Going Nowhere (new poem)

People call it "going down the wrong path." I call it "going nowhere." You know those times when you royally screw up your life and it seems like there's no return? Going nowhere. One too many midnight mistakes in the flat bed of a Ford pickup. Going nowhere. Influenced by the four bottles of cheap wine thrown on the ground below. Going nowhere. Until the day we decide we are better than this godforsaken town. And we are going somewhere.

The Corner of Creativity and Madness

So, this is for my performance poetry class, so it doesn't exactly flow in written form as much as it does in spoken form.

The Corner of Creativity and Madness
I am a girl on the corner of Creativity and Madness.
Finding God in record stores.
I am God with these words.
Speaking my life into existance,
Paving my way despite resistance.
The Madness lurks in the mirror
Breaking dreams, creeping nearer
Desperation whispers everything I can't be.
It will not possess me.
It will not possess me.
IT. WILL. NOT. POSSESS. ME.
Madness thinks I'm taken down easily,
When really I fly on the wings of Creativity.

New Poem

Hush


Never loved.
Sitting on the fence.
A cautious balance between life and death
Love and salvation.

Hush...

Pray to the God that never delivers?
Or handle things herself?
Finding faith in the arms of a boy.
Even smart girls have their downfalls.

Hush...

Trust gives way to truth.
The boy, her God, each betray.
Faith falling, bleeding into the horizon.
Blood spills to cleanse.

Hush...

Civil War raging on the inside.
Civility begging to drop the blade.
Hostility wields the shining silver.
Blood spills to cleanse.

Hush...

Years of war take their toll.
Tiredness and hostility.
Blood and tears.
No longer cleansing.
Give in to the
Hush....

Revolution's not easy, with a Civil War on the inside.

I'm sitting here in my room after a fairly decent day, save the crying from midnight to 6 AM and not getting any sleep, hardly.
I went shopping with one of my dear friends, and spent way too much money. I laughed like I didn't know I could laugh anymore. Then I came home... and it hit again. The depression... crushing my chest. So, I decided I would go bathe before it got any worse, and I lost all my functionality. I caught a glimpse of my skin in the mirror. I usually refrain from looking in the mirror if I wear anything less than long sleeves and long pants and such. Make no mistake, I wear short sleeves and sleeveless things. I wear shorts. But I never look at myself. My scars are too much to take in.
Twelve (almost thirteen) years of abusing myself in the form of cuts and burns show themselves prominently across my arms and legs and stomach. It's not pretty. But at the same time, why should I have to hide? Not to sound like I love my self-injury or anything, but shouldn't I be proud? Each scar tells a story. Each one speaks of a time when I didn't know if I could live, but alas, here I am.
Shouldn't life be something to be proud of? Other addicts get the privilege of being able to say how many days sober they are... and being loved for it.
For a self-injurer, you say "I haven't cut in *insert number* of days/months/years/etc." and all you get is "Why would you do that in the first place?"
As if an alternative to suicide isn't enough of a reason, as if not being able to express emotions is enough of a reason, as if to live isn't enough of a reason.
I shouldn't have to hide. I should be able to tell my story proudly. I should be able to say my scars are proof that I can live through hell and be looked at normally for it.
Living through hell isn't easy, people. You wake up every day and want to die. Every. fucking. day.
You question the point of life. Somedays, you don't even get out of bed. You lose friends, family, activities. You become so alone. So so alone.
But you've lived. So why the fucking stigma?
Every self-injurer I know is a strong, amazing person. They've lived through so much. Why do they have to be judged? If I could, I'd hug them all and tell them I am so so proud that they live.
I know they'd do the same for me.
So, people... let's drop the stigma. Let's be glad we live tonight.
I love you all. <3

This is the correlation of salvation and love...

I'm really sick of not knowing who my real friends are.
I know, this is probably a tired topic... same shit, different day.
But it's true.
I'm sick of thinking people in BCM love me, only to find they have fucking "secret meetings" and talk about how I don't do shit, and I'm a horrible leader.
It hurts.
It hurts a lot.
It hurts beyond the capacity my words have, in a capacity only blood can speak to.
The blood looked pretty... freeing, as if their words had no power over who I was.
When I'm not bleeding, though, they do. They govern me.
I hurt so badly, cause I try.
I cannot move past my past and be fully functional in 2 years though.
I'm working, and I'll continue working until I'm there. It may be years though...
Why can't people see this?
All I want is for someone to tell me I'm okay the way I am. They love me.
Love is so hard to obtain.

Meet me on the equinox...

I have no clue what's wrong with me.
I'm depressed.
I'm lonely.
I'm suicidal. Very suicidal. I will never admit that IRL though.
I wish someone could give me a pill to fix it.
I don't eat. When I do, I purge.
I'm scared to death of being close to anyone.
I want to cut and burn, cut and burn, cut my face, burn the cuts. God help me.
Someone tell me what's wrong.

Some Poetry.

So... In my Creative Writing class, I've written 5 poems so far... 3 not so serious, and 2 serious. So I'ma post them.

No Sound But The Wind
Thanksgiving used to be fun
until dad died.
Until you remarried and ran away,
hoping to hide from the hollow demons of your past
with us.

Now you're making a new day
selective and self gratifying
only inviting the people who will praise your pretty little life.

Thanksgiving isn't so fun anymore
is it?
Laden with the pining, pain, and wishes,
left with only the soft sigh of suicide.


I Am
The bouncy bubblegum pop music of the 90s.
An electric purple ink pen, bursting with brightness.
Open arms,
spilling blood red lines of honesty onto open books of life.
A sea of bitter happiness, roaring with darkness one moment,
calming to warm and inviting the next.

Heaps
Cans and bottles, cups and jars.
liquid energy for the day.
Mt. Dew, and Amps, Starbuck, and Poptarts.
The only way we get through.
Those people who only drink water?
They must actually sleep at night.
Welcome to college.

Meaning?
Notes for our classes thrown away
Our soda was the only thing we paid attention to, anyway.
A flier for a meeting? like we care.
All our money goes to paper, Starbucks, and soda
we throw them away like it is nothing.
Is this what college means to us?

Stare
Productivity gone way down,
Staring at a pile of trash.
Starbucks, Snapple, Mt. Dew too,
the rulers of my energy.
I need to give in again.