The Struggle

Journal, Popularity

Wishing there was more I could do to understand the world.
I wish I had more profound thoughts, people like profound thoughts.

Wishing I were more popular.
Why aren’t I?
Probably because people see I care.

People don’t like you if they know you care about popularity.
Fuck people.
People also don’t like it if you hate them.

This is my struggle.

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Insecurity

Humanist, Journal, Personal, Poetry

The restless nagging,
Persistent jabbing,
At what used to be my confidence.

The thoughts that infiltrate my head,
Saying they’re laughing at me –
That I shouldn’t be their friend.

As I’m walking to my classes and
Someone looks my way,
It says they’re judging me.

It’s eating away at my desire
to feel love and belonging.
Telling me to hide myself away.

Poetry

beautiful, Beauty, Hope, Humanist, Journal, Love, Loving Life, Memories, Nature, Peace, Perfect, Personal, Poetry, school, Small Things, Smiling

Sweet voices, little voices

they wander in the garden.

Saying words that mean so little –

Saying words that mean so much.

Their words traverse through the garden,

they wander aimlessly.

The little voices have little feet

that will carry their bodies far.

Listen – I can still hear the arguing,
The breaking shot glasses against the wall.
Neatly tucked away in the dark, I huddled; weeping in silence so the beast would not hear.
Tightened breathing, darkened room, cold doorframe where shadows grew.
When there was silence, it was overwhelming.

He was convinced they were listening, prying at our family, peeking behind our doors.
I crowded into bathtubs, hid from bullets that were seeking.
Covered the baby with my body, cried to Jesus to stop the fighting.
Diesel engines left running, in the haunting nightmare I couldn’t be woken from.

In my mind, they will always be there. The noises will stay.
Alcohol being poured, drunk men chattering on the porch.
The sound of the locking door, parents fucking
Not thinking about their poor daughter’s ears a wall away.

 

Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry, Poetry Wednesday

No One Believes Us

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Hope, Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry

The monster who crept the hallways at midnight,

in a drunken state, blood red eyes, putrid breath.

He raised his hand, I covered my head.

Silent tears were wept as I heard footsteps come down the hall,

Nervous energy, a dark cloud crept over our home.

terrified children, ignorant children,

but we were scared and battered, thinking no one cared.

How does he still control me? I thought we got away years ago. But I can still feel his hand, right before it hit my cheek.

People, they don’t believe us.

They think I tell lies.

He got to them first,

got them on his side,

charming them with his new haircut, clean shaved,

Telling them he’d changed.

Now no one believes us.

Sent us to therapy, said that’d be enough.

but I lay awake at night, hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face,

just because I thought I heard something coming down the hallway.

No one believes us,

To them it’s just about the money

The lawyers bills and court documents,

it’s just a case.

Children and custody,

Splitting the furnishings.

But at one point it was about a scared little girl,

crying in her room.

It was about the family who had a monster, just behind the front door.