pvrethoughts

[pvrethoughts]

I’ll buy a one-way ticket to Berlin and fall in love with no man or woman but myself.

And I’ll come back to home with the hound and talk about where I’ve been and everything I had felt.

My time away won’t consist of drug-filled nights and smoke-filled rooms. Instead, I'll bike around the city and visit art museums; maybe I’ll even think about you.

But only in the way where I feel at peace with myself and where you are headed, even if that means I’m not by your side.

I won’t be concerned with what could’ve been, but what is occurring now and how beautiful the city looks when the sun sets and rises

i’ll drink coffee, despite never liking the taste, because sometimes tastebuds change, and second chances aren’t always the worst decision to make.

i’ll share my bread with those I meet along the way as we exchange stories about our lives and all we wish to do before we die.

I’ll sing,

I’ll laugh,

I’ll cry.

And that one-way ticket I bought, I’ll frame for display, a reminder for who I used to be and who I am today.

#writing #writer #poetry #spilled ink #prose #poet #spilled in prose #spilled words #poem #personal #travel

[pvrethoughts]

January

When you were younger, the light in your eyes never dimmed

Your smile never fading, and the eagerness you inhabited to explore became stronger each day.

You were born in the month of January.

My winter baby.

My second child.

My blessing.

The bitterness of the cold never stopped me from loving you--I just wish you knew.

If you had just stayed, let me tuck you into bed, and put you to sleep with a kiss on the forehead, would you believe my love for you then?

I ache for the child whose light in her eyes diminished, the contagious smile that vanished, and the desire to experience the world that surrounded her weakening.

And I cannot help but ask myself if there was anything I could’ve done to make you live another day?

Where did my baby go?

Why didn’t she stay?

If you had a second chance, would you live another day?

#writing #poetry #spilled feelings #prose #writer #spilled ink #poems #poet #poem #spilled words #taylor swift

[pvrethoughts]

the memory of you appeared once again,

as i scrolled through YouTube and saw the movie you’d always recommend

i wonder if you think of me, too, and the possibilities that could’ve come of us

and perhaps the memory of you and i will only exist in the movies we’d discuss and the restaurant where we first met

part of me knows you’ll only ever be a memory, something i’ll cherish and share in time

we were short-lived, but with you, i lived a lifetime

#writing #poetry #spilled ink #writer #poet #prose #spilled feelings #spilled in prose #poem #spilled words

[pvrethoughts]

Coming of Age

Every night, we’d get high.

And every night, I prayed for a revelation,

A sort of sign, to assure me

Everything was going to be alright

On my knees, I became convinced God never listened to my cries. My desperate call for an explanation as to why all I seem to do is get high is left unanswered, and I smoke another bowl to pass the time.

It is obvious to those who knew me the “most” know something shifted. It’s not on purpose, I promise, I just don’t know how to explain how I’ve changed. It’s funny, you know, how the minute I became free, as free as a college student can be, no one heard from me for weeks.

I’d like to be honest and tell those who love me the truth, but how do I explain to them about the girl I once knew, that I swore I could’ve loved, if she had only let me? Or the stories that were told on a twin-sized mattress, with the boy who will never be mine?

For the longest time, people’s perception of me have been false. The image of who I once was, skewed and misunderstood.

I want to shake their bodies and say, “you know nothing at all! You never did!”

Instead, I stay silent and give them one-word responses as to how my life has been. And in a way, I obtain power against them.

I’ve grown older, and with age, comes distance. We consciously choose what we indulge about our lives. And, I’ve chosen what I discuss about mine.

But hell, I’d like to scream the truth and let my honesty shiver down their spines. I hate justifying the reasons why I’m so quiet all the time.

Although I struggle to grasp for answers, not only for myself, but those who ask, there is an impending thought, it’s best to keep some things hidden.

#writing #poetry #writer #poem #spilled ink #spilled in prose #poet #spilled words #prose #spilled feelings

[pvrethoughts]

[pvrethoughts]

“you’re like a disease and i can’t seem to get rid of you”

— (hatin)

[pvrethoughts]

the letter i'll never send

Courtney,

I met you when I was 14. The month was August, and I was entering my freshman year of high school. Fast forward seven years later, I write to you as a 21-year-old, about to enter my senior year of college. When I look back seven years ago and the months and years that followed, I cannot help but feel sick to my stomach. I was young and eager to please. You were four years older and full of greed.

