Btlk-like

I am a walking grave

Of all the people

I did not let myself become.

This sadness is the only eulogy

They will ever hear.

There are skeletons which live in closets

That have been kept shut

For far too long

And the skeletons need their coffins

And the coffins their graves

And one too many graves

Makes a cemetry

I am the cemetery:

The door that locked its own kind out;

The graves, the coffins and the skeletons.

But I am alive, goddamn it!

Buried within myself

People I did not

Let myself become.

People were not meant

To carry so much of

What wasn't alive,

Coffins do no justice to the living.

Lives aren't meant

To be spent within boxes,

How the hell did

We get tricked into believing

They will do death any justice?

You are alive,

And everything

You could've been too,

Just not here.

But somewhere,

In another universe,

You exist

But are everything

You have always wanted to be,

And perhaps,

Someday in this life too.

Capturing the dread that visits as your Birthdays approach.

Boo.

To acknowledge the Monster is to say

It is here,

That it has been here all along;

It is to stand in the dark with a terrible thing

Hoping it does not devour you.

To be hopeful is to be terrified

Of anything otherwise;

It is to hold on

To withering threads of optimism

As the likelihood of the unfavourable

Gets the guillotine ready for your head.

To scream Monster is to say

Here stands a terrible thing

That scares me;

You cannot simply

Take the elephant out of the room

And throw it under the bus,

You know?

To be scared is to admit

You have something to be scared of

And something to be scared for.

To draw a monster and ask yourself

What makes one,

Is to ask yourself what you consider

Dreadful enough to be called inhuman.

To tell stories of your childhood

Is to say it is long gone;

It is to acknowledge

Childhood pushed you off the cliff

And ran away.

It is to say you have been

Free falling ever since,

Trying to grasp at things

That do not stay.

To have an inheritance

Is to say that

Everyone in the family is dead.

To scream Monster

Is to stand in the dark beside it

And say you know terrible well enough

To know what a Monster is.

To say you are here

Is to realize there was a time

When you were not,

That there will once again

Be a time

When you won't be here;

It is to say you don't know

What time is anymore.

To be alive

Is to be terrified

(All the time)

And hopeful,

Even if the guillotine

Is getting ready

For your very execution;

It is to turn the lights off

And sleep in the room

With the Monster

And pray like hell

It does not kill you.

- A.G.

pass the happy! 🌻🌈 when you receive this, list 5 things that make you happy and send this to the last ten people in the notifications!

1. Standing under a tree when it is pouring down.

2. A good book that is starting to feel like home, like I can come back to it and it will still be here.

3. Finally getting the thing to click in my head- the theory in Chemistry or the law in Physics when it suddenly just becomes common sense, when it just hits you after you've been running around trying to read it over and over again and understand it.

4. Tea on cold days brewed at 3 a.m. to keep me warm company.

5. Writing a poem that I am proud of because I just know that's a good one, I worked hard for that one.

Bonus:

Applying for jobs/internships you thought you weren't qualified for but you get them. They let you have it because you're young and you're good and you will learn. They believe in you.

I challenge you to pass the happy! 🌻🌈

Anyone who has read this, pass the happy! :)

The sadness made a home out of this body

And there wasn't enough space for the both of us here

I could feel myself become empty,

Feel my body become things it never has been;

I felt the sadness seep in when I was already done getting out of myself,

I wasn't there anymore.

The sadness made a house out of my bones

And I collapsed into things that did not resemble a person anymore.

I am still trying to look for pieces in the rubble

And create a whole person out of all this mess.

Do you think that if you love a certain thing, it is supposed to be constant throughout and it loses its charm when it stops being exactly that?

I think that the idea of loving an entity as it changes and transforms is much more endearing than going "Oh. This doesn't resemble what I initially fell for."

I think that especially with people, you have to know that they're constantly moving and they are experiencing things, and they change. To hope that something stays exactly as it was when you fell in love with it doesn't sit right with me. Haven't you changed? Do we have the right to tell something to remain stagnant when we aren't?

