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Literature Text
My fingers bleed words
that my lips cannot say.
When they try to trickle out,
I scowl and turn away.
It may not be contagious,
but it is a disease.
Holding myself deep inside,
it's getting hard to breathe.
Lies come so easy,
to cover up the truth.
It’s like my second nature,
grown from my very youth.
It’s deeper than conviction,
more earnest than a thought.
It’s my way
It’s my life
It is my disease.
that my lips cannot say.
When they try to trickle out,
I scowl and turn away.
It may not be contagious,
but it is a disease.
Holding myself deep inside,
it's getting hard to breathe.
Lies come so easy,
to cover up the truth.
It’s like my second nature,
grown from my very youth.
It’s deeper than conviction,
more earnest than a thought.
It’s my way
It’s my life
It is my disease.
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
Literature
All Her Little Things
Stop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from..
Stop demanding her to do things,
Things she can't accomplish,
Things she can't imagine being done...
Stop lying to her,
Telling her you love her,
Want her, need her...
When all you've ever done is make her want to
Die.
Stop hating her for the littlest things.
The things she can't prevent,
The things she can't save herself from...
Because,
When those little things you've done
Take her down...
The little things won't matter anymore.
Literature
This Thing We Call Depression
There's a story I'd like to tell,
A story of a girl who was diagnosed.
Diagnosed with a terrifying thing,
Something that would threaten her life for years to come.
Something that she could never escape,
No matter how she ran,
No matter how she struggled.
This diagnosis was a horrific thing to the girl,
Although, not surprising at all.
The symptoms had swallowed her for days,
Weeks,
Months.
Months of this thing inside of her.
This thing that we call
Depression.
There are people who tell her,
"You're only sad."
However, that isn't the case.
See, she was never diagnosed with sadness.
Everyone knows sadness.
She was never diagnosed with emo
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Just venting a little--this is something I stuggle with literally every day. Tell me what you think.
© 2014 - 2024 ScarletDevil1503
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this finna go crzy when the public hears abt this