Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · love poem · mental health · Poetry · prose · ramblings · sadness · words · Writing

Poets are Liars

Don’t believe everything we say, we’re poets and we lie often. We put together flowery words intricately woven together to hold just enough depth and emotion to make your hair stand on ends, just enough to make your eyes gloss over with tears that had been locked away.
We’ll tell you all kinds of things.
We’ll tell you
How some people are broken puzzles, crossing the earth to find missing pieces; pieces that will resonate with yours, making you believe it was you they had been searching for all along.
We’ll tell you
How there is beauty in pain, that scars heal and fix, that if you break, someone will be there to mend you and put you back together so beautifully you’ll wonder if you ever were really broken in the first place.
We’ll tell you
How love is nourishing and beautiful, that once it makes a home within you, you’ll never want it to leave. We’ll make you believe as if the colors will change and somehow the stars will shine even brighter than before.

Not surprisingly you’ll believe them all.

And one day
when your heart is breaking and you feel pain so raw it’ll gnaw at your skin,
you’ll realize
that the hurt you feel is vicious and ugly, you could dig a grave and still not find any beauty in it.
You’ll realize
that sometimes scars don’t really heal. That sometimes they stay as blurry lines across your skin and no remedy can mend the skin that was once broken so unapologetically.
You’ll realize
that the emptiness you feel is from the holes within you that could never be filled because you have lost things irreplaceable.
You’ll realize
that the colours don’t really change, the smog covered sky doesn’t part for the stars and the lights you see shining brighter are just street lights at a distance.
You’ll realize
that people don’t always stay when they see what a mess you are, sometimes the glue dries before you’re mended and pieces lost stay lost forever.
You’ll realize
that not all endings are supposed to be happy.

When all that dawns upon you
you’ll kick and curse yourself,
you’ll  wonder how you could have been so naive to sit in a dimmed coffee shop with pages of poetry strewn across
and believe every damned lie that was sprawled on them.

Originally posted on my Instagram

anxiety · depression · Free verse Poetry · mental health · Poetry · sadness · Self Harm · Uncategorized

Read Between the Lines

5c99cf436a641956b50614191ec6f892A cloudy mind,
swarming with thoughts
and questions,
on how to make this easier,
on how to stop the whirring
in my eerily numb mind.
It gets louder,
and louder still.
The deafening sounds continue,
my sanity,
or what’s left of it.

I try to block the clamor,
that threatens to seep out my ears,
and make it known to the world
that I struggle,
struggle with things unknown,
struggle with things
I can’t seem to kill.
Yet they kill me every day.

The urge it gets stronger,
and stronger still.
The urge to hurt myself,
the urge to bleed,
so I can stop the thunder,
and retrieve the sanity I have lost,
Because nothing else will make it go away.
And I can’t live with it.

My mind blares,
and I’m trying to make sense
of the words I’ve thrown onto this page,
but nothing much makes sense anymore,
and I’m getting weaker,
withdrawing from the world,
so I don’t have to deal with the noise
in company;
the demons get angry
when I don’t listen to them,
like a child nagging,
seeking attention.
I must answer them.

I don’t talk about them,
they don’t like it.
But they’re asleep right now,
so read between the lines,
pay close attention,
and listen when I whisper help,
before I say,
take me.

abuse · alone · depression · Love · Love story · mental health · Uncategorized


“He messaged me today. It’s been two whole months since we last texted”

“You do remember what he did to you right?”

“I remember”couple-love-hugging-hug-miss-u-alone-sad-girls-kissing-kiss-cute-emo-making-love-photography-tumblr-24

“Did you reply?”

“Of course I did. We had a long conversation, caught up. He was being very friendly after a long time. Asked questions, asked how I was doing, what I was up to.”

“I feel like I must ask this again: You do remember what he did to you, right?”

“He told me I looked nice, pretty even. He said it felt good to see my picture after so long.”

“What’s it going to take to make you understand? He’s just lying, trying to get into your pants again. Probably isn’t getting the female attention he thought he’d get once he left you.”

“You think if he’s calling me pretty he’s lying to get into my pants?”


“He’s the only guy who’s ever called me pretty.”

“You don’t need guys to tell you you’re pretty.”

“Then who do I need to call me pretty? You? For all I know you could be lying because you’re my friend!”

“I’m not lying. You are pretty.”

“Then how come nobody tells me that?”

“Ugh. I’m just saying that you don’t need to get your heart broken again by some douche that can use flowery words.”

“He used to make me feel good about myself. He did it again last night. I was happy.”

“You’re better than that.”

“For God’s sake, better than what? Better than fucking what? He’s the only guy who’s ever given me attention in all the twenty-six years of my being. He’s the only guy who’s made me feel good about myself, who’s said nice things about me that are not related to how smart I am or how talented I am, or some bullshit like that.”

“You’ll find someone who does the same things but won’t break you as soon as he’s bored.”

