On Home - a poem by William Bethea
On home and dusty objects:
Scatterings, prayers and junctions.
The wind, alone, restless persists,
Guiding sky water
Feeds emotional tricklings,
Flows from wounded height
To the vast, loyal, wanton ocean.
This is Your GiftAll that you love shall be taken from you.
As punishment, all your attachments will be destroyed.
You will be continually tempted with all that you want and that you cannot keep.
You will be given no actual choice; all your choices will be mere delusion.
You will torture your own mind and twist your own perceptions in an overwhelming effort to avert your attention from the simple truth that all existence is suffering.
You are expected to perpetually succor your tortured mind with images of illusionary happiness until the moment of your inevitable sacrifice.
This is consciousness; this is your gift; this is your punishment for daring to exist.
The Ruins - Part IThe Ruins - Poems of Loss
by William Bethea
Once, when I went to the Darkness;
I left behind my precious things.
When I arrived at Its door,
There was no answer.
Upon returning home,
I found It waiting. The Darkness
Held my precious secrets in its teeth,
Ground them into dust and spit them
In my face, laughing.
Once, there was no where to turn.
The Darkness pretended to be my friend.
It welcomed me into Its lair.
As It fed me, nurtured me,
Comforted me, loved me,
It siphoned away my soul.
As I wept in utter delusion,
The Darkness consoled my broken heart,
Smothered my face into Its bosom,
Offered Its orifices to slake my misery,
Suckled my pain and fed on my loss.
The Darkness would became engorged,
Eyes rolling back, head lolling,
Grinning gleefully, contented,
Collapsing, in unconscious satiation
Until my need arose again.
Returning lucidity repudiated the Darkness.
It fled from my shattered existence, dying.
Only then, did I recognize
The endless irreparable ruins remaining.
My GoddessI prayed to my Goddess
Through many a Moon's night
To be worthy of the inspiration that
One of Her priestesses might provide.
Instead, She blessed me not merely
With Her divine delegate,
But with the Adorable Manifestation
Of Her Pure, Lovely and Perfect Grace.
Bound forever in grateful service,
I devote my works to this rebirth.
This Test and Gift, both, presented,
My Goddess now doth walk the Earth.
Her SkinHer skin
By the back light
Glows with inner fire
The scent of twilight lingers
On her neck
Her shoulders her
Thoughts on Growing UpThoughts on Growing Up
I exist more inside of my mind
Than in reality.
I am not sure what I am trying to find.
I think I am trying to lose
I liked the sing song of nursery rhymes
Before I knew the story behind them.
I liked the way the world looked
Before I could read between its lines.
They sound nothing like my little kid lullabies.
Everything seems to remind me
Of how it will never be
What I wished it was.
I thought growing up was supposed to make me stand tall.
My veins are roots
Digging themselves into the ground.
But nobody ever warned me
Of the tree snapping
And I feel like a little kid,
I’ve got bright eyes and scraped up knees.
The scratches so alive and raw.
You use grown up band aids
To cover up your wide eyed dreams.
But I was never one for reality.
Keep your band aids.
I’ll make my own way to the Neverland
That I dreamed of.
I’ll make my own lullaby.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
Art and Other WeaponsI use words like an anchor.
Tying myself down to a piece of paper.
In books my heroes used swords,
I use a pen.
I got a mind as violent as a hurricane.
I could use these words to build me a raft.
Because it’s the only weapon I have.
And this pen isn’t what it looks like.
I finally found some sort of voice.
I can use it. These thoughts inside our heads are like bombs, so let’s defuse it.
It’s my torch.
I could burn the shadows, set fire to these fears.
I could use ink instead of tears.
I could use books and poetry like a night light
Because I never liked the dark anyways.
I could use it like a head stone…
Writing about all of my friends who couldn’t find a flash light
I could write and write
Until my skin was stained with lilies made of ink.
I write because I think
And when you think too much there is no escape.
So I say, when everything is too much
Little dream weaver, you have all the pieces.
Arm yourself with a paint brush,
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which
Trapped WithinShut up!
I don't want to listen anymore.
Get out of my head!
I can't depend on anyone.
There is no way to save me.
If it's up to me to make the voices leave,
I am powerless.
All I can do is try and drown them out with music.
I find myself closing up.
No need to worry anyone.
sometimes pain is the only way to tone things down.
I really hope things change.
Whispers of the sweet release offered by a blade seduce.
I can't though.
I have reasons not to.
I want to be free,
but I can't escape myself.
People are busy.
People are stressed.
People are sick.
Who am I supposed to talk to?
Who could I trust?
I can only cry and crank the volume of my music.
Sleep would be best,
but I can only sleep so much.
Go away go away GO AWAY!!!
and take my pain with you!
I am such an idiot.
you're much stronger than you thinkI'll be the first to tell you
scissors don't need to be brought to a wrist
to cut deep
because cutting off your heart from you head,
or yourself from your dreams,
is also enough
to make you bleed
and there's ink spilled all over these pages,
and at times it seems tears
are cheaper than water from a spout:
these lines need diluted,
these blots are a dark, dark sea
and maybe I'm not too good at swimming,
even if it's just through a pool of ink
but I've learned if you just keep paddling,
you're much stronger than you think.
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.