Where Have I Been?


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I want to begin this by stating that these past few months may have been some of the hardest yet. I haven't found how to deal with a lot of things that I'm expected to be able to deal with. Safe to say that growing up is hard! Who knew? 


All jokes aside, it pains me to say that writing has become a chore. Something that makes my brain hurt if I sit down to do it, something that used to cease the fire. Now it's just something, something vague and distant to me. 


I'm losing myself, and it feels like shedding a skin. 


I suppose that to evolve, we have to bid farewell to some semblance of ourself from before; it's logical. 


Here are a collection of short poems I have written over the course of shedding. 


Enjoy! As ALWAYS, please feel free to comment. Xx 

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"Monachopsis : 
The subtle yet persistent feeling of being out of place." 

You’re craving their affection
Sat across from her, as she beams at the sun. 
He’s not looking your way, rather, at the oncoming traffic,
But you wish he was. 

Can they hear your pleads? 

You’re longing for a touch. 
A hand to grasp 
An arm to lean into 
A cheek to dust
Or a smile to hold. 

It’s starting to bleed. 

You’re in over your head and you know your fate is sealed

It doesn’t serve to soothe the drums you’re trying so desperately to silence. 

Why won’t they look your way? 

The traffic ceases to exist
And maybe, so do they. 

If the traffic never came, 
Then what’s keeping them at bay? 

What’s blocking this view that you’ve fashioned just for laughs

Is it your complex? Your nature? Your ever-changing path? 

I think that really, if any of this is true, 
Your complex would have vanished. 
Your nature; not so skewed. 

Yes, you’re longing for a tender moment, but; 
Soon you’ll come to know. 
It’s never them ignoring you; it’s your eyes that are closed. 

Don’t mess it up for yourself, oh no 
Because you’ve been given this golden ticket. 
You broke your way into the show, 
And it’s your smile that did it.


So open those eyes, don't waste your chance

On pity parties and a final dance.


You're more than traffic, and more than me.


Something you might never see.

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when your room’s in shit order
and you’re alone in a place full of people
it’s no wonder that your head is clogged 

(you assume you’re a bit of a hoarder.)

a hoarder or worries 
a hoarder of pain 
eventually you’re going to die in vein 

but, if not this time,

then when?

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