There’s so much I want to understand. Like why you felt entitled to take advantage of me? And when I had run out of things to give, you found yourself still hungry, ready to jump at any opportunity to manipulate me into fulfilling your needs.

I endlessly try to get you out of my mind. Rip you off like a band-aid--hoping the pain subsides. But you aren’t a scraped knee from falling against the pavement--you are the hand that holds tightly onto the dagger--ready for the kill.

And I cannot help but feel afraid that the pain you have inflicted onto me will be evermore, and the secret of you will continue, never to be whispered and spread across the room.

For the longest time, you have made me feel ashamed for the sins and crimes you have committed. And you know what? I’m exhausted. I do not need to repent for being the victim. The truth I have withheld only continues to hurt the girl you once knew. It is my responsibility now to comfort her, let her heal from the trauma endured. She deserves to forgive herself. How could she have known? How could she have seen through your ill-intentions? Most of all, her story deserves to become recognized and heard. And I promise her, one day it will be.

#writing #writer #poetry #prose #spilled feelings #spilled words #trauma #heal #mental health #poems

[pvrethoughts]

I am in a constant search for assurance, something you never gave. Were you ever aware of how your absence created havoc in this fragile heart of mine? I searched for you in every man with a kind smile, but it wasn’t enough. I was only a child, a young girl who just wanted her love to be reciprocated. And it's unfair, how forgiving I am towards you. Hell, I would do anything for you.

#writing #writer #poem #poetry #prose #spilled feelings #spilled ink #Spilled in prose

[pvrethoughts]

The Heaven You Deserve

I am petrified that I will settle for a man who doesn’t deserve my existence. 

And whenever she tells me she’s back with him, my silence tells her that she’s a fool. 

She is too giving toward the man whose love is conditional. 

He preaches that for her, he’ll provide the world.

Yet, he drains her of happiness and all he gives is disappointment and betrayal.

Unworthy man, she deserves heaven, and you are no God.

#writing #writer #poem #poerty #spilled ink #spilled words #Spilled in prose #poems

[pvrethoughts]

I feel guilty for the sins he committed. Unfair, isn’t it? And I swore I’d never be like my mother, settling for a man who didn’t deserve my existence. But I was young and naive, and eager to please. How could you do this to me?

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[pvrethoughts]

I wish you were mine

I cried into your shoulders one September night. Embarrassed, I said, "you don't think I'm weird, right?" You assured me that I wasn't and held me tight. And the stories we've shared in twin-sized beds continue to live on in my mind. I'll cherish the times you slept by my side, even if you weren't mine.

#writing #prose #poetry #poem #spilled ink #spilled feelings #Spilled in prose #writer #free write

[pvrethoughts]

It was my 21st birthday when I bought my first pack of cigarettes. Red Newport 100s. An act of defiance to my younger self and mother, who would cry at the thought. However, I never ended up smoking; I was too afraid of the consequences of what it meant to light the end of the cigarette and inhale.

When I was younger, I held high expectations of myself. I swore to the Gods in the sky that I would never be like them--smoking tobacco and marijuana. Surely, I was better than those who did. Yet, at some point in my life, I found myself smoking weed and Newports as I downed shots of shitty vodka.

What would my younger self think of my present self? Would she be disappointed and try to find ways to deter my vices? I'd like to believe that she would laugh and not speak of her dismay. But who is she to judge anyway? She's young, naive, and bright-eyed; she hasn't seen the realities of the world and those around her. Not yet.

I guess what I am trying to say is at some point, we make a choice. Whether that choice is beneficial to us and our future selves or not, we must make that decision. Perhaps the decisions our younger selves imagined we'd make made sense at the time. After all, we didn't know any better. Our perception of life and those we were surrounded by was skewed by innocence, which our parents' wanted so badly to preserve. But our parents can only hide the realities of the world for so long until you find out for yourself.

