Poetry Blog

I hear your voice, and I melt with happiness.

I see your face, and I smile to know that you’re real.

I see you fading in the distance. I don’t want you to go. Please stay. Nobody else has stayed, I want you to stay, I want you to never go away. I know if I hang on to tight, you’ll only want to leave sooner and oh god please don’t go I can’t do this why does this always happen. 

I take a breath. 

I won’t cling. I promise. I know what happens if I do that. But please...it hurts so much. I don’t want our friendship to fade into oblivion, or shatter into dust like everyone before you. Please stay. I know I’ll never say it, not how I really feel, but I love you. I love you more than you’ll ever hope to guess. I love you so much, and you’re so far away...I love you.

Sitting on the couch

I listen to classical

There’s a growing pressure inside my chest

Fighting to break out but with 

No cracks between my brutal self control--

Or is it just me pushing down on my feelings

An immense weight put there by myself 

Like the pressure beneath the Earth’s crust.

Eventually it will burst through hastily patched up cracks,

Creating a Pompeii of my mind and emotions--

And once it’s over, the volcano is dormant

I wish I refrained

I have too many regrets

I put too much spice

in my recipe of love

I sit in my box whenever I can.

It’s a humble box, with the few things I enjoy and just a little bit of lamp light.

There is a heavy feeling of happiness--

At least that is what I think it is--

Imposing itself inside my humble box. 

I can hear scratching and knocking against the sides, 

Muffled voices that I could make out if I focused on the words, 

But I don’t. 

I stay in my humble box, with the few things I enjoy,

And the little bit of lamp light, 

You’ll never know what’s coming at you.

Some take this as something to dread, but to me it’s a good thing.

The monotony of my depressing life will not continue forever.

That friend you love too much might be something more next year.

That assignment or test won’t be worrying you next month.

Those harsh words said to your sibling will be forgiven next week.

And tomorrow--

you never know--

A pitter patter at your window keeps you from sleeping as you observe your ceiling with tired eyes. The rain has been coming down for days now--forever, it seems, to be non stop water pouring from the heavens. You don’t care much for the rain--it clouds the mind and makes eyes dull. 

The air in the room is chilly, and stings slightly as you breath in and out of your nose. Winter is not a favored season of yours. The cold air pierces through your being, into your soul, until it feels as if you could never be warm again--never be happy again--never live again. 

You shift onto your side and close your eyes. The amount of time it’s taking you to sleep is longer than usual, though you’ve never known for sure how long it took to fall asleep. Sleep was a strange thing--you prepare for it, yet it always takes you off guard, and you leave it when you’re still not willing to part with it. It’s a fleeting comfort in the face of a life full of stressful awakenings. 

The pitter patter at your window keeps you from sleeping as you curl tighter into a ball under the sheets. Burrowing under the covers doesn’t shield you from the cold, or the frightening presence you feel at the edges of your consciousness. You let out a soft, tired sigh, and wish you could sleep. 

Your body is growing heavy. You imagine that if you tried to move them, they would not budge under the slow numbness, but you cannot bring yourself to command the muscles to move. There is a pressure over your eyelids, not a touch, but a heaviness there that feels like dried wax keeping your eyes shut. 

There is a pressure on your side, like someone is sitting right next to your laying form. You feel like you should twitch away, sit up, try to see this new stranger that is in your room while you’re sleeping, but you don’t move. You can’t move. 

The pressure has shifted now, onto your stomach. You don’t remember when you shifted onto your back, but the pressure is more present now and much more intrusive. The pressure is growing, along with your internalized panic. Paralysis consumes you, and you chant to yourself, this is not normal. 

I’ve loved you for a while now, 

I don’t know if you can see it or not.

Maybe that’s for the best. 

We started off as friends, as 

Most loves should start off from.

You don’t want me, like I want you, 

I am positive. 

It makes me sad sometimes, mostly when

I see you with the other girl, sharing treasured

Affection, treasured closeness, that I wish I had

With you. 

But I can see your smiles, your happiness, your

Love, and I understand. 

As long as we are still friends, as long as I have the

Fleeting taste of that potential affection, 

I will be satisfied. Because being friends

Until we part, is a thousand times better

Eight years to feel like I’ve recovered. 

Six years to understand I’d never be the same.

Four years to be able to find something to smile at every day.

Three years to be able to begin to move on.

Two years for apathy to settle in like a cold blanket.

One year to feel remotely okay.

Six months to ruin my life. 

One month for my mother to worry. 

One week for you to torment me, and only being able to take it.

I want to fight

Not only with feet and fists

But with words and feelings

I want to feel their bones break

And their arguments fall flat

And tears of defeat run down their faces

But when the opportunity comes

I am still the good little girl 

When you don’t have thoughts

That could easily flourish

I am all over the place today, though that is just an expression I use

When I can never focus on anything, and only want to sleep in the

Comforting sheets of my bed, but I have work to do, things to learn,

And many more trials to go through before I may sleep, I still need to

Write that paper, read that chapter, understand that concept, learn

New things, and I absently wonder

My eyes are heavy, my vision blurred.

There is a sluggish feeling in my brain, my lungs.

There is a tiredness there, fatigue that can’t be fixed with sleep.

A pitiful heartbreak from times before,

the cracks echoing throughout my dying body,

gives me vindictive desires to have the blood taken

be spilled the same of my old enemies,

but plans fade away into a sad abyss of my regrets

as I realize that I can no longer remember

who my enemies were