There are 26 letters in the alphabet and not a single one wants to spill out on to a sheet of paper which is funny because they say you choose the words that make you. Apparently I chose the words to describe a hot mess of a teenage girl who does everything, not well, but maybe mediocre, and who occasionally takes a bunch of good pictures that make her feel like maybe everything will turn out amazing.
But this isn’t a fairytale, and nothing ever turns out amazing.
There isn’t a magical prince to sweep me off my feet, maybe then I could find some letters to press to paper, because love is like living in a delusional world. It’s all fiction. Beautiful fiction it is, but fiction, for no one you love will ever stay. And for I, I am still waiting for you to leave.
At least I know if it all ends, I’ll die happy tonight.
I still cannot seem to mix consents and vowels to write beautiful poetry as I once believed I could write. Who am I to say that he kisses like a sweet devouring, when he has never kissed me? I cannot say what heaven and hell feel like because I’ve only barely seen either.
And I continue to think I see both everyday as I awake
I struggle to find a new addiction for I need a distraction. How close can I get to death before it takes me? That is the game I play because even though I’m scared of death, I continue to find new ways to cheat it.
I’m literally the modern Houdini.
I’ve seen more than I probably should and I’m wondering when it will all disappear. The past is the past right? Or is that another lie, adults have imprinted on my brain along with all the other society “norms” I can’t seem to surpass? Gender roles? Sorry, but I’m a bit of a feminist, women are as equal as men nothing more nothing less. I do what I please. Hair too short for you? Do I look a bit to lesbian? Good, lesbians are great I know some REALLY nice ones! So does my boyfriend.
Sorry, I just don’t fit into your society.
As a poet I tend to rely on my muses. As a teenage girl I tend to rely on my hormones. Poetry and over reacted feelings are the same thing right? I guess not, Pen still isn’t touching that paper and by this point I don’t think it will.
I wish it would because I have a million emotions but none seem to want to be covered in ink.
If I could trace every inch of you skin with poetry I would. We are all just a piece of poetry. Poets are just the ones who can get it out. The ones who spin words to form tales of love, death, and everything imaginable. They have no filters, for the discretest of topics is the ones they scream.
Maybe I am a poet.
It seems that maybe I had a choice in the words I chose to make myself up in. I’m a hot mess of a teenage girl who spins her tales in poetry. Who maybe will one day get the kiss of sweet devouring, and find a permanent addiction, and finally get caught by death. Houdini has hidden my Prince for me to find, but for now, I place a combination of 26 letters, vowels and consonants, to create this piece.
Amidst all of this, I find my little piece of worded sanctuary.