It’s a new century.
Everyone has lips stretching to their ears,
cheekbones with a fine line razored on.
Waists suctioned by a vacuum.
It’s a new century.
A century where anyone can look like anything.
The doctor will plump your chest,
a surgery to define your stomach,
will make you feel more confident, your best!
Botox.
A face with permanent perfection.
No blemish,
an unwavering portrait.
I was never unaware of the fake identity of this world,
or of myself.
I never went to a doctor,
yet my face holds an everlasting smile.
A grin stretching from my lips to my ears,
I laugh when I am supposed to,
I look like a perfect image.
One with the crowd.
Maybe better than the crowd,
because that’s what you wanted.
No one likes ugly.
No one likes blemishes, acne, and cellulite,
so I wore none.
My tears were suctioned up,
my makeup never stained.
My smile,
wide as ever.
My eyes,
If you looked close enough, you could see the void.
A small sacrifice.
To be perfect.
Unblemished.
To you.
To this world.
Broken,
is not beautiful.
A crack in the facade,
a slight inconsistency,
give me the injection.
Hold my face tight,
bare my teeth,
I smile.
I smile so wide.
For you.
I am not broken,
I am a picture of perfection.
A tear may slip,
I take another injection.
Tighter.
Clenching my teeth.
I smile,
I laugh,
Flawless.
Consistent.
Safe.
Beautiful.
It’s a new Century.
We can look like anything we want to be,
and I can look like anything you want me to be.
Frankie, this poem is truly eye-opening. In this time, the beauty standard can be so fierce and intimidating. It’s extremely difficult to not compare yourself to the instagram models with perfect bodies, your best friend who has the clearest skin in existence, or even your family members, wishing you inherited the ‘good genes.’ Even though you m…read more
Youth is bittersweet.
We go from careless and free,
to conscious and caged.
Some grow up to embody their younger lives,
entwined with leaves of maturity and vines of knowledge.
Others,
are broken by the anger in the world.
What was so beautiful is now seen as a place of fear.
A castle is now dilapidated ruins.
A forest of nymphs and fairies,
leave only wood and dry leaves in its array.
Yet with growth, comes knowledge.
With knowledge, comes power.
And power,
Power leaves you with options.
Power leaves you with opportunities,
with confidence and success.
And pain.
Youth,
carefree and untouched by the world.
Unblemished, free of calluses and judgment.
Youth,
so oblivious.
Yet scars adorn us as we age,
wrinkles decorate us as our time ticks.
It’s a symbol,
a symbol of life.
No, not life,
a symbol of living.
Love, pain, and everything in between.
I remember as a child,
before I was speckled with scars,
I donned a pink robe everywhere I went.
to acquire mail, to run in the forest, feeding pets and watching films.
Scratchy from wear and tear,
pink fading to gray to brown to every other color spilled upon it.
As I grew my hair out,
as my freckles darkened,
The pink robe stayed.
In all it’s tacky finery.
Yet it also opened a door unbeknownst to me,
a door most open in their life.
My friends came to my house,
I answered the door.
The physical door.
And I saw judgment,
I saw not kids,
I saw tweens and teens.
And I saw the side glances,
as I stood there in my pink–
pinkish,
robe.
I beckoned them in,
they had seen me in my usual apparel,
why was I experiencing a foreign feeling?
This new door opened,
I now know it as shame.
Oh my darling,
I’m telling you now,
what I love most about you:
are not your struggles,
the battles you’ve won,
the demons you’ve fought,
the successes you have had,
the memories you have made.
What I love most about you,
even though it has changed;
was how easy it was to be yourself.
Even though time moves,
clocks tick,
youth is not forever.
Carefree was not an adjective found in just your adolescence,
It was adorned with your soul.
It was the purity in being your own true self.
That is what I loved so much.
I hope I make you proud.
And remember,
even though without a pink robe,
even with the knowledge of fear, failure and shame,
I can still be myself.
My armor is gone,
but my power is not.
Because with power I have opportunities,
I have options.
I have confidence.
I have pain.
But at least,
It’s my power.
The power of being true to yourself:
Something no one can take.
Frankie, I am so inspired by your words. As children, we are only concerned with what we enjoy and don’t yet worry about what others will think. Then one day that changes and we become ashamed of our own “pink robe”. Once we lose that childhood innocence, we have to be strong enough to let our true selves free. Thank you for sharing your beautiful poetry.
