You Should Be Proud of Me

You should be proud of me
Because I’ve stopped self-harming.
I’ve thrown away the blade, see?
No more emo days of wrist cutting.

You should be proud of me because I’m normal now.
C’mon! Don’t give me that sarcastic “Wow!”
Here, let me show you my tattoo.
Pretty neat, right? This is a sign of self-healing bro!
Let me tell you how
Every single needle pierced through my skin,
Like a battering ram, breaking through the tissues allowing ink to spill in,
And how my body tried to regurgitate the foreign subtance
That was forcibly painted while the needles tap danced,
To the buzzing sound of the machine.
Like I said, my body tried to spew the ink out
By vomitting blood and how it made me react
By sending signals to my brain that my entire forearm stings,
But I didn’t want to step away from the act
Of getting inked because physical pain
Provided an escape from the rattlings of my brain.

You should be proud of me because I’ve limited drinking.
Limited it to the times that I no longer have money
Because I always end up overspending
My solitary nights with “ocassional” binge drinking.
But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to the dew
That forms around a beer bottle, making it sparkle and glisten, adds flavor to its hue,
Like a sweating woman with accented curves,
It makes your heart go “ba-dump!” and sends a thrill down your nerves.
But don’t worry, I don’t drink that much anymore.
But let me tell you, last night, I downed more than four.

You should be proud of me because I’m eating properly.
Can’t you see the changes on my body?
You wanna know my secret? Here, let me share:
I eat to fill the emptiness that I couldn’t bear.
I eat when I’m gloomy, I eat when I’m mad.
I eat when I’m stressed and I eat when I’m sad.
I eat ’til my stomach hurts because only then I’ll be full,
Only to regret it the next day because I’m bloated
And I’m constipated,
And I feel like a fool.
When I’m feeling too bloated, I then starve myself.
Letting my gut juices eat away at the food that’s inside it.
Allowing it to melt last night’s dinner,
While I curl like a ball in a corner,
Feeling every fizzle and bubble,
I silently suffer,
While the acid chips out pieces of my stomach, sculpting an ulcer.

See? I told you, you should be proud of me.
I am now okay and I am now happy.
Now there’s no need to fret and there’s no need to worry,
Because I’ve been through the worst, right? And now is the time to be joyful and giddy!
And that’s what I’m doing, that’s why you should be proud of me.

You… Should… Be proud of me.


If I Could Create My Own World

If I could create my own world,
It would be one without vanity.
It would be one where people are free
To live their life however they want it to be.
It would be a place filled with love and unity.
A world where people understand that life isn’t about the word “me.”

If I could create my own world,
It wouldn’t simply just be
About struggling to survive and putting food in your belly.
We would be more than just butchers,
And Mother Nature abusers,
Because we understand that the very rock we live in,
This place that many would call rotten,
Is a part of our household because it is a member of our family.

If I could create my own world,
It would be one of creativity.
It would be a realm where people could express who they are
And let out their personal kind of crazy.
Everyone’s inner light would shine brighter than any star
And every single person is helping
Others who are healing,
And aid them stitch-up those self-inflected scars.
It would be reality where there would be no bullies.
A dimension where depression isn’t considered a pretense,
But is instead met with love, understanding and support from loved ones and friends.

If I could create my own world,
It would be a place where no one has to hide,
Their repressed emotions because we’d listen to their cries
And take the noose off their necks and best the shit out of suicide.
It would be a land where diplomacy reigns supreme,
Preventing countries from whipping out their guns and bombs,
Their nuclear warheads would calm down and stop them from being dumb,
Which would’ve lead to unspeakable acts of extreme
Violence and war, filling the world with innocent screams.

But I can not create my own world.
I can simply write and dream.
Put pen into motion and let my thoughts flow like a stream
And hope this would reach the hearts of those who are listening.
Those whose ears are not deafened by the chaos,
Those whose eyes are not blinded by pathos,
Those whose lips are not sealed by conformity
And those whose minds are not closed to the possibility,
That maybe we can create our own world and reality.
Maybe we can make one where we are all a family.

Flight of the Wingless Avian

I saw a wingless avian take flight for the first time.
I saw her jump from the open window that sang to her sweet melodies of freedom.
I saw her pale feet touch the icy ledges of the 7th floor concrete building, before she crossed the line.
The line between flying and falling.
The line between living and dying.
The blurry line between giving up and dragging your feet, trying desperately to hold on.

