I open my eyes. All I can see is darkness, though. No, wait, my eyes are adjusting, I can see some objects now; am I on the floor? I turn my head slowly to the side, and wince in pain a little. My body feels sore all over, why do I feel this way? I . . . I can’t remember . . .
I see there’s someone lying next to me, on the floor as well. My eyes try to adjust to the dark light to see who it is. This guy, he looks kind of familiar . . . but I can’t quite put my finger on who he is and . . . dear god, is that blood!?
Ignoring the soreness of my muscles I quickly scoot away from him, and he doesn’t mov
1. The first time I found God
Was when I was 15.
I found God in a pen.
I scribbled down words
And he brought them to life.
2. They found God in their phone.
Instead of handling the awkwardness
Of the party,
They prayed to God to get them out.
3. He found God in his paycheck.
He locks himself in his office
As if it was a church,
Hoping to see God again.
I think I saw him praying
Last week when I visited.
4. She found God
In the mirror.
When she looked at God
In the eyes,
She freaked out
And punched the mirror until it shattered.
The devil put his hand over
Her fist and told her it’ll be alright.
5. They found God in each other.
I
She sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Silly girl,
Whose eyes rain crystals,
Why do you wish to heal?
Do you not understand the beauty
Of your ability to feel?
Silly girl,
Whose grin’s so bright,
Why do you wish to change?
A soul with no emotion
Would appear to be quite strange.
Silly girl,
Whose face is dull,
Why do you live this myth?
You choose to be a shadow,
Smashing daisies with your fist.
Silly girl,
With wounds and scars,
Why have you chosen this death?
No, sinking into your own grave
Would be better than such regret.
Silly girl,
You’ve started to feel,
Just recently you’ve started to cry.
You’ve been down this path again and again,
With a pain
I can't write poetry for dead girls. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
Sweet Apple Acres was a busy place in the spring. Two young stallions walked the fields with plows in tow, while a mailpony dragged in shipments of seeds and tools, and a couple more ponies were visible amonst the apple trees. Adding to the general bustle was a visitor to the farm who gingerly stepped out of the sky, looked around, and opened the gate into the main homestead area. A filly, not quite yet a mare, with a light green coat and straw-colored hair and baskets strapped to her saddle had been trotting through the area, and noticed the visitor first. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes as big as the moon.
"P-princess?!"
"Oh, hello."