pulled underbeing ripped to pieces is a sensationpulled under3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
most people feel; it's a cliché,
it's an everyday feeling
of broken deals and a soul cremation.
being ripped to pieces is like dying -
everyone experiences it.
right now, i am not being ripped apart
by my skin, my teeth, my fragile veins,
the old gray-blue stains on my bones
that never fade.
i am holding myself together with the fibers
of the softly whispered lies into my pillow case at night.
bu my body tires; i am trying to keep my heart from
beating because i am searching for silence.
not the short and fleeting kind but the type that
merges with my lungs and holds me like a lover and
blocks my eyes from violence. the type of silence
that surges like a tidal wave over my head
and though i feel myself drowning, i am at peace,
i am held together, not ripped apart or crushed,
just another organic being
made from woven molecules and for once,
as i sink, i will hold onto myself.
i will hold onto myself -
that's all i really wanted.
peacelost: peace.peace3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
last seen: months ago.
large reward if found.
i used to search for it
in the dark crevices of my mind,
sinister mazes of sharp cliffs
i hoped to find it
so that when i slept,
i would dream of beautiful things,
of things long forgotten
to the conscious mind
of the world.
i will know i've found it
when i can close my eyes,
see the colors stitched
to the backs of the lids,
and feel in my head that
i could watch them for eternity
and never tire.
if yours, please claim.
how to be a poetsmatter into the inner depthshow to be a poet2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
of your hopeless little mind for
the perfect words to fit in
then my friend
you will see what
poetry is made of
to think poetry may
be beautiful as the spring
sprouting with the loveliest
of reprimands and yellowed
they're more than the
kiss of lovely things
and the flick of fingers
on lonely keys
but the sound of the heart
ripping open quite brokenly
drunk off the very words
sinking by the trance
of such diction my friend
may you call yourself
blueto anyone who has everblue2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
loved a story more than life,
needed a story to feel
their heart beating,
longed for another world
more than our own...
it's the worst sort
of existence, isn't it?
because stories don't
cut wounds in our skin,
they gouge into our souls.
no one sees us bleeding
from the inside out,
to nothing more than an idea,
a made-up fantasy,
that heals us
and kills us at the same time.
we yearn for a reality
that we will never grasp
in our hands, like beads of
sand slipping through our
we scratch at our eyes
in hopes that the blood
that pours down
will paint a brighter world,
spun from the strands
of our deepest wishes
and most hidden dreams,
on the backs of our eyelids.
i think we can all agree
that the pain would be worth it.
will we ever be again?all i know is how i feelwill we ever be again?4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
and all i know is i feel dead.
make of it what you will.
what i need you to understand
is that every time i say to myself,
i love you,
i also say,
it doesn't matter.
i told you before you left
how i loved you,
and how angry i was
when i figured it out.
it seems denial can only get you so far.
so here's the thing:
i have a habit
of trying to rescue
what can't be saved.
i try on moods like clothing,
undergarments of repulsion,
denial, and depression
tattooed on my skin.
here's the thing:
the world is on fire
and i plan to burn down
i don't believe in suicide
but i do believe in reckless behaviour,
and it's just aching inside me
not to open the car door on the highway,
to look both ways before crossing the street,
to care about my health and myself
and here's the thing:
every night i say my prayers
to the only god i can believe in,
wishing wellness on everyone
except for me.
crookedyou tell me my smile is slightly crookedcrooked3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
and not what it used to look like.
what i don't tell you is i don't even remember
how i used to smile, although you do
with a memory so vivid that sometimes
when your eyes are on me,
i know you're gazing into the past.
you tell me you're not sure
where i'm headed, and i have to agree,
because fear is petrifying
and possibility so crippling,
that i doubt i will ever pass a day
without wondering what if
what you don't know
but what i know too well
is that sometimes i struggle with myself
over the things you joke about,
and that i laugh off,
but when the night falls and my door closes
and i turn my back,
i close my eyes and i see a mirror
where my smile is slightly crooked
and not what it used to look like
and i am not beautiful
no matter how many other people
tell me so.
apologythe problem is that i don't trust you.apology2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
every time you flash your uneven smile, i feel it like a gunshot in the pit of my stomach. my name from your lips is a surreal sound that doesn't quite fit into my ear; it crams and pushes its way through, and i can feel the brittle bones cracking under the pressure. i don't trust the smooth sound of your voice or the confidence in your laugh. i don't trust myself, really, because some days i find myself thinking that you are more gorgeous in every way than anyone i've ever met, and some days i stare at you and all i see is the pain i'm bound to feel, the loneliness i'm bound to fall under. your name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
i'm sorry that all i can do is grimace shyly and loathe myself for being a coward. i'm more broken than i ever care to admit. every day i feel my seams tear a little bit more. the problem is that you remind me of memories over the years that i don't want to recall, that you make me smile so widely and i can't ever co