evilirishangel

Choosing a university is no easy thing. There’s endless benefit-cost analyses; Permanently jagged nails, caused by waiting for scholarship and grant packages; Distance consideration and Can I thrive in this new community, this new society? College choices define the students that make them. Futures begin here. Lives begin here. So why aren’t our lives considered When whole departments –whole foundational structures— Are toppled to the ground and the rubble pulverized for concrete Meant to renovate and save the others. Is it because we are seen as less applicable than math or science or business? Less valuable? We open

Today, I will rise. Tomorrow, I will rise. The next day and the next day and the next day, I will rise. From this day to my last, I will refuse to cease my rise. My wings may falter; My bones may crack; My blood may spill, And still I will rise. I may reach the clouds; I may pass the moon; I may even touch the sun, And still I will rise. I am not a soldier armed for war. I am not a phoenix reborn from ash. I am not an addict ready for recovery. I am only who I am: A poet. A student. A friend. A sister. A daughter. A teen who rode the spirals of her Depression As if it was a rollercoaster designed to decapitate her nice and slow. I screamed in

Let’s waste time chasing cars, Because nothing else matters When a smile stretches across your innocent face And scrunches up those sweet green eyes Incapable of even the whitest of lies. Let’s waste time chasing cars, Because with you, Infinity and a day will go by in the blink of an eye. Let’s waste time chasing cars, Because it’s not time wasted at all, If we spend it giggling like children. Let’s waste time chasing cars, Because I love you. But those three words are said too much, And they’re not enough to describe how I feel. You mean more to me than three, a thousand, or even a billion words Could eve

I tell myself that I cannot write these words. That I cannot compose this piece and start a fresh book of rhymes. But I can. I forced my pen to cease its rambling, And in doing so, I gave up something I loved. Something I cherished. Something even my low self-worth found valuable. I gave up my poetry. I told myself that I could only write when sadness gripped my heart. That if no metaphors flowed from ballpoint to paper, It was a sign of healing and happiness. But it was only an end to describe the means. I gave up my poetry Because I was ashamed. I was ashamed that something so beautiful Was used to foster something so ugly. My wounds fester

He cannot break you twice. Her name is not a knife blade Slid so effortlessly through your ribcage. They have nothing left they can steal from you: They hustled your heart right out of your chest, And drugged your brain until it could no longer function. They even locked your luminescent spirit in a dank, dark cell. But they cannot take your soul: That is for you to keep behind protective bars Meant to keep out rather than trap within. Names are not incantations that snare, And memories are not illusions that scream. Poetry is not a razor blade against flesh, And a knife is not a way out. Reality whispers between fingers that press against ea

You cannot fix them all.Yes I can.Pain doesn't just disappear, sweetheart.Yes it does.A heart learns to absorb the bad, You can't keep it from doing its job.Its job is to beat, to keep them alive. Mine is to steal all that pain away.Darling, where will you hide all of it?Inside my own heart; It's big enough to hold their sadness.What happens when you get sad, then? Where will you put it, if your heart is already full?My sadness doesn't matter.Oh baby, of course it does.No it doesn't. And besides, I can't be sad if they're happy.That isn't how it works, hun…They deserve their smiles. I haven't earned mine until all their hurts are gone.

My fingers slide through my short hair In an attempt to mimic The possessive, loving action I so desperately crave. But still, the loneliness remains Like a dark drumbeat that pulses in perfect time With my heart's own faithful thumping. But with every beat of the mournful drum, Images come to rest in my brilliant -yet far too sensitive- mind: Crimson trails that I see so clearly, The sharp smell of iron taints my senses. Hands now gripping the shorn locks that have grown out of place, My eyes close carefully As I summon a breath From deep within my battered lungs, Until I manage to push the images of blood away As if the air I let escape was

When my brain is sick, I'm supposed to write. Since I refuse the helpful words of a paid therapist, I'm told to write. Because curing medications will destroy me, Writing is my self written prescription. But these days, I've grown to hate this treatment. So I don't write anymore And my brain is only getting sicker. Like a junkie off his drugs, I'm not myself and I hate this new me. Really though, She isn't new. I've felt her cold fingers inside my head before, Playing with my brain And poking through memories So that not even my dreams are an escape anymore. Because, Somewhere between happiness and suicidal contemplation stagnation, She wa

For three months and nine days, I have both whispered and screamed out "Why?" For three months and nine days, I wished for nightmare's screams To jolt me from this suffocating sleep. I have wrapped my thin arms Around this nothing but bones body and prayed that they were yours. For three months and nine days, A crack has been crawling down the framework of my heart, Through ventricles and past veins, Opening up blood clot caulking and exposing layers long ago locked away. For three months and nine days, I have missed you: Missed a voice born to speak beautifully awkward Russian, But raised in the outskirts of baritone New York, Among money, f

My head is a pocket full of thoughts, But the pocket is threadbare And the private thoughts drip through To stain my face then neck then shoulders then body Red like a broken razorblade's tears; Red as a shattered teen's final act; Red as a victim's gunpowder rage. My eyes must close, Or else the life-syrup will blind them, But it only makes the deceptive thoughts Pulse against my heart Until its bruised blacker than his begging blue eyes And I swallow needles to fight off the pounding, Only to see them be used against me, Swords to stick my soul, Until its too shredded to mend With silver lining's thread. The betrayal battalion cuts its way