Category: Poetry

I’m sorry
I’ve been drinking again
but these demons have returned
to inflict their pain,
with louder voices
and harsher words
to drive me insane.
They’ve come back
to their usual haunt
with their mocking tones
and merciless taunts
but I don’t want to
listen to their screams
in my mind as they jaunt.
I know you hate
seeing me this way
as I drink myself blind
and lead myself astray
but I’d rather be drunk
than in another hospital bed
just because I couldn’t keep
these demons at bay.

There are days
when the sadness
creeps in, in ways
that I cannot foresee.
It arrives with no invitation,
this darkness that consumes me
that I know as depression,
and it doesn’t leave as easily.
Most times, I sit quietly
and pray that it’ll not harm me
for sometimes,
this darkness can get
all too consuming.
I’ve been here
too many times to count
and each time I pray,
harder than before,
for the strength to await
the dawn that breaks
this darkness.
Every time this darkness calls,
I do my best
to remind myself
that no matter
how dark the night
and how cold the winter,
I will survive
because I have before.

There was a boy
who’s smile was sweet
and who’s voice was soft.
In a hallway,
he took a seat
next to a girl
who cried,
shoulders slumped in defeat.
He asked her
why she cried
but she didn’t answer.
He asked her if shee needed a friend
to which she didn’t lie
and said, “yes, I do.”
So there he sat
by her side
with nothing to say.
He waited for her
to look up
or say the next words.
But quiet she was,
except for her sobs,
just loud enough to be heard.
He sat
and he waited,
in comfortable silence
until her crying subsided.
Then he asked,
“can I pray?”
And he did.

He praed for a girl
he didn’t know.
He gave comfort
to a stranger
at their hardest times.

This boy
with the sweet smile
was a light in the darkness.
But yesterday,
the darkness consumed him –
the candle has burned out.

I lost a friend
last night
to suicide.
And I’ll forever be
in his debt
for praying
for the girl in tears
while he will forever be
in my memory
as the boy with the sweet smile
who showed me great kindness
for praying for me.

I’m the first to offer help
with a smile
to anyone who may need it,
I’d even walk a mile.
I extend this hand
to friend or foe,
to anyone really,
even those I don’t know
because I know the struggle
of crying quietly
and sneaking around
to vomit silently.
I was careful
with my planning,
made sure no one was around
and had my reasoninig,
just in case I was found out.
I was there, in that position –
unhappy in so many ways –
but I was a girl with an addiction.
Ashamed, I was
but I felt like
my body was the only thing
I still had control of.
In a life where
I felt like I had no voice,
I did what they wanted
because I had no choice.
So I controlled
the only thing I could choose,
the things I put in my body,
I didn’t have much to lose.
So, I lost myself
to this disorder
I denied to have
because it gave
some semblance of order
in a life where I struggled
to be satisfied
with who I was
because no one was…
It took some time,
but I did it.
It took lots of help,
but it’s happened.
I was the girl
with an eating disorder.

Now, I am no longer.

I’ve written
more than a thousand pieces,
all in an attempt
to find my peace
of mind.
I’ve written
poems and prose,
and something kind of
in between the two of those.
I’ve written
letters filled with love,
anguish, anger, hurt, fear
and every other emotion than above –
letters that will
always return to sender
only because I refuse
to let them see the render
of my emotions.
I’ve written
everywhere,
literally –
everywhere and anywhere;
from my notebooks
and their backs,
to my phone notes
and random paper stacks,
in my textbooks,
and my pile of post-its,
even the back of my hand.
I’d write, stand or sit.
I write
because I don’t usually feel.
So when I do,
I write to heal.

I fell in love

with the night

the same way

the stars

fall in love

with the dark sky –

I’m allowed to shine

in the darkest moments.

To the guy
who stole my phone,
you have robbed me
of a way to call home.
From the inside of
my pocket you took,
not just a phone
but a book
that will simply never be.
You stole from me
more than just
a piece of technology –
in the compartments of my phone
is a home
to so many stories, poems and prose
that will never see the light of day.
More than that,
you took from me
all my shared memories –
all the photos and chats
saved within that device,
all the late night conversations
which held a lot of wisdom and advice,
every song that helped me pull through,
they’re gone now
because of you.
It saddens me to know
that you, sir,
have stooped so low
as to steal a young girl’s phone
and the memories and dreams
kept in there too.
I am more heartbroken
for every part of me
that I’ve lost with that device
than I am for my stolen mobile phone.

Isn’t it tragic
how my depression
pulled me under
and your impression
of it kept us asunder.

And so we changed
as I stayed down
and splintered within,
you just watched me drown
and began to cave in.

From that point on,
I was just broken
in my mind and heart
while you left with a token
of my love that you took apart.

The day I
had told you
that I loved
you, all you
did after was
take me in
your arms and
hug me. To
some, that may
have not been
the response they
hoped for – most
hope for an
“I love you
too.” But I
saw this silence
for what it
was: a declaration
of your love,
without any word –
because you showed
me that I
had a place
in your heart
by bringing me
close to it.

Sometimes,
I recall the feel of
your roaming hands
on my body
like a layer of paint
I couldn’t scrub off.

Other times,
I have flashbacks
of your hands
around my neck
like a noose
I once used
to run away
from these memories.

And some nights,
I wake up
screaming and crying
for you to stop,
but all I got
when I woke up
were the echoes
of your laughter
that still haunt me
till this very day.