I thought long and hard about this concept.
I thought of nights of dancing in the forest,
I thought of relief after finishing a test.
I thought of laying my head upon my pillow for rest,
But none of these seemed like true peace, I confess.
Peace
Over and over did I ponder.
What took away that weight on my shoulders? That boulder?
What made me feel Happier, Stronger, Prouder?
What made me feel like I was flying, not drowning underwater?
What made me stop and think, I wish this moment was longer?
Peace
Peace you cannot hold.
Peace is taking off the pressures society has rendered you to mold.
Peace is being true, being bold.
Peace is accepting you and letting go of control.
Peace can be dancing in the forest through rain, storm, and cold.
Peace can be coffee with friends over coffee and shopping bags sold.
Peace,
Is acceptance
Is love
Is grace
Is forgiveness
Is gentle
Is kind
Is honest
Peace
Is you in your truest form.
Frankie, this is such a wonderful poem! For many people, peace isn’t just a certain time or place where they feel relaxed. Peace can be a mindset! My favorite line of yours would have to be when you said that “Peace is accepting you and letting go of control” because when you are at peace, you shouldn’t have a care in the world! Your mind can get…read more
I wake up like I never went to bed.
Sleep is upon my open eyes,
yet they are glazed and scarlet red.
I don’t remember what happened yesterday,
nor do I have a semblance of what the day holds.
I schedule my life out to stop the mind decay.
I sip my coffee until I realize for two hours it’s been cold.
I glance around myself,
“When did I put that picture on my wall?”
“Did I put it together or buy that bookshelf?”
Sometimes I wonder if there’s someone I could call?
But for everyone living their lives,
going to school, work, home, sleep-
It really wouldn’t make sense to hear my cries.
I can’t remember how my mind got so deep.
How I can’t recollect moving into this apartment.
I know I pay for bills, electric and such,
I have a garage that has my car now with a dent,
I mean I remember that much.
I used to go to college,
I had a friend, I think.
But school never taught me a good message.
I always felt blue and everyone was pink,
like I had a mask.
I was so perfect, smart and happy,
but at home, there was always a panic attack waiting for me,
a part no one could, nor would ever see.
Somehow I stopped driving to college.
I had several jobs and goals,
yet I couldn’t find my true meaning or message.
Outside I seemed successful with my methods and morals,
but it seems there’s a part of my soul left behind,
somewhere along moving out and now,
I lost my mind.
Either that or the matrix has me now under its hold.
Somedays I feel the grass under my feet,
and other times
I can’t even look at myself without wanting to retreat.
Cause somewhere along the lines,
I lost me,
and I don’t think I can get her back.
Somewhere on the other side of the root and the tree,
ss the life of that little girl I now lack.
God, I just want to wake up sometimes
without shocking myself with my own touch.
To not wonder If I committed any crimes,
cause my hands are calloused and rough,
From something I can’t even remember,
or can even give a second thought.
When I go to sleep at night
It’s with dread and regret,
that I have no idea what happened in this fight.
But what can you do as you watch the sun set,
It’s the matrix.
Maybe one day,
someone will come and it will all be,
fixed.
Frankie, you have so much purpose and so many gifts. Just one day at a time, try new things, and pay close attention to what makes you feel good. Keep pushing. Sending you a hug <3 Lauren
There’s a reason I tell people I’m “blonde.”
I mean the blonde beyond the hair color,
the one that goes with the average stereotype-
Bubbly, dumb and without a care in the world.
A pretty face.
I tell people this for a reason.
I don’t have a memory of a goldfish,
I just don’t remember 7 years of my life.
Although,
it’s a lot easier to say–
“I’m blonde.”
Then it is to say,
“My brain shuts off from trauma.”
It’s a lot easier for people to think,
“She’s just a pretty face,
just an airhead.”
Expectations are a lot lower.
No one expects you to be Valedictorian.
No one expects you to be a sports team captain.
No,
You’re just a blonde.
People talk as if you’re
Neither here, nor there.
Just because
you’re a blonde.
It opens your eyes really.
Helps you see what people think,
really think of you.
One day,
I told someone
the thoughts in my head.
The years I don’t recollect.
How I can barely get out of bed.
How living came to be something I dread.
You know what they said?
I was too blonde.
Too blonde, too white, too girly,
To not want to be on this earth.