I saw her featherless skin that was colored with white chalk and sprinkled with snow.
She glistened like a diamond on that rainy afternoon, but she was a fading flame, slowly losing its glow.
She gently looked up towards the grey and gloomy sky,
She whispered sweet nothings to it, as if it was her lover and I,
Was mesmerized by the beauty of her essence that unfolded right before my eye.
She was clearly broken and the scars and bruises were the cracks she tried to hide.
She was obviously troubled by the voices that filled her head.
The voices that kept tormenting her at night, while she laid down in bed.
Her eyes were broken windows to her shattered soul.
They were dull and lifeless, making her look like a product of a twisted fate that is oh so cruel.
She was gorgeous, but life had her looking like a ghoul
and yet, if she was indeed undead,
Then she was the most dazzling zombie character I’ve ever seen, or read.

Yes, she was messed up and nobody understood, but she was gorgeous to me
And if only I had tried to appoach her,
If only I had exchanged sounds like “Hi” or “How are you doing?” with her,
If only I had taken the time
To listen as she pours the limitless volume of grime
That has filled her Hydriai with mossy backwater,
Then there could’ve been a chance that maybe,
I could’ve broken her fall, catch her and prevented this tragedy.

But… I didn’t.
No, I most certainly didn’t.
I just watched her spread her arms, bend her knees and jump.
As I watched in slow motion I could hear my heart pump
And I could see her slash through the tiny droplets of rain.
I could see her gliding through the air, like a rain-soaked dove
And I could see her eyes were closed, content as if she had found her one true love,
And she was smiling. A smile that told me she has finally found peace from all the pain.
That’s it! That was exactly it!
She was flying her pain away.
All the hurt and misery that made her decide not to stay.
She eventually came into contact with the cold, wet and unforgiving pavement,
And now crimson was the color that filled the street’s waterdrains and asphalted cement.

I saw a wingless bird take flight for the first time
And I knew that what I saw will forever haunt my mind.
Her pale feet and featherless skin that has been colored with white chalk and sprinkled with snow,
Her eyes which were windows to her broken and shattered soul
And the mangled shell that once contained her ghost,
Were now swallowed by a wave of bystanders, pedestrians, cops and fools.
They gawk at the ghastly site and take pictures for their FB post,
While she slowly fades and drowns into the blackness of their shadows.

Olive Penderghast

Eyes of monolid, iris of jade,
My first encounter was at school and saw the zombies invade.
Met you again and broke my heart in the distant La La Land,
As you walked away from the bar with another man’s hand.

Saw you on the street with Peter Parker the other day.
The next day you played tennis and smoked the men away.
One wouldn’t need eyes to see your beauty.
No need to dig deep to discover your artistry.
Everything about you is a lovely poetry.

This is Just a Poem

This, is just a poem.
It is not the thing that keeps you up at night.
It is not the sounds you hear when you turn off the light.
It is not the bumps on the floor
Or the knocks on your door
That startles you and make you sweat in fright.

No, this, is just a poem.
It is not the one causing those footsteps you hear
Even though you’re home alone.
It is not the silhouette in your bathroom
That floats carelessly out of sight.
Appearing and vanishing faster than you can look from left to right.
It is not the intense feeling of someone standing behind you.
Hearing and feeling someone breathing on your neck,
You shake the feeling off by keeping your thoughts in check,
But that feeling of anxiety is bubbling up your gut.
Dread and curiosity makes you want to turn around but,
What if something is there to make your fears come true?

See, this, is just a poem.
It is not the shadow that you could see from the corner of your eye,
Reaching out and getting closer as the seconds pass by,
While this piece invades the screen of your phone.
It is not the whispers that fall into your ear
As you hide under the covers and cower in fear,
Wishing that the man standing at the edge of your bed
Looked alive and healthy, not pale and dead.
It is not the woman who has made a home of your ceiling.
The woman with hollow eyesockets and is always weeping,
Who sometimes charges at you while frantically screaming.

It is not the terror that makes you huff and puff.
The terror that makes your legs ache from the tough
Motion of putting one foot in front of the other,
As you run away from your bloodthirsty pursuer.
It is not the goosebumps that you get,
After getting struck with the feeling
That something from somewhere is staring
At you and I bet,
You’re feeling it now, as your pores begin to sweat.

But don’t worry because this is just a poem.
It is not the countless eyes that are now popping out the walls.
It is not the shrieks you just heard from the empty halls
And it is most certainly not the banging
That is coming from your closet.
It is not the sound of tapping
From your window as the hands try to open it.
It is definitely not the one standing next to you in the mirror.
The blood-stained face that will visit your dreams,
Turning it into a nightmare filled with darkness and horror,
As it wraps you in its arms, relishing in your screams.

But after you’re done with this, you’d probably be relieved.
Saying “none of this true” that’s what you’d probably believe.
So you’d probably invite the dark, instead of leaving the lights on
And then you’d instantly wonder “Am I truly here alone?”
You’re probably right, it’s just you and your white phone.
You don’t have to worry about me, for this is just a poem.