A Love Letter to my Notes App and Bad Poetry II.

Hey again!

You probably didn’t think you’d hear from me so soon. However, in an unexpected turn of events, as it turns out, there’s more bad poetry to be shared.*Gasp* I know. But, since I did it once, I thought: why not continue this series with a little more of what’s been hiding in my notes app? Just as a disclaimer: thematically, this selection of poems may be slightly more depressing than the last. Most, although also only written about a year ago, were conceived during what I like to refer to as my sad girl era, and that was an interesting period for sure. Despite that, I hope you enjoy reading anyway. So without further ado, I present to you Bad Poetry Series II.

Ribbons

I liked to tie ribbons in my hair 

And sew them on my clothes.

I liked to use ribbons as necklaces

And decorative bows.

They always looked pretty.

And made me feel neat.

Until you took my ribbons.

You LIAR!

You CHEAT!

You took my ribbons and you stained them red.

You took my ribbons and tied my hands instead.

You took my ribbons and made them shackles for my feet.

You took my ribbons breaking me down with each beat.

My ribbons I never offered!

My ribbons I never shared!

Still, you took my ribbons. 

How little you cared?!

And the last of those untainted you kept,

refusing to let go.

You took my favorite things in the world and made them something [I] owed.

The Monster Underneath My Bed

The monster underneath my bed is a woman who's spent her whole existence begging to be loved by people who’d rather she be dead. She isn't demented, in fact, I fear she's sane; especially when you account for the number of times she's been mercilessly degraded and ironically rendered “inhumane.” Yet, she’s by far the most humane monster I have ever met. Not that I’ve met many. Except I know that when it comes to fangs and beady eyes, she’s got too little to display any. Though, she does cry a lot. To be honest I think she may be a little depressed. But, I would be too if I was called a monster when I’m relatively monster-less.

Pretty.

Being told you are “pretty” for the first time is as though someone has seen something in you that you never thought attainable. It’s this magical moment where you can’t help but be still and bright-eyed.

How insignificant you are and yet the sun has chosen to make you its centerpiece.

Suddenly, somehow lots of somebodies start to see that something in you too. Centering you just as the sun did. 

You then hear that word “pretty” so often it begins to wither. Overused and oversaturated, it slowly loses its value to you.

“pretty” it seems never meant you were the sun’s favorite.

Until once more you hear someone use it to describe you. The one you yourself have decidedly centered. “Pretty.” It slips from their lips like sunshine through the corner of your bedroom window. There it is. The glow comes back and once again it feels like it did the first time. Flutters and all.

How is it that all those somebodies seemingly shadow when compared to that [sun] one.

“Pretty” s[he] says.

Still… you pray that isn’t all they think you are.

Pie to the face

I took a pie to the face the day I allowed your smile and corny banter to swoon me. Sway any negative opinions I’d had about— shit I forget— I guess I just like to think that there was something wrong to take note of the day that we met. But there simply wasn’t. Not then and not now. How pathetic of me to try to make you out to be less perfect than you are somehow. Instead, I should have the courage to just stand and admit: “ I am an idiot for being infatuated with someone who just can’t commit.” Not to me. This I know. [Cue the laugh track] but hold off on the clown makeup— that’s as much pride as I’m willing to forgo. The truth is I still wonder what it might have been like if there were no feelings to resist. To repel and deny the pull I feel every time I am situated in your midst. But alas it’s unattainable… all of it.. whatever I thought “it” could be. You are unattainable and that was clear at first but clearly not enough for me. So I’m taking a pie to face no protests or counteracts in place. A jester there to boo, chuck tomatoes at, and wholly debase.

Loss.

You would leave me if you could. You would. You just don’t know how.

Comfort.

My father hugs. Always with a pat on the back.

“It’s a comfort thing,” he says. 

It's the kind of comfort I hope to feel for a lifetime and several more afterward.

Part III? Actually, I’m not sure how much terrible writing I have left in the archives. However, considering how fun this was, I might just have to get back into it.