Epicmeowness

My tears are hot with embarrassment, As I tear down the hallway, Trying to avoid the mocking faces, It's just that Ever since you've left Nothings been the same, You were my bestfreind, My allie, And now you've gone to Rainbow Bridge, To play in the meadows, And bask in the sun, I know your comfortable there, But I can't help but cry, You weren't ill, Or old, You weren't maimed, Or hurt at all, But your gone. Just gone. One day when you lift your head from your playing, You'll see me, Joining you, My best friend, At Rainbow bridge. And we'll cross it together.

Sometimes, she tries to fall into the night, tipping her strawberry heart like a tea bag into hot waters- always scolding herself kissing ocean beds. Her hips, tides rolling towards the antagonists of myths & legends. But, with a thousand leagues of sea behind her eyes, she will always save herself.

Run. Faster. Fall down. Cry. Monsters are following you, they tell you to die. Scream. Bleed. Hide. Smile. Smile as long as you can, it won't last for a while. Insane. Worthless. Angry. Mad. You're not normal, my friend, that's all in your head. Tears. Blood. Fears. Pain. Don't cry, you stupid child, it will start again and again. "Talk to us. Talk to us! Listen to us. We tell the truth!" Life or Death? You need to choose. Weak. Laugh. Cry. You're mad. It was too much for you and now you're dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. You're dead. And no one will be sad.

I was taught right from wrong By a murderer I was taught truth from lies By a magician I was taught who my friends were By my enemy I was taught to be honest By a professional liar I was taught to always speak my mind By being told to keep quiet I was taught to be kind By someone that beat me down I was taught to smile By someone who could never wipe a scowl of their face I was taught to love By being abused I was taught to live By someone who was already dead I was taught to perform By someone with stage fright I was taught to be excellent By someone that failed in everything I was taught to rely on only my self By being su

Dance with fistfuls of roses, shred their petals one by one and wear their thorns like armor. Write your secrets between the folds of paper cranes and tuck them safely between the empty spaces of your castle ribs. Open your broken heart to hummingbirds, allow them the warmth and shelter of your arms. Rebel. Tape poetry to your limbs, Cummings and Sandburg and Sexton. Take a walk outside of your skin for a while, run with wolves. Extinguish that forest fire that’s been curling too long in your lungs. Be that lionhearted girl those snobby poets always write about. Allow that cavern of stars in your throat to speak your truths in uppercase

Dear Writer, I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. Unfortunately, I need you. I need you to tell my story. I need you to create my world. I need you to set me free. I need your fingers typing on those keys, I need your mind riddling out the problems, and I need you to plough onward and upward no matter how hard it gets. Sweat, blood, and tears, I don’t care. You’ve got to fight this war, battle at a time, and win it. So I can be more. It’s a slim hope, but it is the only one I have. In your head I am bound to mortality, frailty, and the limit of your meagre imagination. Out there – out there – I

You're anorexic if you're thin You're not? Then you're obese. If you're different, you're insane You're not? Then you're a fake. If you're happy, you're hiding something. You're not? You must be emo. If you're dating, you're a slut. You're not? You must have no friends. If you're popular, you're a jerk. You're not? You're a nobody. If you're quiet, you must be disabled. You're not? You obnoxious freak. If you're you, you're wrong. You're not? Then you must be perfect.

Slide the blade across your wrist. Again. Again. Again. Stop. "Doesn't it hurt?" I can't feel anything. "A little." Punch your own stomach. Harder. Harder. Does it hurt yet? Yes. Keep going. "Why do you do that?" The pain makes me feel alive. "I don't know." Stare. Cry. Scream. Stop. Keep staring. "What's wrong with you?" I'm dead inside. "Nothing." "Emotional freak." I'm just depressed. "Sorry." Stare at your arms. Your stomach. Your waist. Your thighs. "What are you doing?" I'm ugly. "Never mind." "Attention seeker." I just have low self esteem. "I'm sorry." Cuts. Scars. Tears. Emotions. "Emo." "Scene girl." "Psycho." I'm just human

"I'm fine" is a dirty lie. The truth is that I want to die. "I'm tired" is not even done. It really means "I'm tired of being no one" "I'm better" is but a curse. The truth is that I've never been worse "I'm just cold" is what I say so my sleeves can hide my scars away. "I already ate" is said with a frown. I starve to see the numbers on the scale go down. "I'm okay" is probably the worst. It really means I'm about to burst. All these things are lies to me. But you take this as the truth because what else would I be?

we do not belong in boxes and bags and books or words, and we do not sit contently in wordsworth and shakespeare and blake, burns, and brownings or in the cold stiff bones of raleigh's of long ago; no-- we infect, detect, and re-select a virus--a disease, a germ in every verse and line; the first signs of foolish waitings under bridges and scolding parents and melodrama and nothing to signify at all yet-- we are the blood of nations and the heart of men and the love of every rhetorist and sentimist to come; we dance through the ballrooms of the age and chat with higher minds we shake hands with heros and the homeless, dirty type