Self healing is amazing.
Sometime I rather dream forever and never wake up.
What matters to me is what I can not see.
Just like oxygen love is vital.
Seems too often love is idle.
I see myself adjust to ways or games I thought I'd never play.
In retrospect I was already liquified dope
Easy to follow, but then I knew sorrow
When I vent and repent it is usually rare
It is not a coincidence when our emotions bleed bare
Stay aware of the masks that we all tend to wear
I never experienced a nightmare
Who is scared of what the night shares?
Were all connected now spiritually and through the internet, so stay alert and never fumble to negative interceptions
Electric relaxation is a humble connection
Perception is a trip because I never seen my self
Crazy who I think I am I'm not to someone else
Serene, for the moments
Steady, on an orbit whirl
Self healing is amazing.
Ready for these foreign worlds.

you are the man of the lean and meaner
and I am just a woman of misdemeanor

holding such attributes of will and power
each time I wander my confidence got smaller

handling ill times with a gentle caress of ease
my effort and failed attempts carried away with the afternoon breeze

the moment arose when you saw my face
acceleration sped up in my heart as it ran at a dangerous pace

instant affection created in a glace held for seconds
I had forgotten your face, until this very moment of minuscule bond

you were perfect in image, as those words continue to prove true
my love once hidden, arose from my perennial blues

once timid and meek, my personality had changed
for the emotions I once secured, were now rearranged

the feelings, so fragile, balanced at the corner
verged yet to tip, or be caught a lusted figure

cards carefully played, laid out on the table
only left to draw, and find emotion in your poker face if I am able

slipping in stubbornness, you smiled ever so sweet
I knew right then, my heart had hope, however meek

my soul fits yours, and the hearts can meet
one day together, and I shall no longer be the meek

(Inspired by Ethan Smith's poem of the same title.)

You’ve taken so many different pieces
of others’ personalities
and put them together to form me
that I don’t even know who the real me is anymore…
Let alone knowing that I am still partially you,
as much as I hate it,
I have to recognise it…
and what’s more
As much as I hate it,
I don’t hate you
don’t hate the way you still bore a hole
into my heart,
Remember that.
Sarah…
I haven’t said your name in so long
because I’ve spent years trying to convince everyone-
myself included-
that you were gone,
that you are nothing but a distant, fallacious,
distorted memory,
that the thought of you drowns out my reality
and leaves me shaking and broken
and that at the same time,
I haven’t changed a ******* thing about myself,
but we both know that
that’s complete *******.
We are two completely different people,
you made me feel like a prisoner within myself,
but I suppose you were only doing
what you thought needed to do
to survive.
It’s a shame it didn’t work,
I’m sorry, that we ran out of time.
When grandma said her baby girl had died,
that the light had gone from her eyes
she was wrong,
I told her so
but she’d be incorrect to assume that you
are still living inside of me,
instead you are ticking inside of me,
ticking like a bomb waiting to explode,
Sarah.
The name sounds foreign
your eyes are terrifying me
your old friends are boring the hell out of me;
your voice is one I don’t recognise.
Hell, I barely recognise myself anymore
and I guess I have you to thank for that
But remember
as much as I hate the fact
that you still exist inside of me…
I have to recognise that
I can’t hate someone who was me for so long.

It's real, this is very real.
This is not your haunted mansion at the amusement park.
This is not the shadows you see under your bed.
This is very real, the voice in my head.
And it's telling me about the bloodstains
Left on silken sheets,
not the blood of a ******, but the blood of a corpse.

at 2pm
i smile and laugh
with my friends
over a stupid joke

at 2am
i lie awake on my bed
with tears streaming down my face
and blood flowing down my arm

two different personalities
all in one person
its no wonder
i think of suicide more often than i should

Sometimes the sins laugh
frolic chuckle and gasp,

whenever wrath sits there
calm and tranquil, unending care.
when Pride takes precious time,
to look up and face humility,
to remove the thin veil,
to observe another person and care.
when slender lust embraces
for another, soothing the soul
creating safe sanctions - free of sale.
when      g r e e d      gives        to       charity,
               providing,
      safe          havens,
when sloth feels the urge
to work, forging iron bars
and even making emotions and life time scars
when gluttony shares his
fries, and full course meal
when envy faces the sins - and says
‘it’s okay that lust is more curvy, I know I’m happy’

This is all a façade of course. envy said it with morose.
gluttony? He had another meal, and another meal right after that.
Mirrors reveal the real corpse. sloth daydreamed the dream.
greed? what else but the space he took?
How can we be something else. lust has lackluster snide, snark and ***
Pride? He has a deeper veil - one that escapes his avail.

Sometimes the sins want to be sinful.
And sometimes wrath wants to be wrathful.

When I was a child I picked at scabs, entertained by the idea of bearable pain.

I've been told that
these little things we do take roots in us
(Funny, considering that roots hold the soil of the earth together
and keep it from spiriting away)

And I was thinking:
Maybe that's the reason
I keep picking at the cuts you left,
the reason the bleeding still hasn’t quite stopped,
and the reason my scars have darkened in your terrible likeness.

As you write you are hundreds.
Become the thief, murderer, and sacrificed.
You stand at the crossroads,
leading the sheep
and angry bulls.

Feel for the nemesis,
Feel for the grandfather --
their fluttering leaves of childhood worries.
You must feel from the heart for the sad.

"Help Us"
"**** Them"
You stand with one foot on each side
of that line drawn in the sand
with chalk.

Write, because in the pages
a rose is a poison, a city is a flower,
and the truth can leak from the pages,
and the fingers of the reader will absorb
and carry the truths to the heart.


Poppy P.
8/24/14