Often, the harsh truth of the world is revealed by family members and relatives. Ironic, isn't it? The ones who are supposed to love and care for us the most end up being the same people who cause affliction in our fragile hearts and lives. In my case, my childhood revolved around living in terror caused by my abusive alcoholic father. Yet, my father's addiction and abuse were swept under the rug. My mother was too afraid to report him, in fear of her children being taken away and having no means to escape.

When a child grows up in a household of abuse, they take an oath to never be the hand that grips tightly around the neck of those they are supposed to caress the cheeks of. The children of broken homes preach to those who will listen that they will never settle for less; I know I did. I was under the assumption I'd never make the same choices as did my mother. I believed I wouldn't tolerate a man who was incapable of showing respect and love. I was confident I would never let a man control and vanquish every last bit of my self-esteem. But I was wrong.  

His name was Courtney. I met him in August, a month before I started my freshman year of high school. I was only fourteen years old, convinced I wouldn't fall victim to men who had ill intentions. Courtney was four years older than me, and if I knew any better, I would've known he had no excuse to interact with me, let alone use me for his sexual benefit. I don't know if I was ever in love with him, but he was the person I'd talk to every day. I confided in him, and he used that to his advantage.

I should've known better, I'd think to myself.

Although years have passed, the pain never subsides. No one knew about him. I wouldn't dare tell a soul. Despite being the victim in this storyline, I still carry an immense amount of guilt. As much as I'd like to scream his name, every sin he has committed, and what I had to undergo, the words never seem to roll off the tongue, and I stay silent.

"What are you thinking about?" Asked my therapist, Marie. "Nothing," I responded. In reality, I want to tell her the truth, but I swallow my words. "Well…" Marie looked down onto her notepad as if the lined sheet of paper would say to her exactly what I'm thinking. "How was your visit back home?". I had just come back from visiting my best friend, Caroline, in New York. I had left the state once I graduated high school. The minute I received my diploma, I hopped in the UHaul van and began a new life in Virginia Beach. Back then, I was hopeful for the change--a new state, college, a fresh start. 

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For the longest time, I couldn’t write a sentence. This is progress. I’ve always had dreams of writing a story of some sort and this is it. If you enjoyed this, have anything to comment on, critique, send me a message. 

Much appreciated, 

pvrethoughts x

#writer #writing #story #original story #poem #poetry #prose #spilled words #spilled ink #spilledink #spilled feelings #creative writing

[pvrethoughts]

missed calls

I don’t pick up my phone when you call at 6:32--even though I want to. I’d smell the alcohol through the phone and listen as you slur your words. Perhaps you’d instigate a fight, or maybe you’d cry.

I haven’t heard your voice in weeks, but you remind me of your presence through photographs. You tell me you love me when you send a picture of the New York City skyline or my little brother Jack.

Our conversations aren’t much, but these photographs we send each other tell stories of how we’ve been living our lives.

If I muster up the courage, I’ll call you in the morning, at 8:32, in hopes of a sober conversation with you. And these talks are never much, but they are enough.

#writing #writer #spilled feelings #spilled ink #Spilled in prose #spilled words #poetry #poet #poem

[pvrethoughts]

If we were in love, I’d sing to you in grocery store isles and watch as your cheeks turned red from embarrassment and listen to your laugh that secretly tells me to keep going.

If we were in love, I’d watch all your favorite movies and listen to you talk about why you relate to that one scene in Good Will Hunting.

If we were in love, I’d be the one you can call when nothing seems to go right, and all you need is just a good cry.

If we were in love, I would be yours, and you would be mine.

#writing #writer #spilledink #spilled words #Spilled in prose #poem #poetry

[pvrethoughts]

They ask me about my life and if I am dating any guys I assure them that I am fine and don’t tell them about the girl I met online. And it pains me to live this second life because if I could, I’d scream it to the sky. Instead, I keep the conversation short and don’t tell them her name and what she’s like.

#writing #writer #poetry #spilled ink #Spilled in prose #prose #lgbtq #lgbt

[pvrethoughts]

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[pvrethoughts]

March 22, 2017

You are not just flesh and bones; you are poetry—aching to be read.

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