wasieverreallyhere-blog

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

I was crocheting when I was dragged out of the house by my mother.

“Your grandparents have been in an accident. We need to go now.”

My heart descended into my stomach and hugged my heart on its way down, for my heart had lodged itself in my throat.

#saplings #practice writing #my writing #writing #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetry #my poetry

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

Your children are suffering.

They live on park benches, in halfway homes, in alleys behind dumpsters.

They must keep one eye open to watch for the evils of the night.

Your children are suffering.

They are bullied at schools, abused in homes, beaten in streets.

They cry themselves to sleep, only to have nightmares of their day life.

Your children are suffering.

They are taught that they are wrong, that they are broken, that they are embarrassments.

They harm themselves to punish themselves for their own existence.

Your children are dying.

They are committing suicide by pills, guns, and blades.

They are being slaughtered, murdered, silenced.

They are faking that they are different, pretending to be someone they’re not, lying as a way of self-preservation.

Your children are dying.

#saplings #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr #practice writing #writers on tumblr #writing #my writing

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

We found you under the porch, crying for your mother.

She had been spooked off by the dogs.

She showed no signs of returning soon so we took you inside to warm you up.

You were all so cold, like you had ice for bones and snow for blood.

I cupped you in my palms.

You were so tiny.

I feed you by hand.

We still have the formula in the cupboard.

I held you cupped in my palms for days.

Then you had to leave.

Your tiny body paralyzed by time.

You were so cold.

#saplings #practice writing #my writing #writing #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #my poetry

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

The sun streaks in through the window, and you lay in its rays, purring loudly. The sun revitalizes you, makes you feel happy. You nap until right before the sun slips under the rolling hills.

That’s when you truly come alive. You run through the house, nearly knocking me over as I walk. You jump onto my lap and demand it be time for play. You chase imaginary mice throughout the house. You wrestle the other pets. You play until you cannot play anymore.

You play until it is early morning. The sun streaks in through the window, and you lay in its rays, purring loudly. The sun revitalizes you, makes you feel happy. You nap until right before the sun slips under the rolling hills.

That’s when you truly come alive.

#saplings #writers on tumblr #practice writing #writing #my writing #my poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

This poem isn’t about the rain.

It’s not about the way the sky darkens and the clouds roll in.

It’s not about the way the clouds swell.

It’s not about the way you can always tell when it’s about to rain when you live near the ocean.

This poem isn’t about the rain

It’s not about the way the air smells right before and then right after.

It’s not about the way lightning always seems to strike nearby but never quite close enough to be able to see where it hit.

It’s not about the way rain patters against rooftops and window panes.

This poem isn’t about the rain.

It’s not about the way thunder always seems to rattle the whole house.

It’s not about the way raindrops are always cold no matter the season or place.

It’s not about the way you just seem to wanna go out and dance in it.

This poem isn’t about the rain.

#saplings #practice writing #writing #writers on tumblr #my writing #poets on tumblr #poetry #my poetry

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

I have this deep-rooted fear that I will never be good enough. I guess, I just don’t want to be less than nothing.

Atelophobia, the chronic fear of never being good enough.

#saplings #practice writing #writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

There is nothing more beautiful than a singular shard of a reflective piece of glass, a piece of a mirror. I have never known something to hurt more and put me in more awe. I have a shell made entirely from glass. I reflect the beauty around me, though hold only a simplistic beauty myself. And when I break, when I shatter, I cut those around me. They cry glass tears then. A shard can hold universes within it. A single shard of glass can take universes away.

#practice writing #saplings #writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

Sometimes I feel empty.

I like to compare myself to an empty jar.

In the morning, I fill myself up with whatever emotion I want to exude.

Hope,

Positivity,

Kindness,

Happiness,

Sweetness.

Love.

But at the end of the day, when I am out of emotions, I feel empty again.

No sadness,

No anger,

No frustration,

No fear,

No depression.

No hate.

I just feel empty.

#practice writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #writing #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr #saplings

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

We lay on the trampoline, covered in many blankets.

It was cold.

Do you remember that?

The stars were out because of the lack of air pollution.

