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 Mar 2015 Ana Sweeney
Kelly Marie
A good night sleep is an acquired skill.
Something unknown to the heartbroken, depressed, and confused.
To them sleep is purely a relief; an unseemingly blissful goal that is worked towards

That is once the sadness has settled in for the night and your eyes have grown too tired to cry anymore and finally have dried up

Sleep is Something you fall into on accident from pure exhaustion,
It's not on purpose

These souls are the ones up at night writing
Trying to make sense of the words and the hurt inside of their hearts that seems to leak onto paper before what is written before them can be understood

They are the ones who have a sparkle in their eye and a constant ache in their heart
They are not obvious, oh no
Because someone who really feels sadness knows it's something to be suffered through alone
You wouldn't dare drag someone along for the misery and deceit, the emptiness and aches
Because it's what you are trying to escape


And once you do, if it is at all possible to find happiness and fulfillment in your sorrows

You will lay in bed at night
And your pillow cases will be preserved an eggshell white
And the mascara stains will have vanished
And your mind won't race and clutter and cry out in pain from unknown certainty and tragedy

You'll merely close your eyes, and for once you will sleep.
You have cut me up
and placed me beside other
shinier, redder apples.
you've given disapproving glares
and shaken your head,
arms akimbo.

You're trying to keep me in a box,
away from the "dangerous" world outside
but then you'd shake your fists
at my browning flesh
and putrid body.

I'm just an apple.
Why can't you see me for what i am?
I'm not the biggest
nor the juiciest.
I have yellow spots on my skin
and bruises on my flesh.

Why don't you love me?
Why can't you stop
comparing
and judging
and complaining?

You are my apple tree.
you made me.
Why can't you see
I'm trying
to be the best apple
that i can be?

It's not enough.
it's never enough.

I'm. Not enough.
and i never will be.
Did you bring me into this world just to pass judgement on my every move, mother? or was i something you never wanted in the first place
 Mar 2015 Ana Sweeney
KaMe
The heart of a writer is a battle ground,
they break for the sake of breaking
because even despair has its calms.
The hands of a writer are tar black,
patched up with band aids and
agonizing pain. The eyes of a writer
is a clear ocean view, mixed with
madness and sadness and a soul
somewhere there too. The mind of a
writer is a garden of flowers,
embracing pretty words and seeking
simple wonders. The soles of a writer
are on their own, they take them to
places they have  never been before,
then trip and fall, creating their next
                                                story line.
-Ka.Me.// @herbrokenpoetri on IG
Writers unite // @herbrokenpoetri on IG and tumblr.
I plucked each petal
He loves me
He loves me not
He loves me
He loves me not
Each petal feeling silky to the touch
One petal remains
He loves me not
He wants another he doesn't
Doesn't want me
He wants another
I miss the days you held me
Held me tight
Kissed my lips softly.
 Mar 2015 Ana Sweeney
Jade Anne
i miss the "talking stage"
i miss having butterflies from seeing you across the room
i miss the sideward glances
i miss blushing from feeling your eyes on me
i miss the flirting
i miss trying to get you to like me
i miss losing sleep just so i could talk to you
i miss being able to say goodnight
i miss falling in love
but the talking stage turned into dating and i finally had all that i never knew i would
but for you the butterflies began to die, you wouldn't glance at me anymore, you stopped flirting, you went to bed without sayin goodnight, you stopped falling in love
and now my butterflies have turned into snakes that eat me from the inside out
you don't look at me at all any more
you stopped smiling at me altogether
i don't blush
im still losing sleep but not so i can talk to you but because you haven't said goodnight
no, you said goodbye, you said goodbye a long time ago and you haven't said hello since.
goodnight, sleep tight, dont let the bed bugs bite, i love you.
 Mar 2015 Ana Sweeney
Kay
I wanted bones.
I wanted stick thin wrists and jutting shoulder blades.
I wanted ribcage ladders leading to a faltering heart.

I wanted to die-
But I called it something else.
I called it perfect body.

I called it finally confident,
I called it happy and
They called it sick.

I challenged them with "willpower"
and they threw back "nine months to live if you keep this up."
Old and unfinished, maybe someday.
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