It's not supposed to hurt.
Looking over at the people I love, I smile.
I try to show my love but my face betrays me.
Insecurities grip me tight and give birth to a thousand doubts.
What if they don't love me anymore?
I'm glad they don't hear me crying in the shower.
They think that I'm perfect, so I don't have the right to be sad.
"Other people have it worse."
Pain that I can't explain.
Knives twisting in my gut.
I've been stabbed by someone I love and they don't have a clue how it hurts.
The mirror is dirty, like my reflection.
Feeling like a joke, rubbing my teary eyes
breaths come in shallow.
I say to myself, "Stop this!
Your life is great!
They are jealous of you
Most of them love you."
Do they even know me?
The real me?
I'm the one who's jealous of those who have it worse
because when they cry, they have a right to.
Everything is in place, nothing ever hurts me.
I'm fine. I’ve figured it all out.
The shower knows the truth they'll never know.
Maybe it's for the best to be the happy one.
The one who has it all.
Time to put my brave face on.
People ask for my opinions as if I've got it all figured out.
I love them, but when I tell the truth it hurts them.
I love them, so I lie.
They point at me and say
“Hypocrite.”
Maybe I am but you never really wanted to know the truth, did you?
I lie to myself about things I don't wanna feel.
Thoughts of jealousy and pettiness have crippled me before.
Would I fight myself this time or just accept defeat at the hands of someone I promised myself I wouldn't become?
The 8th-grade version of myself.
The mean girl, I loathe myself.
Am I becoming her?
please, let me die before she takes over.
I would rather set fire to my own corpse than hurt the people I love due to my own urges.
Only the shower has heard my plea.
I don't have a leg to stand on.
How do I get up and put the mask on this morning?
If it's all the same, I'd rather crawl back in my bed and wait for death.
Does anyone really even worry about me
or do they miss the girl I once was?
Written by Rupkatha, my brave new friend who lives a world away, unaware of her own strength.
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Showing posts with label guest poets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guest poets. Show all posts
Monday, December 9, 2019
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Preaching At The Choir [guest poet]
Unconcerned with mood or tone,
they speak in monosyllabic tongues,
iambic and spondaic lines running together
like a mismatched three-legged race
where everyone falls down. Ideas
like multifaceted, variegated, intricate,
are hard to rhyme. Obtuse and awkward,
those are left out of the glorified speech–
not to be held within the text, nor used to describe it–
replaced instead by bold smells and beer, boys and their
baseball gloves… a ceaseless onslaught of alliteration.
By the fourth line they’ve broken the fourth wall, screaming
into the microphone, shoving the nifty little internal slide
between “men” and “oppression” down the listeners’ throats.
Subtly is cast aside for redundancy– their bodies are theirs, after all,
an inalienable right that can’t be taken away. It’s bad to call
girls “bitches.” Eyes angry, hair
tossing, they arrive at this powerful conclusion, only to drift
out of “I verb” and into “all little girls.” Breathless and heady,
they spill the final stanza from their heart, their guts,
onto the stage and into the ears of people who watch
slam poetry.
written by a friend
they speak in monosyllabic tongues,
iambic and spondaic lines running together
like a mismatched three-legged race
where everyone falls down. Ideas
like multifaceted, variegated, intricate,
are hard to rhyme. Obtuse and awkward,
those are left out of the glorified speech–
not to be held within the text, nor used to describe it–
replaced instead by bold smells and beer, boys and their
baseball gloves… a ceaseless onslaught of alliteration.
By the fourth line they’ve broken the fourth wall, screaming
into the microphone, shoving the nifty little internal slide
between “men” and “oppression” down the listeners’ throats.
Subtly is cast aside for redundancy– their bodies are theirs, after all,
an inalienable right that can’t be taken away. It’s bad to call
girls “bitches.” Eyes angry, hair
tossing, they arrive at this powerful conclusion, only to drift
out of “I verb” and into “all little girls.” Breathless and heady,
they spill the final stanza from their heart, their guts,
onto the stage and into the ears of people who watch
slam poetry.
written by a friend
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Alive Art [guest poet]
My brothers are quiet in their rooms
My imagination starts up and zooms
Things drift in my mind, by chance
leaving explosions of colors in a dance
Paper on the downstairs table comes to life,
the paintbrush carving across it like a color-filled knife
My brain is sending messages to my hand
a dream coming true, oh, how grand
The picture is alive, the colors stretching,
my hand never stops the sketching
The world outside is becoming smaller
as my picture comes to life with color
Paintbrush going back into the cup,
I will be a famous artist when I grow up.
A great poet wrote this, to speak in front of an audience, and I am in awe. Flawless truth, and as the poem says, painted across the page. I am honored to be able to feature it as my first poem from a guest poet on this blog. Oh, and by the way, she's only eight-years-old!
My imagination starts up and zooms
Things drift in my mind, by chance
leaving explosions of colors in a dance
Paper on the downstairs table comes to life,
the paintbrush carving across it like a color-filled knife
My brain is sending messages to my hand
a dream coming true, oh, how grand
The picture is alive, the colors stretching,
my hand never stops the sketching
The world outside is becoming smaller
as my picture comes to life with color
Paintbrush going back into the cup,
I will be a famous artist when I grow up.
A great poet wrote this, to speak in front of an audience, and I am in awe. Flawless truth, and as the poem says, painted across the page. I am honored to be able to feature it as my first poem from a guest poet on this blog. Oh, and by the way, she's only eight-years-old!
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