It was dark.

Do you remember that?

We made up our own constellations, marking ourselves into the sky above us.

We told stories.

Do you remember that?

#saplings #practice writing #my writing #writing #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

chained to my bed

the chain doesn’t pin my hands or my feet

the chain is not made of metal or leather straps

the chain is made of thoughts

this chain of thoughts holds my brain captive with anxiety

the anxiety wraps itself around my neck until I can’t breathe

the anxiety pins me down in bed for days with no hope of salvation

I talk to no one

no one comes to see me

chained to my bed

#my poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry #practice writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #saplings

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

When glow-in-the-dark plastic stars are the only things lighting up my room, when the nighttime crowd walk the streets, when everyone else is asleep, when I am trying to finally rest, I have these thoughts. I have these thoughts, and they keep me from sleeping. I must be the only person in the world with a fear of being murdered in my sleep.

The only way I can actually sleep is if my lamp is on, and I can see every corner of my room. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of what I can’t see in the dark.

The only way I can actually sleep is if my cats are shut in the room with me. My cats are skittish and hide from new people so it provides me a little comfort.

The only way I can actually sleep is if it’s three in the morning because three AM is only two hours away from five AM, and who in their right mind kills people while they sleep at five AM?

When these conditions are not met, when my lamp is off, when my cats are running freely around the house, when it is not 3 AM, I have these nightmares. I have these nightmares, and they keep me from sleeping. I must be the only person in the world with a fear of being murdered in my sleep.

#saplings #practice writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #my poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

Red,

rose that you got for Valentine’s Day red,

red flags for a partner red,

perfectly ripe apple red,

date night high heels red,

spilled blood red,

bullet dented stop sign red,

the red phone booths that England is famous for red,

Red.

Orange,

marigold orange,

the outside of an orange peel orange,

I have never played a sport in my life but I have a basketball orange,

traffic cone orange,

the pumpkin for Halloween you bought even though it’s September first orange,

goldfish fish orange,

Clyde the Pac-Man ghost orange,

Orange.

Yellow,

you only use this crayon to color the sun yellow,

fresh squeezed lemons yellow,

dandelion yellow,

the old shirt my grandfather gave me yellow,

that rubber ducky that you had when you were four yellow,

rubber dish gloves yellow,

American cheese slices yellow,

Yellow.

Green,

fresh cut, gross-smelling grass green,

smooth green snake green,

early picked bananas green,

three-leaf clover patch green,

Kermit the frog green,

the Frankenstein monster’s green,

fresh grapes straight from the vine green,

Green.

Blue,

the sky on a hot summer day blue,

that old pickup that’s been sitting in the yard for years blue,

Twitter blue,

bluebird blue,

the ocean in Florida blue,

recycle bin blue,

your turned blue after eating blue raspberry candy blue,

Blue.

Purple,

the lavender that my mom’s allergic to purple,

my birthstone is amethyst purple,

purple is the color that stands for general cancer purple,

purple smoke bombs are the most fun to run through purple,

eggplant emoji purple,

one eyed, one horned flying people eater, purple,

mini golf purple golf ball purple,

Purple.

Pink,

strawberry pocky pink,

the matte lipstick I never wear pink,

cotton candy pink,

the color of my childhood room because “pink is the most feminine color” pink,

big pink erasure pink,

pig pink,

Barbie pink,

Pink.

Brown,

dusty old pages brown,

wood flooring brown,

fertile soil brown,

coffee brown,

chocolate lab puppies brown,

the nail polish color that no one ever wears brown,

buttons you keep in a jar brown,

Brown.

Gray,

old dusty quilt gray,

an elephant’s wrinkled skin gray,

that stray cat that you always feed but never pet gray,

your “guests are coming over, let’s break out the good things” towels gray,

pebbles on the sidewalk gray,

your grandmother’s hair gray,

black and white photo gray,

Gray.

White,

white chocolate white,

marshmallow fluff white,

make a wish dandelion fluff white,

a dove’s feathers white,

cloud white,

albino rabbit white,

frost on a window white,

White.

