Self-Pity

I am scratching at a patch of skin
That I dislike, wanting to dig deep,
To see what I am made of.

I am clawing my way in,
Through the ever-growing, gaping hole
Of infected flesh and nearly-exposed bone,

Erupting the same crazed blood
That has me wounding myself
In the first place.

The Thin Line

My heart is a book with a worn bind
Each crease and line signify
Every time you open it roughly and wide.
So careless and cruel,
Claiming you have better understanding
Than you actually do,
Of the words not written by you.
I am on the page you've bookmarked,
The page, tattered and waterstained,
When confronted, you apologize
With a smile, for knocking over the glass
But what else can I say except "It's okay"?
The words bleed and melt, the ink seeps,
Pages and pages of darkness
A mark I cannot unfeel, cannot forget.
So I'm sitting here, running my finger
Over the wrinkled lines and blurred words,
I close my eyes and feel the tears well
My grip on the page tightens
The rage in my blood urges me on
The paper, in my hand, conforms,
But I don't know if I have the heart
To rip it out.

Fury

I hate to waste a post here to write about this, but I felt it had to be done because I'm angry it happened. Let me start off by explaining why I even have this blog in the first place. The reason why I have this blog is because I love to write. I don't write for anyone, I write for myself. This is the only way I can express myself wholly. I get inspired by things that happen in my life and I write it down. This is an outlet. This is where I can be myself.

Sometimes when people want to know how I am feeling and whatnot, I like to refer them here, simply because I am honest in my poetry. I don't lie in my poetry. Things may change, but I don't lie in those words, in those moments. I don't mind if people read my work. Sometimes I am happy that I have an audience. And sometimes I am excited to show someone a piece of work that I am proud of. Bottom line is, I don't mind sharing my work for people to read.

But that doesn't mean you can abuse it.

Every art is open to interpretation and I think it's great if someone else read my work in a different light than I intended -- it means that the person thought and related to my words. But that doesn't mean the interpretation is necessarily correct. I, ultimately, hold the meaning to my work because I wrote it. No one else holds that authority. So before jumping to conclusions about what I've written, would it not be better to ask me about it? I admit I am not always articulate (hence why I use the poetic form), but at least let me explain?

I am always flattered when someone compliments my work or want to discuss them with me because it means that he/she found it interesting or compelling. And most of the time, I am up for the dissection of my words. But sometimes not. That's why I have my comments disabled because I don't want to hear how you read my poems; I don't want to know. It's not that I am egotistic and I don't want to hear any criticisms, but this is my home. I don't want any potential vandalism or people giving me shizzles about things-- these words that I have crafted-- that I hold dear. I know I don't always produce the best poems (some are downright bad), but they are mine nonetheless and I love them all the same because they grew with me. These poems are, essentially, my life. I gave breath to them.

You don't have the right to steal them.

The least you could do is just ask. It's not like I'm going to say no to you outright. When you take my words without permission, it's like me going into your house and stealing your things or kidnapping your children. Same concept. (Well not that I'm going to ask you if I could steal your things or kidnap your kids first, but you know what I mean.) It's an invasion, it's a burglary. And I am appalled.

To the person who felt he can just prance in here, copy and paste my poem, and use it for his own (inappropriate) means, you know who you are. Stop it or I will take actions.

I can very easily just shut this down, but I love this blog. I've had it for many years. It's a quick catharsis for me when I need it. Don't make me move. Don't make me hide myself. My words have no other purpose than to hold my memories and emotions, and they are meant for me to read. I share them because there isn't any harm to it. You like my poetry? That's great, thanks! You don't? Then just leave. My words don't hurt anyone-- if they do, it's not my words' doing, but your own mind's, your own heart's.

I think that's about all I have to say. Thank you for reading.
Promise the next post is poetry. x

This Was What You Wanted

You wanted to make me, a person as broken as you are
And I've become a person that I hate
You brought out in me, a side that I don't like,
A hatred and frustration served with cold words
And I didn't know I had the capacity to be this way
Day in and day out I question this split, this divide
Between who I thought I was and want to be,
And who you think I am and what your words made me out to be,
And your words carried more weight than my thoughts
So I am dragged down by their heaviness
Finally, I removed them from my chest and I can breathe again,
Clear headed, but still weary and worn, 
I hope what I write here will absorb all this that I feel
So I will not be burdened with them anymore.

Dark

My lips bleed where I have bitten too hard
To try to transform thoughts into words
But it's difficult since the fire in me
Withered into just a spark
And I've not enough light
To read my own mind.

My Darkness

I clenched my hands tightly
To keep myself from screaming
My finger nails imprinted in my skin
Like the smile upon your face
The harder I press,
The deeper, wider the smile
So I dig even deeper
To find the source of your evil,
Until I see blood, dripping
All over your mouth,
And I smile satisfied.

Hmm, I didn't intend for this to turn out so dark...

The Difference

It's strange how we are all composed
Of the same ingredients, of flesh,
Of blood, of bones, in varying amounts.
But we are such different creatures,
The same tree but different branches,
Growing here and there, reaching.
But you took the crooked path.
So by subtracting all the limbs,
And hair, and nails, and skeleton,
You can see, my dear sister,
What makes you and I different,
Is that whilst I give life,
You bring about darkness,
The unnecessary kind.
And that while I have a heart,
You don't. And that makes you sad,
The almost-pitying kind.
So while we are all human,
I am nothing like you (made me to be),
And never will be.
So go ahead and wrap me in your darkness,
Because I'm unafraid,
And in it, my light will shine brighter.

You can make me feel low, you can degrade me.
But none of that matters, because I know that I will always be a better person than you.

Rage

It's more than a hundred and nine degrees
My blood is evaporating
My brain gasping and pulsating
And for a moment I drifted out of my body.
I'm losing faith in humanity.

The Culprit

You, you were the one,
Who pushed me into the bottomless pit,
The trip that caused my fall,
Stole my love and sold it to Russia,
Humiliate me in front of the seas of people,
Who hurt me without touching me,
The one who blinded my rationality,
It was you all along.