Girls like me,
Girls like me don’t get suicidal.
Girls like me,
Girls like me don’t want to die.
Girls like me,
Girls like me can’t even think.
“Stop playing the victim.”
I was told.
“Stop pretending you are quirky.”
I was told.
“It’s all in your head.”
Yes,
I know it’s in my head.
It never stops.
It never stops playing in my head.
That was the one time,
I wish I didn’t play the role of a blonde.
After that,
It showed,
stereotypes are real.
Stereotypes,
will make your decisions for you.
For someone who can’t remember
Who they are,
Who looks back
in the mirror.
It’s easy to see
the exterior.
The Blonde hair.
When people ask,
all you have to do is point.
Point at the hair, the head, the skull.
Maybe they will take it as
“Oh, a blonde.”
Or maybe someone will see,
Finally see,
I’m not pointing at my hair.
I’m pointing at the pain.
The kind no one sees,
The kind embedded so deep.
The kind,
Possibly,
embedded in my brain.
Or
intertwined through my golden strands.
The kind I’m scared,
God forbid,
I tell someone else about.
And the years I neglect to remember,
the pain I hear every morning,
Is too dark to hinder the sunshine on my head.
No demon would ever think to touch
that smiling, golden, airhead.
No,
life is easier when you are blonde.
Too dumb,
Too pretty,
Too white,
To have any expectations.
Any fears,
any demons.
This moment,
It plays,
like a broken record in my mind.
In my blonde little head.
It’s one I can’t forget,
and I don’t want to.
I want to remember the day
I set boundaries.
The day
I had to remind myself,
people will judge you,
hate you
loathe you even,
but the most pain,
That comes from those you trust.
Or rather,
trusted.
You can give someone only
too many chances
before you have to realize
maybe,
just maybe,
they aren’t good for you.
Because,
that day
I realized I was worth,
More than an exterior.
More than my thoughts.
More than your thoughts.
I am so much more,
Than a blonde.
My head tells me otherwise
most days,
If not
everyday.
I do not,
I do not,
need you,
nor anyone else to tell me
Who I am.
I am a blonde.
Yet,
My mind tells me more sinister words.
I am on my knees most days,
with my golden head bowed.
Praying.
For a little reprieve.
I can’t run from what’s inside,
but I can let go
what doesn’t serve me.
This moment in time
showed me,
and still replays,
like a broken record
In my sunshine globe.
Although knowledge comes from pain
often,
because now I know,
I’m worth so much.
I don’t need anyone,
To tell me anything,
Different.
Just because
I’m too white,
Too basic,
Too blonde,
And apparently not,
Different.
Frankie, My heart breaks when I read about how hurt you are, but it made me very happy to read this part, “now I know,
I’m worth so much.
I don’t need anyone,
To tell me anything,
Different.”
It is so true. Do not buy into or pay any mind to other people’s thoughts and stereotypes in our society. You are your own individual and your hair col…read more
Like all chapters,
They close.
And,
another opens.
Like all chapters,
you start at the beginning.
Until,
you reach the end.
You can’t skip pages,
you dare not skip over words.
You might miss something,
something that changes the whole,
plot, timeline, ending.
You yell at the main character,
“Don’t do that!”
“Can’t you see?”
You cry with the sidekicks.
You laugh over the comedic relief.
You hope for the star crossed lovers.
But never,
Never,
do you skip chapters.
This chapter of mine,
Sometimes, I wish I could skip.
It’s not glamorous,
Nor funny.
It’s actually quite,
dare I say,
depressing?
This chapter,
Chapter 19,
Healing.
It’s a long one,
but a necessary one.
It’s a chapter where
you find the main character
crying,
on the kitchen floor.
You find them driving
with no destination.
It’s a chapter
of tears in the shower
so at least they can pretend
they aren’t real,
They aren’t in pain.
they can forget,
just for a moment,
the title of this Chapter.
It’s a chapter where you scream
at the main character,
for using the same old habits.
For reminding them,
all stories have happy endings.
They will get through this.
It’s a chapter of lots of dots and dashes,
no climax.
A silent wait,
Minus the occasional tear.
But,
every so often,
the character smiles.
And every so often
you see,
the growth.
You follow this character
through the ups and downs.
And yes,
this chapter isn’t pretty,
Glamorous,
Exciting,
Even worth reading sometimes.
Yet,
It’s a chapter that you know
without it,
the character wouldn’t be who they are.
