MENTAL ILLNESS/HEALTH -- REFERENCES TO DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, MENTION OF SELF-HARM/SUICIDE.
hurting, but i want flowers
When I die
mix my ashes into soil and plant a
peony garden that will last for centuries.
Mix my bones into the earth and grow a
great redwood tree.
Make me imprint onto this earth as
something to marvel at in this pitiful life.
I want to be greater than I am now.
GROWING UP MEANS DYING
I want to hold onto my childish memories
until the sun burns every last bit of
yesterday and last year.
Until I’m sure that that ultimate end is now
and when skies are filled with ashes.
That I held onto something for so long,
with claws sunken deep,
that this selfishness within me
is the very reason
I pulled through until that ultimate end.
NEGLECT AND MOURNING
Growing up, home was always fUll:
The rooms were full
The hampers were full
The sink was full
The pantry was full
The fridge, filled.
I think it really affects me now:
But especially, the fridge.
What used to be filled with
everything I ever wanted,
Now is 4 eggs, one jar of pickles, leftover rice
Maybe some carrots, half a can of broth
Some sauce, some bread, maybe
It’s always some now
To be honest,
everything could probably fit in the crisper.
There are moments when I slump over
in the shower and hug my knees thanking
myself for never giving up
for all the times I wanted to end everything.
There is a void in my head and chest
for every person I wanted out of my life
so I could fill it with my own
self-worth and my own reasons why
to take care of myself.
i can only make so many excuses for my own neglect.
I loathe and adore the way that false
memories of MY OWN burrowing fingernails
would elicit the sensation of knives
and I never bothered for them to stop.
I have bruises for all the hours I’ve
given up sleep in winter and spring.
I could probably hate you for this,
but I choose not to. Anger is exhausting,
I’ve learned. I found peace of mind
in a near-death experience.
Broken skin is irrelevant
when you are still
capable of living as you please.
We're alive and well,
so I’ve been told.
It’s a fucking shame that
we let the state of being
consume our lives
and how we try to relate every
sad song to every poor excuse
of our petty experiences alone.
Sometimes we’ll never let ourselves
know what we’re doing.
Here are some lyrics that I liked,
they might mean something to you.
They don’t mean much to me anymore.
And I never learned a lesson
looking at my own reflection,
but sometimes it seems useful.
So I loosen my heart strings
in high hopes of starting
to find something truthful.
Cynicism isn’t wisdom,
it’s a lazy way to say
that you’ve been burned.
It seems, if anything,
you’d be less certain after
everything you ever learned.
undeserving / Manic
It seems like the answer is so obvious
but I keep missing it, on purpose.
Nothing feels like I've earned it,
and I've worked up to the point where
I am still just as undeserving as I was.
I can never accept that I can be enough,
or will ever feel like I will be enough because
I will never accept that I am enough and that
I'll have to keep working myself to the grave
to ever feel like I even deserving anything at all.
But by the time that I am dead,
I won't even know that if I was ever was enough.
what am i doing here
can't feel what's going on anymore
not sure how long i can keep this going,
my chest feels like grave
for all the times i've said
"i will stop being like this"
please don't wait, please just forget
is leaving without saying goodbye
the best way to be forgotten by everyone?
i don't want to feel like i want to be needed,
not because i don't want to be remembered,
but because i don't want people to think
i'm important at all.
i want disconnect,
i want peace,
i want to leave.
i don't want to apologize
for wanting for things to end.
i don't want to explain
that i need to go.
so if i'm on my way out,
i hope no one is waiting for me at home.
happy people make me so angry,
i thought laughter and smiles were supposed
to make life a lot easier but it's only
left me bitter because i know, i fucking know
that i will never be so effortlessly carefree.
my back was never strong enough to hold myself.
and the weight from their suffocating, childish
laughter burns in my ears in the same way i can
hear the sobs and cries from my best friend
watching her best friend die.
i don't have a lot left in me, but hair always grows
and i could cut it all off like how i wish i could
cut out happy people from my pitiful life.
There isn't much to look forward to anymore,
I wake up and the first thing I see are two
convenient wooden beams crossing my ceiling.
I catch myself getting too stuck thinking about them,
and I get up and rush myself to work, my lungs burning
the entire way and my eyes drying up as daylight
breaks through dulled, slate blue skies.
This repeats, I come home and I lay down for a long time.
This can go on forever, and no matter where I go, as long
as it's home, these two beams are always going to be above me.
Not that I would consider being a part of them,
I just like to think that they are convenient.
Everything kind of just feels pointless.