“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
~ Martin Luther King Jr.
DisorderThey never told me that it would get better.Disorder by MadHat11D6
They told me that high school would be hard
That’s what they tell everyone, though
It’s basically written across the imaginary flag shared by the imaginary network of American high schools
‘This is going to be hard for your nearly useless teenage brain.’
But don’t worry – don’t worry because they told you would it would get better. They said after years of putting up with this crap you would be free to encounter some real-world stress. That high school was preparation.
But they did not tell me that it would get better.
And I think I understand.
I have a condition.
Several, probably connected. My list without explanation looks like the start of a bad joke. So let’s give it a go.
Hyper-sensitivity disorder. Anxiety disorder. Antisocial personality disorder. Obsessive compulsive personality disorder. Disorder, disorder, disorder. Disorder. Disorder.
They told me that high school would be ha
ThoughtsAll at once, it stopped.Thoughts by MadHat11D6
She was playing. Her box of fears lined up in a neat little line of torture. She didn’t know how to play but she was playing because that was what children did. They lined up their toys and they played, their days decided by the nature of the merry go rounds and swing sets. The laughter spins around her and on the swings she can fly. She’s a butterfly. Or a bat. Flying though the darkness waiting for the sunrise so she can rest. Because the day is tired. It is cool stares and computer cords cracking on her back. And the world, spinning with laughter, quiets in its crescendo.
She was a dandelion. Reaching out in tentative beauty. Please, today let her reach. Let her shine. Torn out at the roots and tossed away. She was a weed trying to be a flower. No one wanted a weed, a plant that took and took and gave nothing back. It did not collect the morning dew or shine as it came to life. A dim parasite, feeding off the fertile grounds. She had the right to
The Bird SingsThe child plays.The Bird Sings by MadHat11D6
It is what it does, all it does, all it is ever meant to do. The adult works, the elder rests, the birds sing while the child plays. This is our perfect state of life, our frame on which we compare, we judge, within society. It all hinges on this one simple concept. The child plays. When the child doesn’t play, society cries.
Society does nothing but cry. They cry about what they could fix, then try to fix what does not need to be fixed. They cry about the adult who cannot work, the elders who cannot rest. They cry about the baby that wasn’t born, the birds that don’t sing. They cry about the children. Oh, do they cry about the children.
A child that cannot play makes an adult that cannot work. An adult that cannot work makes an elder than cannot rest. An elder that cannot rest makes a grave that needs digging. Of course, a grave that needs digging gives us a society crying about how many graves we need to dig while taking everything we need to dig th
Unstable Together - Hurricane KatrinaI’m heavy. So heavy. But I can’t stop. I can’t. Not even if I wanted too. There’s too much, just too much. And everything is spinning, spinning, spinning. And I’m moving, but I don’t know where. And I’m taking, but I don’t know what. I’m moving close – so close. I don’t even know where I am. There’s just water and grey and a screaming howl as I spin and spin and spin. It’s all around me. Where I go, it follows. If I could break through it, I would – oh I would. Just for the silence, just for the peace. If only for a moment. But I haven’t stopped. I’m moving closer and closer, I can almost feel it now. I don’t know what it is. But I know it’s there. And then I feel it. It tries to slow me down, it tries to end my spinning, my crying, my running. I try so hard to let it happen. I try. But –Unstable Together - Hurricane Katrina by MadHat11D6
Boom! Boom! Boom! There’s cracking and falling and crumbling all around me, and
boys that want you, boys that love you.1.boys that want you, boys that love you. by colbalt-rain
there are four kinds of love.
the first is honest.
the first is messy.
it’s smeared makeup.
it’s tears over a martini.
it’s people dancing alone.
it’s off-key singing, at the top
of your lungs.
it’s unmade beds.
it’s the hickey on your neck.
it’s the gasp he gave
when he first saw you,
how he missed your lips
when he tried to kiss you.
after he made you cry.
the second kind is what you feel
for the boy lying next to you.
there’s cigarettes in the ashtray,
panties on the floor,
a lump in your throat,
and he does not love you back.
the third kind is when you'll meet
and that little moment will stretch
into something huge and permanent,
into a month/six months/a year
of a million glances that you'd thought
it’s when you'll say nothing
and neither will he
because there will be no need
because he'll very nearly smile
and you'll know.
not a love poem.I'm not going to write about pluckingnot a love poem. by bowie-loon123
petals off of lifelines
or your cinnamon irises that
i g n i t e behind fluttered lids
I'm not going to write about paper-clip cardiac muscles
bursting through my thorax
or your smiles lines
(which I memorized from left to right)
I'm not going to write about inconsequential movie scenes
stored in the front corner of my brain that
won't stop playing on repeat
I'm going to write about the charcoal contours
painted beneath your eyes
every grapefruit dawn as clouds illuminate
belt-buckles and (tear)stained pillows
I'm going to write about worrylines and
our bitter birdsongs that
bounce off each other
like hymns ending on an imperfect cadence
I'm going to write about a ghost of faerie dust and
jittered beats as you
p r o m i s e me needs that surpass cigarette butts
and shiny new hair
(Everything's fine as long as I have pretty hair)
I'm not going to write about littered endearments
IdentitySome days I tell people to call me AlloenIdentity by AlloenDreams
because it's easier than being me.
Those days, I spend my time slitting
my wrists and pressing them into
the cold dirt beneath the
hydrangea bushes just to
give life to something;
I wear dresses covered in
flowers, and hold a wrought iron
mirror in my hands, spin one, twice,
three times and laugh until I
collapse on the ground, an
asthmatic heap of wilting roses;
I brush my hair one hundred times
until it brushes my hips and catches
the sun, until my eyes turn blue as
the spring sky and flickers like
the fireflies we caught in jars
when we were five and smeared
on our arms to see if
we could shine, too.
I am from Pennsylvania,
others I am from Switzerland,
and sometimes I am from
a place no one's heard of.
I lay in bed and
don't come out until
the fireflies do.
I write letters
to a girl named Jessica,
who lives in New Jersey and
carries her heart in her hands.
dA GUIDE: HTML, TEXT, EMBEDdA GUIDE: HTML, TEXT, EMBED by caska1979
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Phosphene Credowe are flowers against the abyss
we are wounds yet to heal in god's skin
out of which vibration will pour
we are arc lights
powering the omnimax eyes of the universe
dying every second
we are supernovas
yet here we sit in the dust
ashes rather though we would be
we are sparks that fly from the campfire
our lives devoted to chaos
we are shooting stars burning against human will
we are entropy
nitroglycerin hearts forever beating themselves to death
we are alive
we are aflame
we are the sky
and one day
we will fall on you
and you will be powerless
to stop us
Awakening - The Monsters Inside of MeI stare at the white-washed wall, unmoving. A single tear escapes from my left eye and rushes off my cheek with dedicated intent. In this room that I call my own, my monsters are more real than ever. They leer and jeer from dark corners and sinister reflections, taunting me. With a sniffle and a shudder, I turn my head away from the white wall and towards my broken mirror. I scrutinize the dent made on the metal backing of the mirror and I remember. I remember the shrill crack and the shattering rain of fragile glass breaking upon hard wooden floor. I broke the demon, I ended its existence and yet I was so naive to think it was over. I sat idle and watched over my kingdom but failed to see the darkness on the horizon. My inaction and my indecision cost me dearly as the monsters tore through my lax defenses and feasted upon my soul, corrupting it. Now, I sit in my prison of a room, soulless and fragile. All my mistakes and my regrets haunting me, each taking their turn to stab me. I cry