Things to Say

quietactions:

Where are
we going
when our kids don’t know how
to tell the difference
between adolescence
and sickness.
We’re too lazy
to teach them
that life will burn
no matter how close
to normal you get.
That no one is alone
in sadness,
we’re all grieving
our own dead dreams.
So they think it should
all be suffered alone,
won’t tell another soul
convincing themselves
they can’t be touched
no one else is as fucked up.
They find blades
or drugs
or sex
to fill their time.
They’re so sure no one
really knows them
they end up keeping themselves
safe
don’t tell anybody anything
it’s all a weapon
and damn sure
don’t love anybody
cause they’ll only let you down..
And a few years later,
the scars are taking up
too much space on
their arm.
So we drag them into offices
say spill it all
to this nice lady
look at her smile
don’t you feel reassured?
And we tell them
they’re sick
here take your
medicine
we’ll get those feelings
out of the way nice and quick.
We call them fixed up
all better
now we can pretend
it’s not there.
That we didn’t have a part
in making them unstable.
Society telling them
everything they could be
is wrong.
They look wrong
they think wrong
they’ll end up in the wrong places.
The truth is
we’re treating all the symptoms
and not the problems.

2 line poems that never made it to you

quietactions:

I could look at 27 pictures of the sea
and still feel this sadness.

The first time I forgot to love you,
it was a Tuesday.

No matter how light the kiss,
it never snuffs out the dark.

My voice has stopped shaking when I say,
"I am a poet".

My skin craves you most
on sunny days.

You should know,
I haven’t loved anyone since you left

Legitimately

I am moving very very soon. This is your last chance to send me the 5 dollars. So, please do that. Because your lack of doing it is making me quite sad.

Thinking about you hurts.
You in front of the window,
you beside me in bed,
you laughing
you holding me
all of it hurts.
In a few weeks
I will leave this apartment
and I am afraid
your ghost will leave me.
Your touch,
your warmth,
I’m aching for it all the time,
without thinking
without knowing
it is always there
you, you, you
the way your skin felt
after loving
the way your face looked
after fighting
I miss you.
I spend all of my day 
pretending that isn’t true,
I spent years planning a life
with you,
and now,
I don’t know where you are
I’m scared to know.
Are you happy?
Do you miss me?
Do you think of me at all?
I loved you.
I loved you so fucking much
my idea of the world was defined
by your smile
but now,
but now,
you are gone
and I am leaving this home
and I will live
somewhere you have never touched
and god I miss you,
but tomorrow,
I will pretend not to.

Anonymous asked: who do you write about?

Myself. Even when I’m writing about or to someone else, it’s always going to say more about me than it does that person. Sometimes it doesn’t even say that much about me, they’re just passing thoughts or feelings, or completely unrelated to me just brought on by the muses or some shit. Poetry is really weird for me, sometimes the poem has nothing to do with me and sometimes it’s everything I am. I think that I start poems and then the poem finishes itself. They also can’t be taken as fact, they’re completely based on subjectivity and not reality, and they tend to not even be what I really think. It’s weird, alright?

I want to say I’m sorry
for holding you in my hands
and thinking that meant
I had touched all I needed to
to know you.
I was wrong about that.
I was wrong about a lot of things.

I’m sorry
for putting a weight on you
that you didn’t deserve
that you couldn’t carry.
I didn’t know it would be so heavy.

I’m sorry for this,
too.
I am dramatic
and silly
and too many other words that mean
I got caught up in it.

I’m still trying to sort out for myself
what was really there and what wasn’t,
what was concrete,
and what I only filled in with my own ideas
about you
about me.

The truth,
is I am as broken as I said I was
that I made myself believe things
that were not quite real
and not quite false
and that part,
was not your fault.

This my apology
for the poems
(for this one, too)
for deciding that I knew you,
(that I loved you)
without having any idea
what I was talking about.
I am not good at this.
I am trying to be better.

I don’t know what peanut butter is doing in this poem, but I miss you

quietactions:

I know this sixteen-year-old boy,
and his heart is being crushed,
for the very first time.
And it’s all declarations,
and nothing-will-ever-be-the-sames.
And I keep thinking about you.
I love you that way,
you loved me too,
but now we don’t speak at all.
I’m wondering if every love gets less grand,
if at forty-five I will love a man,
and it will feel a lot more like peanut-butter,
than crashing waves and devastating fires.
All I know is you fucked up,
and now we’re both lost in mediocrity.

knightslayer:

My Bipolar, Part Two: Mania 

In which I discuss the “manic” part of being manic-depressive and say “uhm” way too much. (It comes from being uncomfortable talking about things)

OKAY

quietactions:

I’m moving out of this apartment in a couple weeks, so seriously, if you haven’t sent your $5 yet (and most of you haven’t) I would greatly and deeply appreciate if you could.

Pleeeeease

OKAY

I’m moving out of this apartment in a couple weeks, so seriously, if you haven’t sent your $5 yet (and most of you haven’t) I would greatly and deeply appreciate if you could.