I Feel Alone Is A Roomful Of People Who Are Supposed To Know My Name

I feel alone is a roomful of people who are supposed to know my name

Who am I? What am I? A ghost watching as they run past me

On with their lives, leaving me behind, I want them to stay but 

I’m too afraid to reach out, grab a hand, hold it like my lifeline 

And ask for just a chance, a moment of their time, for help. 

~

Alone in a roomful of people supposed to know my name

I can’t breathe, stuttering sounds, and I know I won’t last long

Anxiety so thick I can’t see and I’m lonely amongst the very people 

I’m not supposed to feel alone with but still the kindest of words feel cruel.

~ 

It’s bubbling up through my pores

I can’t keep doing this--I’m going crazy

Pretending I’m okay when really I’m breaking. 

~ 

Please don’t hate me

Please don’t make me tell you everything

Just let me cry on your shoulder in silence

Hold me tight and don’t let go. 

~ 

I’m alone…

I’m alone…

Please don’t let me go…

I’m drowning...please hold me. 

~ 

Show me

Show me

Show me I’m not as alone as I feel. 

~ 

All I want is a moment

Just a moment where 

“How are you?” isn’t just a pleasantry

Echoing empty concern but actually held 

Warmth and comforting hope wrapping around 

My fragile frame, whispering that it’s gonna be okay.

~ 

I just want a moment…

Just a moment...show me your heart

Show me your love...please don't let me fall. 

Hold me.

I’m not good at this anymore. I used to write so much. There was a truth, a depth, to my prose before. Now my words feel superficial, always wrapped up in a positive ribbon. Presentable but hardly seems realistic enough to hold true. When I was sad, my words were alarmingly real, shocking and cause of concern. Now I’m happy and my words sound plastic and cliche. I’m going through a phase of self-growth and self-love, where all I can talk about is the revolutionary concept that “being kind is cool” as if preschools haven’t been churning out that content to every generation. I’ve grown boring. My writing’s mundane. My work fills me up with stories but they’re too strange to convey. If I were to write an experience and capture its essence so truly, it must be enveloped in context. These poems and excerpts are inherently without context. They exist in a bubble. The bubble I exist in is surrounded by too many subplots to adequately convey. I need better organization to share the thoughts that rattle around in my brain into these long hours. The best I can do is make my thoughts palatable: remove the context, the subplots and boil it down to plastic. Cold, rigid, lacking all the depth from which it arose. I need more time before these stories will ever be properly told.

Grazia Curcuru (via prosebyday)

MAP OF THE SOUL: 7

VERSION F O U R

Walking along this road

My heart moves and I see you

Snow staining lashes you see me

And I breathe, white smoke in the wind

Drifting away to kiss your face. 

~

So, it seems I’m still here

Snow crunching underfoot

I’m here I’m still here

I feel you again

Tears fall. 

~ 

I pushed you away 

And on this frozen road

I found you again 

My heart was shaken

And yet you still came back. 

~ 

I meet you on the road 

We both promised to never return

Yet here we are fated--destined even

To stare once more into familiar eyes. 

~ 

My heart aches the place you carved out

I remember--I remember now--what you made me feel. 

~ 

I was afraid of time

I was afraid of what it would feel like

To fall freely into love so graciously given

I ran only to find my way back to you. 

~ 

So, it seems I’m still here

Snow crunching underfoot

I’m here I’m still here

I feel you again….

~ 

And I know I broke your heart

Please forgive my damaged part

I hadn’t known just your heart. 

~ 

Yet, I’m here now

Ready to begin again

Ready to try….with you. 

We were promised it would make us happy

A dazzling future full of dollar signs and predictable endings

Follow the plan...

This is what you should do...

We didn't know any better

We didn't know what to do

Too naive to see that the things they

Wanted for us wasn't at all what we should do.

 ~

It seemed so simple then

Do this...

Date him...

Apply there...

Graduate from here...

Know who to talk to do you get what you want...

But now we're left here scarred by gaping wounds.

 ~

Who are you

And who am I?

Why are we so dead inside?

Living life complacently while

Our hearts slowly turn blue.

~

Stuck now I think that I quit

No, I can't keep doing this

Pretending that I'm happy when

I all want is room...

~

Room to breathe and room to think

Examine all my broken bits

Break me down and gouge the seams

Get back to who I used to be…

~

We were promised it would make  us happy

But now we have to suck the poison from a raging wound

And taste the bitter monologue of words too heavy to admit

The venom of the world's facade.

~

Happy...maybe not now but someday.

Some words to use when writing things:

winking

clenching

pulsing

fluttering

contracting

twitching

sucking

quivering

pulsating

throbbing

beating

thumping

thudding

pounding

humming

palpitate

vibrate

grinding

crushing

hammering

lashing

knocking

driving

thrusting

pushing

force

injecting

filling

dilate

stretching

lingering

expanding

bouncing

reaming

elongate

enlarge

unfolding

yielding

sternly

firmly

tightly 

harshly

thoroughly

consistently

precision

accuracy

carefully

demanding

strictly

restriction

meticulously

scrupulously

rigorously

rim

edge

lip

circle

band

encircling

enclosing

surrounding

piercing

curl

lock

twist

coil

spiral

whorl

dip

wet

soak

madly

wildly

noisily

rowdily

rambunctiously

decadent

degenerate

immoral

indulgent

accept

take

invite

nook

indentation

niche

depression

indent

depress

delay

tossing

writhing

flailing

squirming

rolling

wriggling

wiggling

thrashing

struggling

grappling

striving

straining