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Literature Text
Emily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully so that the next day's shower can't wash them away completely.
Emily is like Glass. She likes the way the words cut into her skin and leave their impressions on her heart. People have slipped and let her fall again and again. But she still wakes up in the morning and superglues herself back together.
The trouble with superglue is you will always see the cracks (Because we all know that broken glass can never ever really be whole again.)
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully so that the next day's shower can't wash them away completely.
Emily is like Glass. She likes the way the words cut into her skin and leave their impressions on her heart. People have slipped and let her fall again and again. But she still wakes up in the morning and superglues herself back together.
The trouble with superglue is you will always see the cracks (Because we all know that broken glass can never ever really be whole again.)
Literature
Therapists, I don't like their taste.
i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.
she stole my rings
and left me hollow.
ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.
iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.
iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
Literature
Desperation
I wonder how many days you've spent feeling lost.
Thinking that you're going somewhere.
Never actually getting anywhere.
You look at the same four walls over and over again.
You can paint them in different colours,
But you know they're still the same.
And you convince yourself that you're making progress,
Nothing's changed, but you're making progress.
Things are getting worse, but you're making progress.
And then you wake up and realise,
That shit has hit the fan...
Suddenly you're forced to do the things you couldn't,
The kind of things that you were never comfortable with.
And you find out you can do them.
You find out that the only
Literature
Your Poetry Sucks
Yes, roses are red
And violets are blue
But you have to understand
Who said they had to,
Its about imagination
Emotion and orignality
Not the reiteration
Of dead men's practicality
These words,
They are your sentence
To a world that has to listen
As you create the difference
Whether it be
With angst poem against love
Or how you set your heart free
To fly like a dove,
For these words
Whether or not they be true
Their beauty and ideals
Will be used to define you,
So yes,
Hope ,in fact, has feathers
And like a caged bird it sings
But these words will only be tethers
That strip you of your wings,
Those are their words
Meant for their time
And me
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Looking forwards and looking back.
Sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us. Sometimes they never ever leave.
Sometimes our pasts come back to haunt us. Sometimes they never ever leave.
It's all right to be broken sometimes...even if everyone else tells you it is not.
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this is powerful because it is so unbelievably tender. "words i would and have told others with sincerity but could never imagine having for myself - even when there were a few people actually saying them over the years". thank you.