Black,

black candles black,

black cats crossing paths black,

black roses black,

your funeral outfit black,

my favorite lipstick shade black,

the least likely dog to get adopted from a shelter black,

dead phone screen black,

Black.

#saplings #practice writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

I shouldn’t listen to the playlist I threw together for you. I shouldn’t replay it over and over and crave to hear you sing the songs with me when I hum along. I shouldn’t be such a mess. Songs shouldn’t reduce me to nothing more than a coma patient. Whenever I hear them, I shouldn’t allow them to continue playing. I shouldn’t crave them. I shouldn’t crave you. It takes nearly six hours to listen to the entire set of ninety-four songs. It’s a waste of my time. I should be doing something, anything else.

It’s only a couple of songs. I shouldn’t be crying.

#poetry #my poetry #poets on tumblr #my writing #practice writing #saplings #writers on tumblr

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

It’s midday and mid-winter. Snow flurries in the air, catching in dark eyelashes and dusting itself over the top of short blue hair. Cheeks and nose flushed cerise from the ice. I am bundled up in many layers to combat the abundant wet snow. I’m still cold, but I am enjoying the brush of snowflakes against skin.

I think I might be beautiful.

It’s an early morning. No one is awake, excluding myself, and the sun has just begun bathing the kitchen in a cheery golden light. I wear comfortable, dark Hogwarts sweatpants and a blue crop top that brings out the color of my hair. I water my cactus and my blue echeveria before hopping up onto the counter and letting my legs swing in time with imaginary music. I watch the sun kiss the darkness away while munching idly on Cheerios.

I think I might be beautiful.

It’s late at night, long after everyone has gone to bed. I shuffle into the bathroom with the plan in mind to begin bedtime rituals. My eyes are shadowed by yesterday’s makeup and ringed with red. It’s just enough makeup to give the illusion of the natural makeup look that I’ve never been fond of. My bangs hang in my face in just the right way. Right now, I look stunning, and no one is around to see.

I think I might be beautiful.

My eyes are like shards of stained glass, assembled into a particular design that is always shifting color but never changing shape, as if someone assembled the stained glass into a wind chime and left it in the sun to allow the sun to shift the colors of the pieces and cast rainbow shadows on the nearby ground, an accidental map leading straight to beauty.

I think I might be beautiful.

My lips are full and soft pink or gentle coral, topped with a cupid’s bow I received from my father. When I smile, soft indents shape my face into a sort of sharp happiness, too blunt to be soft and too sudden to be gradual. When I smile, my eyes crinkle and my teeth slip out, uneven and yellowed. Happiness can be ugly.

I think I might be beautiful.

My hands, round and scarred but not callused, hold just the right amount of strength to put pen to paper and tear holes with how hard I write the words I believe in. My right ring finger hold the only callus of either of my hand. The callus is in the space when I rest the end of my pen, the place when I grip the pen the tightest, the place that suffers the most from my writing.

I think I am beautiful.

#my writing #writing #writers on tumblr #my poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry #scar tissue is tougher than skin

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

Phrases to Use When Trying to Tell Your Friends that You’re Too Depressed to See Them

“I don’t know. I think I’m sick again.”

“I’m too tired right now.”

“Maybe next time.”

“My stomach’s been acting up.”

“My cats will miss me.”

“My dogs will miss me.”

“My ferrets will miss me.”

“My bird will miss me.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Can’t. Headache.”

“I have to do this family thing.”

“No.”

“I swear I’ll catch you next time.”

“I’m busy today.”

“Not today.”

“Not right now.”

“It’s too cold.”

“It’s too hot.”

“Maybe later.”

“Next time. Promise.”

“I don’t want to right now.”

Read 11:36 AM

No. No. No.

Typing...

Typing...

Typing...

If you’re sick, then I can take care of you. Feed you soup and crackers and all that.

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

Read 11:39 AM

Please believe me.

Typing...

Typing...

Typing...

Alright. Next time you have to go. Feel better!

“Sure. Now, let me rest.”

Read 11:43 AM

#practice writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #writing #my poetry #poets on tumblr #poetry #saplings

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

You told me that rose quartz helps you with all things love, and when you say that I can’t help but wish that I had remembered to wear the rose quartz, locked heart and key necklace my grandmother had given me the day I met you.

