Tag: poetry

healing part 1

i’m not a perfect human being. that being said, i don’t view myself as being superior to any other person, but i also don’t see any other person as being superior to me. i don’t love any one person any more than i love any other person. i have issues, and so does literally everyone else, including my mother. about a week ago she read something i’d written on here months ago about her, and has spoken approximately two words to me since. she’s a good person, who has lived a good and beautiful life, but obviously her life was never perfect. she has her own struggles, hardships, and traumas to work through, and plenty of growing to healing to do, as we all do, up until the very last second of our lives. so, her and my dad did the best they could to give me a good and happy childhood, but naturally they’ve made a few mistakes, and passed a bit of their own pain and unhealed traumas onto me, as all parents do. everyone has trauma. no ones life is better or worse than any other. we all suffer. we all experience joy. it just manifests itself in different ways in all of us. for me, it mainly presented itself in my eating disorder. my parents have never, as far as i’m aware of, acknowledged that any of the ways i acted out when i was hurting and hadn’t yet learned how to react in a healthy way, could possibly be even partially their fault. i forgive them for their mistakes, as I’ve moved past them as an individual, and i’m evolving. but together as a unit, us and our relationship can’t evolve an further until they become more mindful of how they react, and are able to see where they still need to learn, grow, and heal. healing comes from keeping each other accountable.

this is one of the first things i ever seriously wrote, inspired by a prompt we were given in eating disorder treatment

 i want to grow
not just physically,
into a beautiful, healthy body
that i can call a home

i want to grow
into a real human being.
i want to grow into more 
than a body or a hollow shell.

i want to grow
i want to be more than an object,
than a fixture at a party
like the booze and the drugs and the music

i want to grow
i want a purpose
for my own self

i want to grow.
i want my purpose to be for
my own longterm happiness
not to please a stranger for one night.

i want to grow
i want to grow my soul,
and feel my spirit fill my body
until it overflows and radiates outward.

i want to grow
and grow
and grow

what i’m too afraid to say

i really, most truly, do love everyone.
i like most people.
there are very few who i don't get along with or enjoy spending time around.
but there are very few,
who ignite such an interest in me, as you.
who have me completely captivated, dying to figure you out,
excitedly yearning for our next moment together,
reigniting in me the love and joy that we are all born as-
when we are but excitable, pure, curious children-
that seems to slowly become overshadowed in so many.
you have no idea.
i already wrote a poem about you.
fuck.
i just want to be your best friend.

a wish

i wish i knew how to write about the beautiful things,
the days as of late,
where my heart feels like sunshine,
and i'm blinded by the light that glows,
outward from all of the beautiful people,
my friends of both new and old.
the days where my feet feel like clouds,
as i walk on air,
in a world so beautiful,
it just might be heaven.
but i only know so few words on these days,
like 'beautiful', and 'sunshine', and 'love'.
describing pain is easy.
but today,
the sweet nectar of life,
the essence of my existence,
is just too damn good.

sorry its been a minute! i’ve been busy moving into my new house, expect a lot more to come!!

love,

aud

mom

my relationship with my mother has never been good. it has never been easy. i’ve always found myself to do my best when she is kept afar, and i don’t have to speak to her often. as i’ve been spending more time around her again, i can feel things getting bad again. things are bad with me and her. things are bad with me and myself. things are bad with me and my dad. i’d go into detail, but quite frankly living with her, and living with my own sick mind, is beyond exhausting. last night i saw her for the first time in about a week. within minutes of her arrival, we were arguing about an avocado, about how i’m useless and can’t do anything right, about how i’ll never be anything more than a big disappointment and that she hates me and regrets giving birth to me. a normal interaction for us, but it reminded me of some of our worst exchanges, sending me into a dark spiral of reading old text messages to my friends where i disclosed some of the most outrageous things that she has said, some of the most outrageous things i have ever heard. sometimes its hard to tell where her craziness ends and mine begins. she denies being anything less than the best, most loving mother, and it has always been hard for me to accept that she is not fully to blame for my struggles, that i myself have to be held accountable, but its just as hard to not believe her when she tells me she hates me, that all of the bad things are my fault, etc. etc. the darkest, most confusing spiral.

we love our mothers,
and the earth
for giving us life,
for providing for us,
and giving us a home.

logically, i should love myself,
for making decisions to create
the future that I want.
for feeding and taking care of my body.

but instead, I beat myself up
over every bad decision,
every mistake,
regardless of how much I enjoyed it,
or what i got out of it.

i despise myself,
for every morsel i eat,
for anything i ever do
to benefit only myself.
i thank my mother
for the opportunity to walk this earth,
yet hate myself for walking it.

the habit of self-destruction

these past few days, this poem that I wrote has really been resonating with me. things have never really gotten easier, I just started doing them anyway. every day is still a struggle, which often leaves me wondering why. why is it so hard? why do I want to give up and do things that I know are no good for me?

