The Enemy

These hands

Give care, warmth, support to others

Lifting them up to feel the love in the world

 

These hands

Feel every imperfection, bump, defect of my body

Scratching & picking away

Till they are stained

With my blood.

There is no pain greater than seeing how much I hate my own body, skin, blood.

 

Each scab becomes a scar

Forever showing my hatred of my own body, skin, blood.

 

People say you have to love yourself before you can love others.

 

I dont love anything about me.

I am simple, plain, boring.

Nothing but a scar of memories. Of broken skin, stained by pain.

 

I hate every scar I have.

It shows my pain, even when all I want is to hide it away.

Pretend it isn’t there. Everything is alright.

My body is a scar, wound, battlefield.

And my hands.

My hands are the enemy.

Red.

I left on a journey,

Thinking I’d find my whole.

But I left a piece of my heart with each person I had to leave.

So when I reached my destination

I didn’t have a whole me,

Nor enough pieces of me.

My heart was missing.

The hurt was red.

I ran back to my pieces. Home.

But some people grasped them to tightly crushing them.

While finding some have thrown them to the wind

As if they were pieces of sand tossed about in the ocean.

How can you tell me to follow my heart?

My heart is in pieces.

My heart

Its m i s s i n g.

What do you see?

As you walk down the streets

you watch the eyes of others, staring down at their phone or their eyes are glazed over looking towards their end

their feet, their hair,

you judge them

by their looks.

We all do, its all we have to base them off of.

First appearance.

Most people are the same,

consumed by themselves and greed,

fitting in, being popular, their persona.

Where are the people like me,

different from society.

Not robots, blinded by their materialism,

but living beings

who care about each other, the world, making a difference,

even if it is a smile to a passing stranger.

For those are the people who I applaud and commend.

For those are society’s diamonds in the rough.

For those are the living beings who are not conformed

To be society’s lemmings to the slaughter.

Life Everlasting

Can you see the stars, from your side?
I see darkness in my sky.
For years the dreams in my heart
Shown through my eyes,
making stars twinkle in my night sky.
But slowly each star has blinked out as each dream has been lost.

There is one lone star,
amongst the darkness of my sky.
Shinning strong,
Holding onto the hope of the everlasting life.

Walk in the light.

John. Chapters 11&12.

‘The More Loving One’ by W.H. Auden

in love with this posting.

A poem for every day

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us, we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

I’ve been a little obsessed with Auden lately (even if I haven’t been writing blog posts about poetry, I’ve still been reading!)

This piece is one of my favourites…

View original post 541 more words

Self

You said

“Ill always be there.”

What changed?

You left me on this rock waiting,

Your path lead to a place I could not follow

to work on your ‘Self’

Disappearing almost completely,

only a ghost of the old you.

Now you say

“I need to make myself the best I can be working on self”

 

But let me tell you

From experience

the way to be your best

is…

work at making others their best

and then you will find your “self”

shining through the smiles

in their eyes.

 

That is,

“Working on Self”

To Hate the Mirror

Some say its just a image of yourself,

that there is no deeper being within.

But the mirror,

the mirror tells one their life.

 

I don’t just see myself looking back at me from the mirror,

I see each person who helped paint my self portrait,

some painted alluring scenery

where some left gaping wounds and scars

and others painted gracefully,

around the scars trying to make some beauty out of the pain.

But each painter added something to my portrait
making me that the mirror reflects.

 

The mirror taunts ones of their life

showing a glimpse of your beauty outside and within,

before piercing you with the knife that cuts to core

tearing open the gates hiding your pain away from the world.

your smile splinters away

broken

your eyes show the chaos within

turmoiled

 

You see the dark shadows churning within yourself

the tears slip from your eyes


You see your self portrait.