A Place for EverythingIf there's a place for everything,
and everything is in its place,
then why does a bouncy ball hit the floor
where people should be stepping,
making loud thumps each time
which replicate footsteps?
Why does a guitar reside in the chair
that I usually reserve for guests,
the sounds of its metal strings
my only conversation?
Why does a pen reside in my hand
where the hand of a lover should be,
and why does it make me content
that I should be so lonely?
Why does music fill my ears,
deep, raging, loud, instead of
the laughter and words of friends,
sweet, soft, and oh so wonderful?
And how do these things
replace the others so very well
when A Place for Everythingin Depressing Stuff, Poetry
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to ashesas we searched, we burned. we held each other up when it was hard, until we both burned to ashes.
and one day, we found it. the answer. something we actually believed in. something.
with eyes like granite and bones like lead, you turned to me with a smile.
finally, finally, we knew, but in truth, what did we know?
through everything and through nothing at all,
we'd stand and we'd walk, because
there was no chance
of return.
to ashesin Personal Favourites, Poetry
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BlanketI've been wearing this blanket around my shoulders for hours.
Its old and raggedy edges drape over my skin, covering the scars that I didn't think would fade so quickly. Its pale blue threads shine in the dim lamp light.
I refuse to take it off. I can't put it down. Why?
It's something. It's real and tangible, and I need to be sure that there's something there, something that knows, something that gets it, gets me. It's something, borderline someone.
This old blanket has been with me longer than I can remember, through everything. Its soft fibers soak my tears and soothe my anger with its calm.
Calm.
It's all I have right now, and I'm n Blanketin Depressing Stuff, Original Stories and Regular Prose, Personal Favourites, Randomly Inspired
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'I Love You, Sis.'I wonder why he would do that to me. Am I not good enough for him?
Yes, that must be it. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not athletic. Not artistic. Not anything, really.
That's not entirely true. I mean, I'm not that bad, am I?
You're pretty bad.
Yeah, I guess I am.
((I refuse to cry. I refuse to cry. I refuse to cry.))
The mantra isn't working. I'll distract myself. Distract myself with anything that doesn't remind me of him.
((But everything reminds me of him.))
He's only a guy. A guy. I never thought I'd cry over a guy. How pathetic.
((I truly believed that he was more than that, though.))
I guess I should tell Joey about 'I Love You, Sis.'in Adventures From SourAir's Subconscious, Depressing Stuff, Original Stories and Regular Prose, Trials and Tribulations of Having a Crush
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The Farthest EndsI don't know what awaits
at the farthest ends,
but I hope it's a chance
to make amends.
Repaying debts
is one thing that I need,
apologies for biting
the hand that feeds.
Would you ever admit
to me breaking your heart,
when you've been destroying it
from the start?
I'm sorry again
for the things that I've said,
but I guess it won't matter
anymore, when I'm dead.
Tell me, please,
will you finally be happy
the moment I'm gone,
that I've ceased to be?
I hope that happiness
is what awaits you
when the lights go down
and we've seen it through.
That's all I wish
for the day this is done,
but I cannot deny
that it hasn't been fun The Farthest Endsin Contest Entries, Poetry
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The ListShe has a list.
She has a long, long list, spanning many pages in her notebook. There are pages upon pages, coated in a messy scrawl of blue gel ink that varies in freshness from hours to years.
Every night, she adds to it. Every night, religiously, ever since she can remember. She has to stay up as long as it takes to add whatever she can recall to her list, no matter how tired or how busy she is. If one were to happen past her house on any particular night, odds are the light would be shining brightly as she frantically scribbled in her notebook.
Her list is precious to her. She isn't proud of it, but she needs it with her always.
The l The Listin Depressing Stuff, Fiction, Original Stories and Regular Prose, Personal Favourites, Randomly Inspired
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One SecondDear You,
Yes, I know what you're thinking:
"There's that creepy girl again,
the one that stares at me all day
and gets all nervous when I'm around."
