writing poems really helps me feel better. I feel like half of the stuff is true where the other stuff is really just exaggeration.
You'll still be beautiful
After you wake from the acid nightmares
or roll over in dirty sheets that stink
of the night's glamor and disease,
you'll still be beautiful to me.
You're neither obese nor free from fat
and when you smile,
it still catches my eye.
You've got all your teeth and hair.
Best yet, your skin is still fair.
So when you wake and the sun doesn't shine
quite the way you want it to,
remember that you're still beautiful to me.
There's light in your eyes and though your skin can boil,
with irritation or sores,
you're still a beauty in my mind.
But I must admit there's fault in you still,
cause you're ugliest sin is in despising me.
"i can't tell a lie"
the posters from yester years are still plastered on my walls
and I remember most of the things that we've done,
but when the memories rushed in last night
I wished that I didn't remember anything at all.
I've wanted to recall things for the longest time
so I can't understand why I was so scared.
Why I was curled up into a ball in my bed,
crying because the pain of the memories was so strong
is almost unbearable to even wonder about.
It's like watching a dream turn from white to black.
It's such a simple thing,
to want to remember your past
but it caused so much pain.
I can only relate it to the sensation,
which I imagine,
of a pole breaking through your ribs
and forcing itself through your chest.
The pain of the pole is not the remembering
but the realization of what has happened
and the excruciating pain that you have lived through.
Indeed, it's terrifying and I'm not sure it's worth it anymore.
Not without any of you in my life anymore,
it's not.
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Fragmented Self who wanders through life like a dreamer and wades through the river of dreams as though it were the only truth left in this world
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