“And when exactly will that happen? When exactly will that fucking happen? You know all this is easy for you to say. You found the perfect person for yourself the day you hit puberty. You have someone to go to whenever you want, who makes you feel good about yourself on a daily basis, who flatters you and thinks you’re important. Well excuse me if I want the same for myself. Excuse me if I also want some guy’s attention, even if it’s from somebody who broke my heart, because that’s the only person I’m getting it from! They say you’ll find the right person, keep waiting. Well what if I keep waiting and don’t find anybody. What if there’s no one for me except for a heart breaker? Some of us don’t get our fairy tales so we have to settle for less, because that’s the only thing we’re getting!”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“Well maybe I am. And I’d make it again and again if it means I don’t have to be the designated third wheeler on all our hang outs, if it means I can feel less lonely, if it means I can allow myself to feel a bit worthy of someone’s attention. Feeling lonely with someone is probably better off than feeling lonely alone. Trust me, I would know.”

“He’ll kill you. Emotionally.”

“Oh but you don’t know. He can’t kill what’s already dead.”

depression · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · mental health · Poetry · Self Harm · Uncategorized

Something Real

I was alone
I was numb
I cut my veins to feel
To feel pain
To feel torment
To feel something.
I stopped
I stopped because I began to feel
Began to hope
Began to love
Not people, but things,
Then I woke up
Woke up from my reverie
Realized that hope betrays
Love is not for me
And I still hate myself
Realized what I felt was a lie.
Lately I’ve wanted to cut my veins again
So I can feel something again
Something real.


body image · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · Love · mental health · Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

I Dare You

“I love you”, he whispered.
The words came out of his tainted lips, like an airy wisp,
demanding to be caught by her, and demanding to be answered to.
Her own lips formed the very words, but remained unmoving.
Her heart, wounded tightly, refused to say them back,
for her brain that thought too much, could not believe them to be true.

She was not what he saw, nor was she what he thought of her to be.
She was not the willowy hair that spread across the pillow,
neither was she the soft mouth that begged to say something back.
She was not the alluring eyes that looked fondly ahead,
neither was she the gentle smile that played across her lips.

Before him, she bared herself then, to show who she truly was.
Depth of emotion and a confused mind brought themselves forth.
Whirlwind of sentiments and a raging brain were exposed.
Hours of lying on the bathroom floor in tears were revealed,
and days where she was drowning in despair were unconcealed.

The war within her mind was harsh against the soft curve of her face,
the turmoil that she lived in gave an edge to the pleasant aura that surrounded.
He better tread soft, for the edges were sharp,
And so were the words that sometimes escaped her lips.

Her clothes fell free, disclosing the secrets that her body held.
Scars, wounds, blemishes, and stretch marks, she wore them all,
like old and dusty medals on a trophy case that was no longer treasured.
She was a work of art neglected, once started and never finished.

She was everything she did not portray; she was everything he did not see.
Unveiled and bared open,
“I dare you to love me now”, she whispered back.

Photography by Laura Williams


depression · Free Verse · Free verse Poetry · mental health · Poetry · prose · Uncategorized

Heads Up

These wounds they carry are open and exposed,
revealed to whoever wants to see.
They no longer try to conceal them,43570061272f7c74582022f963ed47bd
for they hold stories;
Stories of pain, agony, survival, and revival.
They are open, overborne by the weight of what they hold.
The contents seep out, mingling;
mingling with the happiness of the world,
mingling with our joy.
Reminding, teaching, reminiscing
that this too happens,
this too can happen anywhere, anytime,
to whomever it wants.
Skin trying to heal peels away once again,
disclosing what it holds,
to make us aware,
that joy doesn’t always last forever.
Sometimes joy leaves and never comes back,
sometimes joy can escape and we don’t.
These wounds sit on their bare bodies for us,
to make us aware,
that happiness can quickly turn into imagination;
to make us aware and to echo beware.
For when they were like us: free,
the future did not give them a heads up,
like they sit today with all these wounds, to give us one.

anxiety · anxiety awareness · depression · fight · mental disorder · mental health · prose · Self Harm · Self Harm Awarness · Suicide · Suicide prevention · Uncategorized · World · Writing

Contemplations of a Traumatized Soul

Let me hang md5d2ae890839e285696f620e22833c09yself from the ceiling fan and let me wait to see who comes to help. Let me see who would stand and watch and who would try to get me down. Let me see if I’m brave enough to let it happen, or if I’m brave enough to save myself. Let me see and I’ll have answers.

The blood that runs under my veins wants to be released. The pressure of being held in for so long threatens my existence. It is like me, feeling confined and wants escape. Let me see if it succumbs to the pain like I have for so many years, or if it finds a way out. Let me see and I’ll have answers.

My eyes want to gouge themselves out; my eyes that have seen everything; both good and bad. My eyes that sometimes wish to unsee things, wish to forget what they’ve seen, experienced. But the memories are etched in within, haunting, always there to pounce. My eyes want to close, and close forever. Will they learn to forget and move on, or will they like me, wish everyday they didn’t exist? Let me see and I’ll have answers.

The pounding in my head grows louder by the second. The screaming inside continues in vain. My brain is lost in there somewhere, trying to find a way out. Like me, wanting to soar. Horrific sounds fill my head as it constantly relives what it holds, what it remembers so vividly. The cords of it unwind and rewind, trying to decide whether to continue or whether to give in and surrender, let itself escape from the confinements, completely lose itself. I wait and see whether it will, for my sake, continue like it has for so long; or if it will finally break down completely. Let me see and I’ll have answers.

My wrists throb, my eyes cry, my hair pull, the remnants of me, reliving, seeing, traumatized for so long. Every body part begs for me to let them free, to a better world, to a better me. A me that doesn’t exist anymore.