anonymous, dark, expression, nostalgia, Uncategorized, words, writing

unrequited emotion

When love hurts; it’s the real kind. I found myself saying that,
as I bit my tongue and patiently waited for tears to stop falling down.
I’ll be okay, you said. stupid enough, but I fell for that lie.

Years down the line, here I am. I feel more broken than ever and it’s all because I can’t seem to let go of past memories that now haunt my soul like a skeleton in the closet.

As the days turn into months and then so forth, you start to feel empty inside, like nothing could hurt you more because it’s already too painful. I trusted you when you said I’d be okay, that it was okay to feel like this as long as I knew it was going to get better.
I now found it all to be a complete lie. I found it wasn’t better, no improvement in the slightest and I feel like a fool for thinking I could believe you after your departure.

I’m sure everyone’s thinking the same; poor girl, having a pity celebration for days.
although, it was far worse; it was the definition of ice-cold hatred towards self.

Sure, they both are pretty much the same thing, but I guess it depends…

I’ve found solace in written drafts, hidden notes all over the web.
personally, it’s a relief to pour my emotions out in peace like this.
I know, I’m not the greatest writer or artistic creation – I’m a mess.

Honestly, poems are a loophole, a sense of belonging and unconditional support, something that will never just stand up and walk out the door, or tell you it doesn’t love you anymore, unlike the people who walk in and out of your life as if your existence is fading. I write to free my soul of pain, to feel the weight fall off my shoulders, just to feel alive once again. I’m sure it means little or nothing to others, but without my creativity, I’d most likely not be here anymore and that’s just how that is. I feel it completes me, strengthens me and helps me rise from the ashes no matter how badly I burn in the fire of the moment and the pain of old tragedies. Nostalgia finds itself around me still though.

As I write this, I overthink the concept without intent, I censor my mind to sound less of a crazy person than I already think I am. I judge my every word before anyone gets a chance, I find myself writing all the things my mind is thinking. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, neither do I even know the difference. but regardless, here I am; as bare and brutally honest as a person will ever be, sharing a piece of me I’d usually keep to myself.

Writing in general helps me cope, it’s the one thing I turn to in times of pain.

 

 

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