This chapter,
Chapter 19.
I call it healing.
This chapter,
Chapter 19.
Is quite boring
in the eyes of the beholder.
Yet,
scattered tears on the kitchen floor
and missed smiles.
It’s a beautiful chapter,
and the next chapter
would be entirely different
If I didn’t read this one.
Frankie!!!!!! I am so proud of you! This piece is beautiful, and you are growing and healing and looking at the world through a more positive and hopeful perspective. And that fills my heart so much. Keep letting out those tears. Tears let out endorphins, so they can make you feel better. Keep writing. Keep healing. Keep growing. This is your…read more
The problem with loving yourself,
The problem with me writing this poem,
The problem with you reading this,
Is that I don’t love myself.
I don’t adore myself.
One could incorporate a word
unbeknownst to love
about myself.
Similar to loathing.
Yet,
Here I am.
Writing this.
I think it’s because
I’m learning,
I am not giving up.
One day,
My body will learn the word.
My body will feel the kindness,
Towards its own interior.
My body will know love!
Right now,
I don’t have that capability.
But I’m trying.
I look to the little things I do,
I look at the way I cook.
The way I set my plate for dinner,
Alone.
In my house,
but choosing to nourish,
my helpful body.
My,
dare I say,
Beautiful self?
Right now,
I don’t adore many things,
If they correlate with me.
But…
Right now,
I stare at my skin,
I stare at the way
my hands gently scrub
soap upon my skin.
Not pinching my abdomen.
Not covering the scars.
I just watch,
As the foam spreads over
My soft, gentle covering.
I can’t answer this question.
Maybe I shouldn’t even be writing this.
Maybe it’s silly.
But I usually am kind of silly.
With how I can’t walk in a straight line,
when I’ve never had a drink.
With how I go to the movies with a notebook,
so I don’t forget a line.
Or how
If I laugh too hard
I start crying,
and then I start crying
Because I’m able to laugh.
Silly little me.
Well I guess this was a waste of paper,
I never got to answer your question.
Maybe I’ll learn the answer
One day.
And I’ll tell you all about it.
Frankie, it sounds like you have so many reasons to love yourself. Keep fighting to see that and lean into that love. Lean into all the little things and big thinks that make you you. You are kind. You are wonderful, a quite frankly I am slightly jealous of anyone who can cook without burning themselves 100 times over. jk. But i do wish i could…read more
Frankie, it sounds like you have so many reasons to love yourself. Keep fighting to see that and lean into that love. Lean into all the little things and big things that make you you. You are kind. You are wonderful, a quite frankly I am slightly jealous of anyone who can cook without burning themselves 100 times over. jk. But I do wish I could…read more
To All of those
entering the new year,
To all those who felt
like they wasted their time,
during the 2023 season.
Ashamed,
Cause getting out of bed
Was like dragging nails
Down a chalkboard:
Painful.
Seemingly unnecessary.
To all those this 2024
That wish 2023 was their last.
Their last fight,
Their last struggling year.
To all those wondering
“Why do I have to do this?
Again.”
The cycle of the year,
Continuous .
Every birthday,
Every new year,
A reminder
That nothing changes these days.
Wake up.
Pour your cereal.
Cry.
Do the laundry.
Walk past the kitchen knives.
Get ready for work.
Hate the person in the mirror.
Grab another coffee.
Go to bed.
Shaking,
Cause the cycle doesn’t end.
Waiting,
Every day,
To just stop feeling.
Feeling sad.
Feeling hopeless.
Feeling dejected.
Feeling dirty.
To stop feeling!
To all those this 2024 season-
When everyone tells you
About their successes this year,
Just know,
I’m proud you survived.
Just know,
It’s another year alive.
Just know,
Even though no one knew,
You made it this year.
Just know,
That’s a celebration.
So when the clock strikes
This year at midnight
And a new year begins,
Celebrate.
Cause even if the cycle doesn’t end,
Even if you wake up dejected,
Your coffee is cold.
Even if getting out of bed
Is worse than styrofoam
Scraping across each other.
You made it another year.
A hopeless cycle,
Maybe?
But one you conquer
Everyday.
That no one knows about.
Wow, so powerful. Keep pushing. Be positive. Your happy ending is out there. And know every step forward you take, I am proud of you. Thank you for sharing. <3 Lauren
Dear Unsealers,
I came up with an analogy to describe a battle with anxiety, I hope one can read this and feel less alone in their battles, or better yet, it will not resonate with you.