Maybe then I would have known better.

I’m not saying that when I met you the world stopped turning, and I could suddenly see color because the earth never stops, and I could see color just fine before.

It’s details that I’m a little fuzzy on, and even then, that’s only from long distances.

So I should have known better when you asked me to keep you at a distance.

But I regret nothing because without getting sick and healing and getting sick and healing, again, over and over, you would die from the flu, and I am so heartsick right now.

You left because you claim that family is unshakeable and because someone who you would be proud to bring home and call yours came along, but if you think that family is unshakeable, it’s only because you have never danced in the rain without worrying if you’ll get sick later.

And I am sick.

I am sick of trying to pull the tiger lilies out of my heart that you planted into me with every sweet kiss when no one was looking, every hidden hand hold, every late night cuddle after everyone had fallen asleep, every stolen moment, I am sick, and these flowers have wilted.

These flowers have wilted, and I am sick, so maybe I just need to throw out the tiger lilies and take an ibuprofen and finally give in to my aching eyelids and my misplaced memories, but I’m too tired to move from the bed that has somehow become a coffin when I wasn’t looking, like a cheap magician sleight of hand trick, to throw out the flowers, and no matter how much medicine I take, it only makes me more tired and until the flowers are gone I cannot fall asleep on my own so I lay here try to heal myself with time and without getting any actual rest.

I’ll tell you now that two days after we ended things, I dreamt that we were sitting at the lunch table talking about crystals and stones and tiger lilies because that’s when I told you that tiger lilies are my favorite flower.

Tiger lilies are my favorite because they aren’t roses, because roses are too soft and too delicate and too slender and too fragile. People are not roses. People are tiger lilies. They don’t fold in, they push and fold outwards. They have freckles, and stretch marks, and imperfections. People are tiger lilies.

And you told me that rose quartz helped with all things love.

I am not mad, and I do not think it was a waste, and I am glad that you are happier now. I am just sick, and sickness sometimes adds stomach acid to the back of my throat like the one thing on a grocery list that you don’t really want or need but end up getting anyways just because it was on the list.

I am sick, and these flowers have wilted, but I’m wearing the rose quartz, locked heart and key necklace that my grandmother had given me, and I’m finally throwing out the flowers and it may only be one petal at a time, and I may kiss each one goodbye, but they are leaving, and I am healing.

And I regret nothing.

#rose quartz tears #my poetry #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing #my writing #poetry

[wasieverreallyhere-blog]

My poetry is like trying to rush your entire explanation to your mother why you weren’t home by curfew before she can even ask the question of where you were.

My poetry is breathless and mixed together, and it’s mine.

It’s messy, just like the person who writes it.

My poetry is looping cursive and free verse rambling.

My poetry is a thousand page essay on my life and my experiences.

My poetry often starts with just one word, that I tucked into my phone’s notes to save for later, when the moon finally decides it’s her turn to bid good morning.

My poetry uses words with meanings worth less the change in my pockets - I do not carry money, and I rarely have pockets - and stitches those words into significance in the form of sentences.

My poems are rants, rattling off about a thing or another, and all my poems are written by the light of the pale green, fake stars I stuck to my ceiling because I’m only scared of the dark when I’m alone with my thoughts, and I can’t possibly be alone when I have pad and pen, text and keyboard, ones and zeros, and stars watching over me.

I stuck the stars up the same way I string words together, with blue tack and iron will, with double sided tape and a firm demand that I never lose sleep again because my own train of thought refusing to stop circling the same dangerous rails, even when I tell it over and over and over again the tracks have been moved and tampered with.

I fix the tracks myself because sometimes you have to go to the store and buy your own stars, and they may not shine like the ones I can see when I sneak out at night and lay spread eagle on my trampoline, but the pale green glow they offer is enough so I pay thank yous in the form of allowing the stars to watch over me as I write.

My poetry glows faintly like pale green, fake stars.

#scar tissue is tougher than skin #my poetry #poetry #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #my writing #writing