"How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it's just words." -David Foster

And they say that all of these moments
will just be stories someday,
that these are the things we’ll tell
our grandchildren when they
sit on our laps and ask us
about the world with wide,
hopeful eyes.
Is this really what we want
them to know?
How do we tell them
that our teenage years
were spent staring at walls
in empty rooms
wishing we were anywhere
but alive?
How do we tell them
that our best friend
was a woman
that our parents paid
to ask us to spill
all our secrets
on a dusty table
once a week?
When they ask us
about our first love,
do we really want his name
to spill from our mouths?
There is so much more living
we have to do.
There are so many chapters
we have left to write.
These moments will
all be stories someday,
and I don’t want mine
to be something I have to
hide away under
an old mattress.

Why We Should Live. Now. // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

1. Stop looking for him under your skin. Don’t tear yourself apart in search of ghosts that no longer live here.

2. Stop telling yourself you do this for fun. “Fun” was four shots ago. Now you’re just trying to drown yourself in the taste of him.

3. Stop letting him touch you. You are more than a one night stand. You are more than the hands that have touched you.

4. People are going to leave. Let them. Stop turning yourself into gasoline just so you can hold onto the ones that carry matches.

5. The world is cold and hard and cruel. Try not to let it break you.

Reminders To Myself // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

I feel like people are sometimes intimidated to talk to me. Like calm down kids, I am just a sad sixteen year old girl that writes shitty poetry in her bedroom and has like 5 tumblr followers.

Time to get drunk because god knows I can’t stay sober for two nights in a row.

You should’ve known better
when you first saw me
leaning against a paint-chipped wall
with a bottle of gin in my hand.
You should’ve known
I was dangerous.
You should’ve known
that the cigarette dangling
from the corner of my mouth
wasn’t a sign to
come in, watch me
as I destroy everything
I’ve spent years building.
You should’ve known
I taste like ash,
that there are sixteen years
of untold stories
hiding behind my lips.
Girls like me don’t
pour poison into their hearts
and breathe smoke
into their chests
just for show.
I’m trying to drown
all my demons and
set everything I hate about myself
on fire.
I’m trying to become
anything but yours.
I don’t need
to be held down.
I have an anchor tied to my heart
and it’s pulling me
toward the shoreline.
It’s pulling me
towards safety.
It’s pulling me
towards him.

Girls Like Me // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

1. Stop looking for him under your skin. Don’t tear yourself apart in search of ghosts that no longer live here.

2. Stop telling yourself you do this for fun. “Fun” was four shots ago. Now you’re just trying to drown yourself in the taste of him.

3. Stop letting him touch you. You are more than a one night stand. You are more than the hands that have touched you.

4. People are going to leave. Let them. Stop turning yourself into gasoline just so you can hold onto the ones that carry matches.

5. The world is cold and hard and cruel. Try not to let it break you.

Reminders To Myself // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Stop telling me to become
a smaller, less rough version of myself.
The world needs more of me.
The world needs more green eyes
and laughter
and unapologetic honesty.
The world needs more girls
who drink too much
and laugh too loudly
and are never afraid to live.
Stop trying to become quieter.
Stop trying to become less
than what you are.
Stop trying to shrink
yourself down
until you are small enough to fit
in the palm of his hand.
You are beautiful and strong
and wild and free.
Don’t let them be the anchor
that drowns you out at sea.

The World Needs More of You // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

I wonder if your friends high-fived you when you told them about us.
I wonder if you smiled when they patted you on the back, congratulating you for finally leaving.
I wonder if you think of me at all.
I wonder if you try to text me, only to greeted by an error message.
I wonder if you think of the conversations we had at 2am when neither of us could sleep.
I wonder if she’s prettier than me.
I wonder if she’s funnier, brighter, less dead inside.
I wonder if you told her about me.
I wonder if you refer to me as your “crazy ex-girlfriend.”
I wonder if you refer to me as the one that got away.
I wonder if you’re wondering.
God knows I am.

(I Don’t Want To Know) // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

You should’ve known better
when you first saw me
leaning against a paint-chipped wall
with a bottle of gin in my hand.
You should’ve known
I was dangerous.
You should’ve known
that the cigarette dangling
from the corner of my mouth
wasn’t a sign to
come in, watch me
as I destroy everything
I’ve spent years building.
You should’ve known
I taste like ash,
that there are sixteen years
of untold stories
hiding behind my lips.
Girls like me don’t
pour poison into their hearts
and breathe smoke
into their chests
just for show.
I’m trying to drown
all my demons and
set everything I hate about myself
on fire.
I’m trying to become
anything but yours.
I don’t need
to be held down.
I have an anchor tied to my heart
and it’s pulling me
toward the shoreline.
It’s pulling me
towards safety.
It’s pulling me
towards him.

Girls Like Me // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

And they say that all of these moments
will just be stories someday,
that these are the things we’ll tell
our grandchildren when they
sit on our laps and ask us
about the world with wide,
hopeful eyes.
Is this really what we want
them to know?
How do we tell them
that our teenage years
were spent staring at walls
in empty rooms
wishing we were anywhere
but alive?
How do we tell them
that our best friend
was a woman
that our parents paid
to ask us to spill
all our secrets
on a dusty table
once a week?
When they ask us
about our first love,
do we really want his name
to spill from our mouths?
There is so much more living
we have to do.
There are so many chapters
we have left to write.
These moments will
all be stories someday,
and I don’t want mine
to be something I have to
hide away under
an old mattress.

Why We Should Live. Now. // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet

Anonymous asked:

Can you recommend good poetry blogs? Your poetry is amazing btw keep it up :)

Thank you so much! And I sure can! 

lora-mathis (She’s my favorite writer on tumblr. Her work is incredible and every piece of hers makes you feel something). 

thewordsyouneverunderstood (She’s a great writer, and we did a lovely collaboration piece, which can be read here). 

deerborne (She does a lot of cool journal entry-type things. She’s very artistically talented).

rustyvoices (Incredible talent. I’m actually quite envious).

s-k-e-t-c-h-e-d (Haley Hendrick is very talented, and has published a book at only 18).

alonesomes (She is a very talented writer. She also has a book).

inkskinned (Incredible writer and artist). 

anneisrestless (She writes a lot about depression, love, and life. Very relatable).

backshelfpoet (Incredible talent at such a young age). 

clementinevonradics (She is a very talented and well-known writer. She currently has two books out). 

michellekpoems (Very talented writer). 

Those are just some of the few that I follow! (Sorry if I forgot about you!) I hope that helps. :)