catie-writes

The girl who knows herself Is unbalanced. She has her goals in mind– But at what expense? The girl who knows herself Is crying. She chose her reason Over her heart. It’s what made sense. The girl who knows herself Is cynical. She knows why she’s this way And can’t ever forget. The girl who knows herself Is mistaken. She wants THAT– oh, yes, she does But knows how the world works for girls like her. And now there is an unbalanced, crying, cynical, mistaken girl Who knows herself. Writing a poem and thinking– About all the time and love she wasted.

Love is just a word We tend to forget that. We feel, think about, and cry over what the word means. But it’s just a L and a O and a V and a E. It’s overused. And it changes Across languages, across screens. You can think it but not know it, not know yourself. So don’t cry, When you don’t have “love” It’s just a word. It’s just a thing. You can find it in– find what it really means. Because those couples– The ones who think they know what it means, Just haven’t learned when to use that word.

I live according to the distraction. My heart pounds without it. There are things I want but will never have, And taking the time to think makes my blood rush. Each day I go looking– Distraction by distraction. I never stop, never still. If it’s a class I like, then I have that distraction. But if my mind wanders, The sickness returns. So I live according to my distractions, Learning which work for me and which do not, And finding ways to attain them.

Who rules the girl except for herself? The way she stretches her spine and moves her feet. Who rules the girl except for herself? The way she blushes or giggles freely? Who rules the girl except for her mind? The words that fly through her head; You’re good, girl. Nothing to worry about. You got people that love you, a future to see. You’ve got blood in your veins, so let’s keep it that way. You’ve got it, girl. Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems. Who rules the girl? Who rules the girl except for her feelings? That seem to tip every scale. Oh, no. You’re screwed. Nevermind those voices; the ones that re

They flip their hair into tousled buns And giggle at the lunch table. The other kind of girl crams her face in a book, To hide her tears And gasps for breath. Society says she’s the one to be envied. The grades, the success, the apparent ease her life will have Because she’s ahead, ready for the world. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s a strong, independent woman with a better brain than a heart. But maybe she wishes she wasn’t. Easy- It’s all so easy for the girls with messy buns and pink lip gloss. And yet they look at her report card in awe. When you’re used to being one thing, All you want is to be the

Hello; I’m here. Can’t you feel me? I’m in your arms and in your chest and in your head. I want to run–you need to quell me. Move, be, do, live. DO AS I SAY. Move, be, do, live. I’m in your arms. I’m the reason your hands shake as you greet people, the reason you can’t stop writing because at some point you told yourself that would help. I’m the reason you’ll do anything to keep busy, the reason you are afraid that being alone or uneventful means your life is over. I want you to move- Move, be, do, live. I’m in your chest. I’m the reason your heartbeat thunders eve

If the world comes to an end, If the prophesized apocalypse comes upon us and I have to watch every person I’ve ever loved perish, Nothing will change. If humanity turns inward on itself, If the lives of other human beings are looked upon with so much contempt that knives are held to throats and friends evolve into killers, If the world comes to an end, I will be the same. The destruction, the pain and loss of worth—I’ve got that covered. My world has been on the verge of destruction for years. My earth revolves on axes of hatred and hopelessness, but sometimes its poles lean towards the warmth of a promising future

Will you be my Valentine? You told me yes While I dreamt of what couldn’t be And is. They’re blurred, I guess. Won’t you say you miss me? It would make me smile But don’t lie to bring me glee It’d only last a while Can’t I have a hug? You left me with hope But even thought there’s none left It would help me cope. Is a kiss too much to ask? Or maybe it’s not true I thought we liked each other Now I just like you.

Little messengers. Giving the world the knowledge of our emotions, A telegraph, of sorts. But only to those who can read them And who bother to. The probe at you, Stab at you, Bite at you, Until you do what you know is best for both of you And give them freedom. Their footsteps are not always clear, The red eyes, The streaks down our faces, Stay long after they have left us, But only if you look closely. The most outward sign of who we are. Of what is close to our heart And what we wish we could wash from it. My tears are badges. Marks of honor Noble, even And even the most ignorant, Uncaring, Cannot turn me down When the tears fall. I w

Torn. The pieces scattered wherever. And now it’s unable To tell what they once were. Each it’s own story. What was once her heart, now broken. What was once her face, now stained with tears. What was once her smile, now fallen. Her scars apparent, She is scattered. Where are they? Is she still herself? The stitches are weak. Barely able to contain her. Barely, As the attempt is made. Some of her is still the same, Just inside out Or maybe with a new color. But it is the same. This newness, it helps. The new color brings new joy That evens with her old swatches. Yet the stitches tremble. To those made of porcelain, With thos