Category: dumb burst paragraphs

this poetry thing is really getting out of hand

wow ok i think this is one of my worst poems but its ok cause we out here trying our best. the more difficult thing i found about writing this was how i couldn’t really seem to get the right words out on paper and how to get them to sound a certain way. if i could perform it as spoken word i would but i can’t so i just hope i wrote it down right. anyway here it is have fun.

(for mom i guess??? idk that feels weird to say)

im sorry

i’m sorry that i leave my cups on the table, never fold my clothes, can’t remember to make my bed, stay up past 12 nightly, and argue with my brother on who gets to sit in the front

i’m sorry i didn’t pass the gifted test, never ate my vegetables, can’t put my phone down, don’t leave my room, that your words go in one ear and come out the other.

im sorry i can’t do math, the numbers are getting sticky in my head, in a flytrap of the insults you scream, the disgust you bleed. when you speak each syllable is enunciated with so much disappointment and i am so so confused

because when i take a step back, reread my part in the script, i see your lines

your words have not gone out the other ear they are clawing up my throat, your insults are my thoughts, your disgust in my veins, your disappointment in each letter of my lines.

so i am so, so sorry, that i am you

i swear this wasn’t supposed to be slam poetry but like idk it is now

if you get triggered by abuse or something like that i would recommend you yeet away from this post. also wow first post and i already ruined the theme of this blog.

this is a thing i wrote and no one’s gonna read this but whatever have fun.

update: i just realized there’s a lot of places where there are supposed to be spaces but for some reason every time i go in and add those spaces it doesn’t stay. so just a disclaimer sorry about that.

Sounds.Sounds as simple as a door closing. Footsteps up the stairs. Children laughing.But for my bruised mind it’s not just a door closing, it’s a hushed breath andangry tears, it’s not just footsteps it’s the indescribable dread of knowingyou are not safe, it’s not just children laughing it is the volume always leading to a frozen stillness of worry between smiles, or screams. A game of tag or am I truly running, but only difference is that this game has a worse outcomethan becoming “it”. In this game, being “it” means begging for the fists to halt. In this game being “it” means blurred sight and tasting copper the nextmorning. Being “it” means the bathing in hopelessness from knowing that you,this weak four foot nine small little girl has nothing against the rushing fists, one after one, the screaming of when does it stop, the only thoughtbeing it will end soon hold on you have to hold on. having your bloodshot eyesgaze dazedly in the mirror afterwards, knowing, that that blood you see was caused by someone of your own blood. A father, a mother. And when the pain seeps from your skin into your bones that’s when you realize, it’s not just a bruise, a split lip, a headache. But the real, greater damage. A damage no amount of lipstick, band aids, or pills can fix. The knowledge that there are,and will always be, never healing fractures.