the clouds roll in so heavy and grey, it rains a little to much.

I am stranded with out a umbrella,

She is the ocean. A riptide, She drags your out, pulls your down and prays you will never resurface

She's my other half.

How can you crave someone you have never met?

My twin flame who has no name

So I will just call her borderline.