Madness: Now Served in Black and White!

It is very hard to write about feelings you haven’t had yet.

Or feelings you haven’t felt in a while. 

“If our love has to be proven to people, it’s not real.”

My best friend is so deep.

(Source: mysticjade)

Picking at an old scab,
pouring salt in a deep wound,
it’s all the same.
It’s reliving past pain.
Bleed it out just a little more,
make it burn just one last time.
Just to know that I can still feel,
that you’re still here with me.
You’re my favorite poison,
and though you make me sick,
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every time I pick at this old scab
and pour salt in the wound underneath,
I promise myself that it will be the last time.
I’ve lost count.
Maybe I should start promising myself
that I’ll break my promises instead.

Some days, I simply scare myself.

Have You Ever…

…Gone on a drive by yourself

at 3 AM, to the middle of nowhere

just because you don’t want to go home

where they can hear you cry?

…Allowed yourself to be ripped open

again and again

by the thing that hurts you most

just because it’s a comfortable chaos,

and you feel safe in the pain?

…Wondered why,

after years upon years

that one thing can still get to you,

level you like nothing else can,

even though you know

it’s not worth your time?

Just wrote this off the top of my head. Woot.

I hate that I care.
I wish you weren’t here.
But my prayers are futile,
and I refuse to let you go.
You’ve got me in a stranglehold
and I refuse to fight you.

Because I like the way it feels;
it’s all I can remember.
I don’t want you to leave
and take these feelings with you.
Because what would I have left?

You would take the light and the dark
right out of me,
my inspiration would be lost.
But I’d get my sanity back.
But is being sane what I really want?

I wish I could
forget how to remember you
but you are imbedded in me.
I’m done fighting.
Done hoping.
Done praying for an eraser
or an answer.

I have just come to terms with the fact
that you will always be the best and worst
part of me.
You lit the fire,
you stole my sanity,
and I like it that way.
Even though you don’t.

Paralyzed

from the brain

to the tongue

to the heart

to the hands.

Too many thoughts,

colliding at the speed

of light,

to form a coherent sentence.

The thoughts terrify me,

cripple me,

I can’t write them out.

I am afraid to see

what’s inside my own head

expressed in black and white.

Some people turn to a blade,

Use the metal to slice themselves open,

Let the secrets and the pain

Flow out, coded in crimson.

Some people turn to music,

Use an instrument in place of their voice,

Let it say the words they’re afraid to hear,

Listen to the notes flow out in perfect harmony.

Some people pick up a brush,

Use its bristles to tell a story,

A story not meant for words to tell,

One better left to shapes and images.

Some people turn to words,

The classic black-and-white.

They command the page and manage to encapsulate

The spectrum of human emotion in two dimensions.

Some people never find their voice,

And it really makes me sad.

Keeping life bottled up inside

Will make you go mad.

I miss the man I thought I knew.

(Can I call you a man? Is it true?)

I miss the fleeting bright moments we had in summer,

though they were quickly overlooked

and forgotten.

I miss the anticipation. The hesitation. The mania.

Feeling both alive and dead, often wishing for the latter.

I miss the fact that I had a chance,

A chance to finally get what I wanted.

But it’s winter now, and you’re long dead.

Your stone face will never again look upon mine

and soften.

I miss you, at least, I think I do.

Then I remember you miss her, too.

And then my emotions run dry again.

In memory of Kayla Campbell, I am posting this poem. I debated on whether or not I should post it, but I decided that if Kayla wasn’t afraid to post everything she did, then I am not afraid, either. 

Maybe At Best

You hear poems and songs

About first loves, true loves

And only loves.

You hear poems and songs

About heartbreak and tragedy,

About that one who got away.

I could tell you what it’s like

To have a first love,

Maybe even a true love,

But I can’t say that I have ever been

Anyone’s object of affection.

I could tell you all about

The agonizing pain of heartbreak

That pierces through your core.

But I can’t say that I have ever been

One to inflict such pain on another.

Because in order to be capable

Of causing such unbearable pain,

You have to mean something to them first.

I can’t tell you about being someone’s love,

I can’t tell you about causing pain,

But I am qualified to tell you about being someone’s maybe.

An option. A choice.

A choice they denied; one they merely glanced at.

It’s almost like love you see in books and movies,

The love Hollywood tells pretty faces to sing about.

The only difference is, the emotions travel on a one-way street,

Instead of meeting in a head-on collision

And resulting in a beautiful mess.

No, in this case, you travel ninety to nothing and hit a brick wall.

You’re totaled, and you’re totally alone.

Your love- so you thought- turns out to only be a witness,

An innocent bystander watching you meet your demise.

He is innocent. You messed up.

You didn’t see the signs back there.

You didn’t yield or stop.

And that’s if you’re lucky enough to find someone

Who doesn’t flee from the scene of their crime.

Being someone’s maybe can also land you in emotional limbo.

There’s no way to tell what choice will be made regarding your fate.

You can try your best to convince the jury,

But in the end, you have absolutely no say.

All you can do is stand on your knees,

Pray that you at least make it out alive.

So I am not qualified to speak on mutual attraction.

You could say I’m barely eligible to speak about love.

My experience with the most powerful human emotion

Has been limited.

I wait around for weeks and months

For another person to decide if I am what they’re seeking.
And every single time, I have lost.

There’s always someone better. Prettier. Thinner.

Not as much of a handful as me.

Not a crazy as me.

Even crazier than me.

I have tried everything I know how to do

In order to gain favor, win the upper hand.

But in the end, I’m just an option.

Not a love.

That’s all I have been allowed to be. 

I’m only a maybe at best.