I think I personally have a skittish attitude towards things that remain constant; on the other hand, change feels so natural. I think I see it in this light: to be with someone or something as it changes is to get to discover more things to love, new things to love about them. I also believe that there are certain things that always remain the same. Even when the person is entirely someone different, there is always a set of habits or a preference or something specific to just this one person, that still remains constant. I find myself fascinated by the fact that even after this landslide of a change, there are moments where you can see them be the person you first go to know or how even after such an elaborate transformation, there are things that still somehow remain the same.

I think there are tiny constants even in the grandest of transformations. I quite ardently believe that people are much more endearing when they embrace their changes rather than thinking that the people who loved them when they were someone else will stop doing so as they grow into another person. I think that if the people you know do not fit the life of who you want to be or who you have become, you should let them go. So no, I do not think that anything I love owes me the grave burden of being in a state of constant; in a state of stagnancy.

-Anika

I think we're terrified of being forgotten. I think that as soon as an ounce of intelligence entered our being, our first instinct was to scratch walls and make art out of sharp sticks and stones; We wanted it to be known that we were here.

Perhaps when Adam ate the Apple he was more relieved at being able to die than he was afraid of God's anger, perhaps even the Gods hate all this immortality business.

We are here to die. And perhaps the only reason we aren't relieved at that is because we might just forget to do anything but continue dying, we might just forget to live.

So here we are: scratching walls or ourselves, trying to make it become something other than our own coffins at the end of this journey.

Ghost Children

There are moments

Bad and hard to comprehend, mismatched;

I do not know how to 

String together an entire good life

Or a person

Out of so many broken things.

What I mean is 

The Cat gets pissed

And he yells

He’ll smash the Dog’s skull

And there is so much rage in his body.

I do not know

How to tell the men 

This fury is not something to be proud of,

To carry or pass on.

There are children who have shrunk themselves 

And swallowed their own being

To fit into houses filled with so much rage:

Children who are too loud or too dumb,

Children who will never be enough,

There is no time;

Children who would rather 

Sleep on the streets

Than be here.

Children who cut out parts of themselves,

Make themselves smaller, be appropriate,

To belong here.

Children who rebel,

Grow tired of waiting, grow weary;

Grow up

And then cry for their mothers,

Gulp their own tears.

Children sitting on floors

Of good houses

And full families

And have never been more alone,

More annoyed at themselves

For not seeing all the good,

For noticing the wreckage,

For not smiling through their own slaughter.

Children who move out 

And do things they weren’t sure 

They wanted in the first place.

The Cat screams and scratches everyone

Trying to help him,

The Hamster yells of how her life was ruined;

The Parrot bites me, claws at the Cat and 

Keeps breaking things, so many things,

Screams of his entrapment.

I am small:

A rat in a big world,

    I have never been alone.

There are things we do not talk about here.

Do not mention the lines that once

Ran along the length of your left hand,

Carved by you trying to play God

When you were barely a person//

Perhaps that was the point.

Half a year trying to make the scars disappear,

The other half spent convincing your own damn self not to.

Listen.

There are places in your head

You could disappear off to,

The ones which will make you so, so happy

And perhaps even a maniac,

But aren't maniacs just people

With enough conviction

To want to live in a world

That was their own mind's doing?

I am proud.

When the Earth tumulted and collapsed on me,

Trying to throw me off itself,

I held on with bare hands.

I dug my claws into the brown soil,

Trying to become one with the Mother,

Trying to grow myself some roots to stay.

I have already been here longer than I had imagined,

To have a place at all is magic in itself.

I have so much life left to grow roots out of.

from one writer to another ive got to say congratulations you DEFINITELY have it my friend! got damn

Thank you for taking the time to read. I am still learning a lot about writing styles and even words themselves but I am glad to see how my writing develops and grows. I am so thankful for that vote of confidence, hope you keep reading! Xx

-A