What every therapist tells you sounds a lot like stop, drop, and roll.
Firemen say that when there is an urgent flame upon you.
When you get anxious,
A therapist will tell you:
“Breathe, look around you, and slow down.”
But it’s easy when a fireman tells you the 3 simple steps.
You see the problem,
you put the flame out,
and you double check while on the floor.
But when in a panic attack;
You are already breathing too much,
looking around, you see everything inciting the anxiety to begin with.
And when you slow down,
You see how tired you really are.
Tired of putting out the flame,
every day,
every night,
only for it to reappear again and again.
Like a video game;
Bleep, bleep,
You lost five points.
You touched the fire ball.
And yet the whole time, you are repeating the steps.
“Karen, where did I go wrong this time?”
“I breathed!”
“I saw three colors!”
“I slowed down!”
“But then why am I burned?”
“Why am I covered in ash
Am I supposed to turn into a phoenix?”
“Or is the smoke clouding my vision?”
“That must be it
When I breathe the smoke is ingested to my lungs,
when I look around it’s all in dust,
when I slow down,
the flame engulfs me.”
“Haha, thanks Karen,
now I can’t feel anything.”
Numb to the fire.
Numb to the pain.
Now I’m just ash,
Watch me drift away.
Anonymous, Your analogy beautifully captures the struggles of battling anxiety. It’s a consistent fight, and sometimes the traditional advice doesn’t seem to work. Your words resonate with those who understand the exhaustion and frustration. Remember, you are not alone. Keep sharing your experiences and supporting others in their journeys.
I’ve been told by therapy,
To write to my personality.
After all, “you’re just a shell,”
A shell for my inner hell
but they never spoke of that fact,
So, instead I’m writing to my outer contact
Dear Body,
This is really more of an apology.
Dear Body,
I know it was wrong to fill your head with lies;
When I told you to be smaller
That it didn’t matter if you died.
I’m sorry I decorated you with scars and blood and pain,
Instead of earrings, make-up and gold stain.
I’m sorry for throwing you at walls
Hoping it would make your heart stall
I’m sorry for locking doors
So no one would witness you on the floor.
I’m sorry for banging your head on doors and glass
I mean, anyone would see that as crass.
I’m sorry for shoving my fingers down your throat,
All because I couldn’t cope.
I’m sorry for the hours spent in front of a toilet
Sitting in front of bile after nothing was left.
I’m sorry for the reason you can’t use a straw
Because it made your throat raw.
I’m sorry for that drawer I never should have let stay
Of knives, scissors and razors to make the pain go away.
I’m sorry for letting your mouth lie,
To tell everyone you didn’t want to die.
I’m sorry you had to tell your sibling:
“No, mom threw out the hand soap”
(not because you chugged it in hope of a killing).
I’m sorry you couldn’t change in front of friends
Because of the scars under your jeans.
I’m sorry I told you that you were worthless,
To shrink to let go of stress.
I’m sorry you felt alone
Because you’re hell was at home.
I’m sorry I made you pull over on the side of the road
To bring up the elements of energy
(or so I was told).
I’m sorry no one knew of your attempts
Not friends, family, or even therapists
I’m sorry that it was one, two and three
And all because you wanted to be free.
I’m sorry you can’t look in the mirror
Because what you see, you might fear.
I’m sorry you told everyone that lie:
“I’m fine.”
I’m sorry you woke up in the middle of the night
Because the only person you would ever fight
Is in your head,
And it wanted you dead.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
But remember
Those scars are burns from the cafe you worked at!
The reason your throat closes when stressed
Has nothing to do with the bathroom and the thought of being fat.
Remember!
That red stain is ketchup on your mattress!
Straws are too expensive,
Remember!
You like soap bars more than hand soap, it’s a texture thing,
Remember!
You simply don’t have time to look in the mirror
You would if you had time or if you tried!
But, what color are your eyes?
Well body, that’s it, that’s my apology,
I’m sorry.
I am so very sorry for the hurt you felt, and the symptoms that followed. Now, It’s up to you to see the wonders of the body and the strength in your heart. You’re still here. You didn’t give up. Keep pushing to do whatever you need to do to love yourself and your body. It’s worth it. You are worth it. Also, seek help if you need it. You got this.…read more