This project started out as something just for me — a way to get all my feelings and emotions out in a pretty (and actually really helpful) way. I found that poetry made it easier to make sense of what I was going through, and it turned into a space where I felt safe and understood. I decided to share these poems in case any of them resonate with you too. Maybe they’ll help you feel a little less alone, or even inspire you to pick up a pen and start writing your own. Thank you so much for being here and taking the time to read. I hope these words can bring you a bit of comfort, just like they did for me.
I would rather die than admit,
that I don’t know people as well as I once thought —
that I don’t trust you anymore.
The world is vast,
and I am so unbearably small.
I dream of a future,
a future where I am big — impossibly big,
instead of someone who is just this tiny shrinking speck.
I spend my days imagining a life larger than mine,
not building a future,
but hiding inside of a wish,
that one day,
I might grow far beyond what I can even imagine.
I don’t want to be left behind —
too insignificant to remember,
too easy to forget.
Do you believe me when I show you everything?
Or do you see me the way I see myself —
as something so terribly small.
Do you ever feel small too?
Do you ache for a world where we could finally feel big —
together?
Or do you also just dream of a time, where you also do not want to be forgotten,
for being just not large enough?
I keep wondering —
can someone so small ever truly become more,
when everyone else seems so impossibly large?
I would rather die than admit,
that I only want to be big in your eyes —
and that maybe I do know people well enough,
to know I can’t trust you anymore.
Supple skin,
they say it’s carved like marble,
flawless,
untouchable.
“Perfection; nothing can compare.”
but beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and I feel those eyes everywhere,
hunted by hawks,
or worse —
watched by the flies on the walls.
Eyes everywhere,
Bzzzz —
their gazes pierce me,
their whispers sting,
Bzzzz —
how can I be perfect?
Bzzzz —
I hear them echo in every corner,
Bzzzz —
every move dissected,
how can I be perfect when
the room is alive with flies?
even in my own home,
as comfortable as it seems,
they find their way in,
infesting,
buzzing.
My thoughts are infested too,
my mind is not safe,
passing on every harsh word,
every careless judgment,
Bzzzz —
the chorus grows louder,
until my own voice is drowned and deafened out.
How can I protect this so-called “supple skin”?
Do you also see me as a marble statue?
Smooth,
beautiful,
finished.
I've been told so,
I’ve tried to believe it,
But what if I’m not special at all?
is perfection achievable,
or just an idiosyncrasy,
a tight maneuver you chase forever?
my words feel shallow,
I feel like a hidden shoal,
grounding,
yet damaging,
while wreckage drifts to shore,
Can I truly be sculpted into something to admire,
when everything else carries;
more beauty,
more perfection,
more grace,
than I could ever hold?
I want to disappear —
no hawks, no flies, no mirrors,
a place where supple skin is just skin,
where no chisel touched marble,
where no one asks for perfection at all.
Up there,
in that place,
I feel empty,
a place where a breeze can roar like a storm,
nothing to strike,
nothing to clash against,
just an empty space,
in this thing I call a head,
Now my thoughts swirl in as the breeze turns into a storm,
they echo and ricochet off the biology containing the space,
never ceasing,
always tumbling around,
until they mold and grow,
Now, the breeze becomes a storm,
the storm turns into something more;
a breeze turned storm turned hurricane,
centralized and battering me from the inside,
just an empty space,
in this thing I call a skull,
The eye of the storm watches helplessly,
as all I know is tossed and thrown;
as if it meant nothing,
alone,
yet not alone;
the hurricane howls from inside,
from breeze to storm,
storm to hurricane,
hurricane to tornado —
the only path becomes chaos,
more violent and consuming,
just an empty space,
in this thing I call a brain,
"Where did this weather come from?"
you've heard it said before,
"Isn't it crazy how the weather can change on a dime?"
Thoughts I've had too,
"Don't you hate unpredictable weather?"
but don't you ever think about the fact —
that maybe you might hate empty spaces even more than unpredictable weather?
especially when thinking about,
the empty space,
in this thing I call my mind.
My days look the same as everyone’s,
but why do I struggle to move?
My lips stay sealed;
they don’t want to hear what I say,
so why should I bother leaving
the comfort of my bed?
Churning,
rumbling,
my insides twist and knot,
my breath caught in my ribs,
a silent scream echoing through my chest.
I sit with these familiar feelings —
so why do I still feel so much fear?
I’ve felt this way my entire life,
never quite connecting with my peers.
Choking,
crushing,
harder and harder to contain,
bending, buckling under the weight —
the weight of expectation, of silence,
of the person I pretend to be.
Something feels wrong,
almost all of the time.
The more years that pass,
the more rigid I become,
like an old oak twisted beyond return.
Is it too late to change,
to rewire myself
at the root?
If I’ve known nothing else,
how can I trust that change is real?
Is it for me at all?
or only to quiet and silence
the fear —
the fear of never truly connecting,
of being forever unseen?
It feels safer here,
where I don’t have to hear
the words I whisper to myself,
year after year.
It is almost more fulfilling,
to live inside the fear —
to cradle it,
or rather, to let it cradle me in return,
even as it slowly costs me pieces of myself I haven’t yet met.