I smoke cigarettes
I used to tear open my skin
I've detached myself from my body,
and sold it,
for money and for drugs.
Was I trying to get rid of it?
And give it up entirely to another?
We don't jump off the plane
on our way to vacation,
or dive out of our cars,
as we drive down the highway.
So why should I abort my vessel?

another poem

as i was writing my last post, about feeling stuck in the past and fearing that i may be struggling more than i realize, i couldn’t help but to think of a couple pieces that i had written, one being an essay, and the other being this poem that i wrote, while i sat in a rather soft and cozy chair in a cold, rigid treatment center, where there were too many bright and stale fluorescent lights, but it felt like one of the darkest places on earth; a poem i wrote about the days of my life that were simply cold and dark, any way you tried to look at it.

buried in snow,
i reach out,
forcing my arm through the wall,
of frozen icy crystals,
for you.
others try to help,
but i insist on waiting for you.

on a mattress on the floor,
in a locked room,
of a dark,
unfurnished apartment,
my bare skin,
pressed against your warm, naked body.

seeking comfort from those
who cause me fear,
the more you hurt me,
the stronger i cling to you.

bricks

i was never much of a poetry person. yeah i could appreciate a good poem. but a year and a half ago i never would’ve even imagined myself writing one. i found my love of poetry while i was in treatment for my eating disorder, when i was all of a sudden feeling all of the emotions i’d held back for so long, but was still just barely well enough to form a coherent thought or lift a pen. for whatever reason, a lot of my first poems referenced bricks, an object i’d never given much thought to. i hope that maybe by sharing two of my favorite poems about bricks, i can figure out their strange personal significance.

Who Gave Me This Body

who gave me this body?
my soul has always been,
drifting through this universe,
where God put me.
in the beginning of time,
with a purpose, with a plan.

a home was made haphazardly,
with bricks, and a glue stick,
and some feathers.
people saw beauty in this structure,
in the way they saw the leaning tower of pisa,
as they looked on with anticipation,
and awe,
wondering how it had yet to fall over.

i suffocated,
trying to squeeze through the cracks,
as i feared the tower would collapse,
inwardly on me.

but why not let it happen?
let the tower fall.
are bricks not beautiful?
why can't they be scattered,
and broken,
with crusty glue,
and the odd feather or two.
i knew a woman who collected bricks.
who ever dared to tell me
that my pile of bricks
had to be formed into a tower?

The Brick Pillow

every night,
she lay her head,
on her brick pillow.

and every morning,
she'd complain
of a headache

and every day,
her lover would offer
to buy her a new pillow.

and every time,
she'd refuse.

and every evening,
she'd lay back down,
on her brick pillow.

on moving on (part 1)

home.
i used to think i needed a someone or a somewhere
to be home.
at the end of the day,
we would come home to each other.
your smile shined, it radiated from my eyes
the warmth of your arms
burst out of the core of my very being.
we'd come home.
to our little apartment
on the sixth floor
of one of thousands of buildings
in a city so full of life,
in a city that didn't even know my name.
but i knew hers.
i knew her name and her love and her comfort.
that city,
that building,
that apartment was "home"
but why shouldn't i be my own home?
with no limits but the edge of my skin?
the universe within me
as much as i am within it?
i am free.
i can fly.
i am home.

back home

my life is so different now that i’m back home, in my childhood bedroom, after hardly having spent any decent chunks of time here in the past two years. thoughts of the way things once were and the way i thought things would still be often flood my head, so naturally i’ve been writing poems about it such as this one, which i have titled “I miss you”

i miss you.
sometimes i feel like i don't exist
or maybe i just don't want to.
i'm afraid to be awake, 
stuck with the thought of you,
followed by your memory.
i'm afraid to sleep most nights,
knowing we'll inevitably be reunited in my dreams.
and dreams end.
a painful reminder that its no longer real,
and feels like it never was.
everything i did i did for you.
so now i no longer know why,
or even how,
to do anything.
you follow me too close,
wherever i go,
but only when you're many miles away.
i miss you.