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Nothing 4.0Throwing the car into fifth shift, I floor the gas. Exhaust piles high out of the pipe, choking the outer walls of my rear tires and cascading around the intricate patterns on the edges of the windows. The pull of gravity throws me back against the seat, and I grip the steering wheel. I wont back out of this. I need to do this, to finish it. Glancing at the speedometer, I shove the car into sixth and place my hand back on the steering wheel.
Lights are dancing outside my window; they blend into each other and mingle, pressing close to the glass and to each other, high as a drug dealer in Bangkok. As I cling to the wheel, the colours spiral out of control. They seep in through the windows and push their way into my heated skin, into my eyes, weaving throughout my hair. I am colour.
The windshield is soon dotted with splashes of violet and lime, copper and fuchsia. Windshield wipers do nothing to eradicate them, and I lean forward. The road is lost in layers of clouds. Street lamps
Nothing 3.0[ 3.o]
Now, Nissa, explain how you feel about yourself to me. Be as honest as you can.
A typical base question. One that gets asked all the time. How do you feel about yourself? What would you change? What do you like? Not necessarily in that order. We all reply the same way.
- We think were fine.
- We wouldnt change anything.
- We like everything about ourselves.
Its all lies, of course. We tell them what they want to hear. It just takes too much time to explain how we really view ourselves; how much we hate ourselves. If they knew the truth, they still wouldnt know what to do.
Should've Stayed in BedFebruary 20, 2013
You wish you wish you wish you WISH that you could cut yourself out of this body. Or at least this damn writers block. You feel so trapped, so holed down in a pit that is crawling with maggots and dead flies. Tasty, isnt it? Its like you belong here; the bugs are eating through your skull to where your pit of creativity lies hidden behind brain tissue and whatnot. Soon there will be nothing left to use, and youll be left dumb. Do you want that? DO YOU? No. You dont. I know you dont. But youre not doing anything to prevent falling in that hole. Youre not looking where youre going; youre not watching your footsteps. Nothing. Good job. Youre failing at life. How much long are you going to keep doing that? Forever? Thats cool. I can stay here forever, too, reminding you of all your failures. Theres nothing wrong with that. After all If you really cared, you wouldve just stayed at hom
NothingThey ask me what I like about my body. I dont have to look down to see all that I dont like. The miniature water balloons that lay stacked inside the skin of my thighs squish together and jiggle every time I uncross my legs, only to cross them again. The bump of my stomach is squishy, liquefied, prominent. Absently I poke it under the blanket. My cheeks are too round, my fingers too swollen. I have obtained a sickening under-bite during my sixteen years, and I never smile. I am pale, not tan like everyone else was around here. I have childs nails, small and easily breakable.
Nothing, I whisper, my voice tense, icicles forming on the edges of my lips.
They look at one another, their expressions hooded. I look at the floor, studying the specs of fuzz from the shedding blanket that is draped over my body. One of them coughs to grab my attention, and I slowly meet his requirement. Nothing? His voice is hard, no-nonsense-whatsoever hard. I nod slowl
NothingThey asked me what I liked about my body. I didnt have to look down to see all that I didnt like. The miniature water balloons that lay stacked inside the skin of my thighs squished together and jiggled every time I uncrossed my legs, only to cross them again. The bump of my stomach was squishy, liquefied, prominent. Absently I poked it under the blanket. My cheeks were too round, my fingers too swollen. I had obtained a sickening under-bite during my sixteen years, and I never smiled. I was pale, not tan like everyone else was around here. I had childs nails, small and easily breakable.
Nothing, I whispered, my voice tense, icicles forming on the edges of my lips.
Fill This PageA blank page awaits to be filled;
Swirls of indecision shall swing about the corners,
tangles of uncertainty will bow and bend from the centre.
Ribbons of loss curl around despair,
frail string unravels around the edges.
How shall I fill this page?
The Sealed Kingdom-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sound of a lone wolf echoed off the bare tree trunks. It reflected off the silver of the moon and the white of the crisp, fresh snow. The girl thought she heard chimes, somewhere off in the dwindling distance. As she lay on the embankment, her white and crimson lace robes now spotted with deeper, lively red, drumming sounded from all around. Its soft beat poured out of every tree trunk, every crack and pore, every open available opening of space. The stars traded silent laughter as the wolf continued.
One wolf, alone in the blistering cold.
She and he could become companions. They could die together in snow melted with the heat of their blood, give their last sick-coated breaths to the moon to devour and purify. Just as her breath hitched into a final, desperate draw for air, the beat picked up; it spiked throughout the wooded area.
Patterns of d
Let. Me. Out.I should be used to this,
these strings that are cutting me off,
from the world.
But I'm not used to this hunger,
that devours me and keeps me from being around.
This chain that chokes me,
keeping my words prisoner.
I can't talk, can't walk,
no support, no balance.
Why can't people just let me in?
I have a voice, I have an opinion.
Instead of being a free sparrow,
I'm a caged finch.
I have no colour, it's not allowed,
give me a release, let me be heard.
Let. Me. Out.
Is This Fair?I'm dancing with a cunning mate,
locked in arms of metal links and shame.
Yesterday I was informed of this malicious fate,
it came to me in a square 4x4 frame.
Today I'm swinging into a mirror of lies,
hoping it's what they call a "nightmare".
I'm painfully facing my own wretched demise,
tell me how this is fair?
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
On WritingWrite for today
And like it’s all
That’ll be left of you
Never write for popularity.
Write with clarity, but
‘Don’t make everything said’.
Write a million things;
An ode to the voice
Inside your head,
An elegy for the living,
A carpe diem for the dead.
Write to tell
To just keep
They’ll find a way out.
Don’t write for approval,
That way misery lies.
Poetry can’t be judged,
Not properly –
Write for yourself;
Doesn’t matter if it’s
Good enough for
You’ll never be Shakespeare.
But he’d never
Have been you;
Pour your heart into it,
That’s the best
That you can do.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
I Fell In love Inside of a DreamI fell in love,
inside of a dream.
And woke up,
with a broken heart.
But it wasn't my heart,
that was broken.
It was his,
and I'll never see him again.
That long haired, pale skin,
blue eyed boy, will forever remain,
a figment of my imagination.
So close, yet so far away.
And I will never be able to apologize,
for my mistake.
ShatteredIf I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
veinte.i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
you are not a dynamic character.
this is not your story.
you are static.
you are static.
this is not your story.
you are not allowed to fly.
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
(there is no one to talk to anymore because you feel the need to hide away all of your feelings; you don't talk to people because you cannot pretend to be happy with people that know you are not; you can't keep doing this you can't keep doing this; you're killing yourself and you don't even realize it; you're going to explode one day)
On Breaking Apart Your Dreams For a GuyTwelve months ago, we swapped rumors about
the hottest bad boys; counted the number of freckles Tanya,
the Queen Bee of Beverly High, didn't cover with her polka-dot skirt;
and discovered our favorite song on a blog we both wished
we owned. "What do you think we'll be doing this time next year?"
I asked over peanut butter cookies from a bag
and a commercial break between late night movies.
You giggled, pondering, and said, "Hanging out in our dorm room.
You'll be snuggled up to the flavor of the month--
a basketball player, no doubt, or a starving artist--
and I'll be green with jealousy, like always."
When Dirty Dancing came back on, we rocked along,
shag carpet burning streaks across bare feet.
This morning, listening to my roommate sing with the radio--
some country ballad you'd never approve of--
I remember your laugh and the dark, curling fingers of hair
at the nape of yo
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