But I have a lot to tell you,
even if you're not reading this,
so just bear with me.
You- yes, you- are ruining my life.
I used to be so content with myself,
convinced that love was pointless
and dating people is just a hassle.
I knew that looks didn't matter,
that I should look out for myself
and not care what other people think.
What have you done with that girl?
I'm wasting all my time on you,
and I know that, but I can't stop.
I worked so hard on that project,
hoping it would be per One Secondin Depressing Stuff, Poetry, Trials and Tribulations of Having a Crush
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Set Yourself Free"To lose control is to be finally free."
How could something so right turn out so wrong?
It's been years since our luck ran out and left us here.
My bones all resonate a burning lullaby.
This world is too much noise.
I long for the moment our silence is broken.
Feet sometimes on solid ground, sometimes at the edge,
I'm standing on the rooftop, ready to fall.
All my fears, my insecurities, are falling like tears.
In that moment, I refused to close my eyes anymore.
Knees are weak; hands are shaking; I can't breathe.
Wait for me now, air's running out.
Make it stop!
I laugh this constant pain away,
But if to live we have to be numb, I'd rath Set Yourself Freein Personal Favourites, Poetry
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Edging Toward InsanityI'm frustrated, alone, and happy about it. That basically sums everything up, huh?
My brain feels like it's been transformed into some sort of mushy substance. I can't recall many things running through it, only a few. Want to know what they are? Of course you don't, but I'm going to tell you anyway. There's that fan fiction I was reading before my eyes burned out, a swirling vortex of song lyrics, that math concept everyone seems to get except me, and that grade I never should have gotten.
It wasn't a failure, but it was closer to one than I want at this point. It's a failure in my book. Some voice in the back of my head just screamed, "Us Edging Toward Insanityin Depressing Stuff, Original Stories and Regular Prose, Personal Favourites
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That's Just How Things AreIt's not that you're not good enough,
your dreams are all just pointless
and can never be achieved.
It's nothing personal.
You know, it wasn't me who chose.
My mind was twisted, broken,
and molded to their liking.
I did not choose this!
Walking through infinity,
I found nothing but a symphony
of lies for all eternity,
but that's just how things are.
Laughter is only fingernails
on the chalkboard of my mind.
The thoughts are all wiped away
by your cold, ruthless hands.
A barely visible half-smile,
and I am well on my way
to that blissful ignorance.
Please, please, do not be fooled.
Walking through infinity,
I found nothing but a symphony
That's Just How Things Arein Depressing Stuff, Poetry, Songs
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Falling OutDistract yourself like waning glances,
Now you're falling out
Control yourself with invisible chains,
What is it about?
Force yourself to pay it back,
Ever-present doubt
Distract yourself, distract yourself,
and good, you're falling out.
Dead and gone with no warning,
you wait for the morning
that you're sure will never come.
And you couldn't care any less,
but you wouldn't confess
to the broken heart that you possess.
Still yourself with nothingness,
now you've peace of mind.
Ask yourself what it's about,
the subject, you can't find.
Peruse yourself for answers
you want only when you lie.
Still yourself, just still yourself,
nothin Falling Outin Depressing Stuff, Fiction, Personal Favourites, Poetry, Randomly Inspired, Songs
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Melody of Spring"The winter air is dark and bleak,
but you, my love, are light to me.
Won't you sing a special song
to keep our broken spirits strong?"
She shakes her head and turns away,
and after a moment, starts to say,
"I cannot do that for you now,
for above me hangs a dark storm cloud."
Before he could begin to speak,
she whispered, her eyes so weak,
"When the violets bloom in early spring,
that is when I'll start to sing."
Her words were resigned, strained at best.
With a heaving sigh, he turned west
to the setting sun before his eyes,
the one he so wanted to despise.
So teasing it was, every day,
leaving them always without a say.
He decided that Melody of Springin Personal Favourites, Poetry
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Sta.sh
