Narrative Poem

Her laughter once echoed through the walls.
She used to shriek when Daddy came home.
The pitter-patter of feet on the tile used to warp the silence to singularity.
She used to giggle at her attempts to blow a bubble.
There was once a day where she felt mischeibious for drinking even the slightest bit of coffee with milk.
She found adventure on the cobblestones hidden behind the bushes.

Until one day, it all stopped.
The house grew quiet.
She was no longer there to lighten the atmosphere.
It was no longer a home.
The furniture grew dust.
The silence was louder than any sound possible to make.
The little girl now lit up a new home.

Yet that home was far from light.
Because that little girl grew up.
The laughter morphed into tears.
The shrieks for Daddy coming home now became shrieks at Daddy that she hated him.
The pitter-patter of her feet was replaced by the pitter-patter of their feet-- "their" being the little kids that were now more important than her.
She no longer giggled.
Or even smiled.
Happiness became an unknown concept to her.
Her mischief became a regular thing.
She felt pushed towards breaking the rules.
It's the only way they noticed her.
There was no more adventure in her life.
She had done it all and what others called adventure--she called her everyday life.

She missed laughing.
Smiling.
Being happy.
She missed the spirit.
The bliss.
The carefree.

How to Cope

Had to write a list poem for class..so here was my attempt:

Take a shower.
Talk to someone.
Write a letter.
Draw nature.
Watch a Disney movie.

Go to sleep.
Or try to.
Punch a wall.
Count to ten.

Go for a walk.
Go for a run.
Exercise in a gym.
Meditate.

Scream because it's happening.
Cry because it happened.
Breathe because it's over.

P.S. I Love You

I hate that I feel unwanted.
I hate her.
I hate what she's doing to us.
I hate the distance.
I hate that you don't seem to care.
I hate knowing the real you..
And I hate not seeing it anymore.
I hate that you've changed.
I hate that you make me cry.
I hate that without you I feel like I'll die.
I hate you.
But darling..I truly love you so.

The Body Language of One With a Missing Half

My whispers are hushed like a breeze through the leaves.
My eyes are creamy like dark chocolate.
But penetrating like the night.
My stature, strong, but withdrawn.
My lips have a lot to say, but are closed.
My brow, wrinkles with a story.
My bone structure is small like a fairy, but resistant like oak.
My shoulders carry weight it shouldn't be.
My feet have traveled like a missionary.
My scras show my survival.
My body language is incomplete.
I am missing you.

What to Write

Pen in my hand.
Paper under my nose.
What to write.
What to write.

The fluttering of pages.
The thud of books.
The zip of a backpack.
The tapping of fingers.
What to write.
What to write.

Eyes darting.
Pen caps moving.
Minds racing.
What to write.
What to write.

The smell of ink.
The smell of paper.
The smell of nothing.
What to write.
What to write.

Stomachs filled.
Eyes heavy.
A class of students on an average day.
What to write.
What to write.

White

The white room.
With the white walls.
Sitting on the white sheets.
While the man in the white coat walks in.
He snaps on his white gloves.
And clicks the heels of his white shoes.
But soon, the sheets are no longer white.
Nor are his shoes, coat, gloves, walls...room.
It's splattered red.
With my blood.
With her blood.
And now I miss the white.
Especially the whites of her eyes that I'll never see.

Eyes

When you look into my eyes,
What do you see?
When you look into me eyes,
Do you see the real me?
Some say young, some say old.
None would guess how much I've had to mold.
Through the highs, and through the lows.
Through the darkness and through the glow.
In and out, of yes and no.
In and out, to and fro.
None would say, no none would guess,
Abuse, or even stress.
Restrictions, craves, addictions,
Things not meant to be seen by eyes too young to see it.
I've tried and tried to escape it,
And you can try to believe it.
But I am victim to these crimes.
Without even scavaging for a dime.
No, these charges came for free,
Don't you see, they're a part of me.
There's no getting out, there's no forgetting.
And I'd be wasting my time, if I tried regretting.
But you wouldn't believe me,
You'd say it's untrue.
All because in reality,
You don't have a clue.
So tell me, when you look into my eyes,
What do you see?
And when you look into my eyes,
Do you see the real me? 

Dear Taz, Love Tink

I'm not alone, but I'm lonely.
Everyday without you breaks me down a little more.
I force myself to keep strong;
To keep going.
But I don't want to.
I want to say "fuck it" and go to you.
I don't care about the money,
Or plans I had for my future.
You are my future,
I just want you.
With me now, with me forever.
I need you now,
I'm breaking down.
Pick me up and never let me go.
Hold me till I fall asleep,
Save me from the nightmares of your absence.
I'm not alone, but I'm lonely.

The Defintion of a Father..She Does Not Know

      The leaves gathered dust as they lay on the ground. The cluster of them ranging from a soft yellow to a crisp brown. The little girl stared at them, bewildered. Just once would be enough. All it would have taken was one time for her to be happy. But of course, not even the simplest request could be slightly considered by Him. He shut down any offer, without even a second glance. Within no time, he was gone. So much for spending the weekend with Him. All the little girl wanted was to jump in the pile of leaves with him once. Grandma couldn't do it, she never even stood up--and the little girl didn't know why. But now there was no one. He left a lot. Seemed to be every time she asked to play. Or cuddle. Or asked anything in general. She didn't understand. She say him every weekend..Or was supposed to. She actually rarely "saw" him. Another wasted weekend. Another weekend of her going home and meaning it when she said she did nothing. Damn, and at age 4 too.

A Life Worth Ending

      The mirrored box shone under the light. I stared at it on the shelf as it looked so pure. So pretty. But it was anything but that. Its contents were deadly. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I slowly walked towards it and placed two fingers and a thumb on the lid. I blew off the dust before pulling it towards me and carrying it to my bed with me. As I fell onto the plush comforter, I dropped the box next to me. A square dust line formed on my sheets form the bottom perimeter of the box. I lifted the lid and carefully removed the contents onto my hand. I hadn't held them in a month; they felt heavier than normal. They were my go-to, my crutch when nothing and no one else was there. I depended on them. My hand tilted sideways until they slid from my palm. I stared at them, so dark and sinister. They contrasted durastically with my pale, pink, cuorduroy comforter. I could hear them calling me. Whispering my name. Begging for one more use. I could hear my heartbeat within them, because they held it captive. Had control over me. Control I willingly gave them. But today was the end. No longer would they have that control. No longer would I torment myself with them. Their power is gone. No longer will I succumb to them. I am no longer weak. I am strong. They are not. I pick them up with a new fire; a new desire to overcome. I grip them tightly; I am the one who has the upperhand now. I march up the steps to end their life. I lift the lid of the trash and bury them to their death. The scars are still with me; the blades are gone.