Zain, Pain & Ains

all poems by Ainsley / XOXO, Z A I N 🩵

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever felt out of place or drowned in emotion

note before reading: Some of these poems are based on a prompt, most of these poems are heavy topics, and all of these poems are written with my heart poured into them. SOME OF THESE ARE A LOT AND CAN TRIGGER SOME! I’m still figuring out which is my unique style, so these poems have scattered structures and such. Not all poems are specifically from my experiences, but some are. I like to tell stories, some can influenced by a certain moment in my life or another’s but not all hold truths.

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if i were a telephone booth

if i were a telephone booth,

i’d be quite okay with it.

new people everyday,

but not too much for me to break within.

if i were a telephone booth,

i could help people in times of need.

they would wander the streets,

in search of something guaranteed.

if i were a telephone booth,

life would be easy.

no talking necessary,

wouldn’t that be breezy?

if i were a telephone booth,

doctors could relax

cause they’d have

less problems and cracks.

if i were a telephone booth,

it seems it’d be a win-win.

but, alas, i’m just a teenager

who’s fighting her own skin.

(tw) Lost Myself

“Don’t lose yourself again. You’ll never find it, not again. It’s like losing an idea, you might find it once, but can you find it again?” — K.J.

My thoughts are drilled into my head,

worse than nails, worse than bolts,

constant pain and a constant reminder

that I’m different than these dolts.

I’ve drowned in my mind,

years and years of experience

at that terrifying job.

You don’t think I’m serious?

Lose yourself for the first time,

I promise you’ll be okay.

Finding it at first is easiest

because you didn’t fully decay.

But I lost it again,

not just my mind.

My personality too.

It’s not easy to find,

remember that,

because I’ll be gone

within seconds.

I don’t want you

to be gone too.

Lights flicker in the hallways

of the mansion of my brain.

Calmly walking, I guess you

could say: my best friend is pain

and somehow I lost that too.

I’m paralyzed, a deer in headlights,

pain’s a metaphor for something

you’ll never be able to find.

Don’t lose anything or everything,

but especially not your mind,

your soul, and definitely not yourself.

I may be a hypocrite,

‘cause I lost myself a long time ago.

And I never found it.

War

If only you knew

the war I’ve been fighting.

If only you knew

the pain I’ve been writing.

Starting the war,

my hands started shaking,

I looked at the enemy,

and my heart started breaking.

Bombs exploded

everywhere but my heart.

It was the enemy,

who himself broke it apart.

The shooting didn’t cease

but didn’t hurt any soldiers.

The enemy held his head high,

and walked with human boulders.

With a step in front of

my hunched little frame,

I noticed his eyes and his grin,

I noticed how he might not be to blame.

His eyes are there,

but not active.

His grin is there,

but seems held captive.

I never was shot,

but, instead, was tortured.

The enemy didn’t notice,

he kept moving forward.

I hope he turned back.

I know he didn’t mean to.

I hope he realizes I could’ve helped.

I know he’ll wonder and pursue.

The war fought on,

but nobody else was injured.

And, yet, the enemy

seemed to fall inward.

I know the enemy didn’t mean to,

he seemed to be controlled.

But, I know the enemy is you.

And you broke my heart.

Overreacting

I’m a teenager

stuck in my own mind.

But I’ve been left

with my own life to find.

I hate the way

that everyone looks at me.

“You’re overreacting.”

From my mind, I am not free.

I know I’m different,

I can see it in their eyes.

But I’ve buried those thoughts

and conjured a disguise.

Am I being dramatic?

Am I really that dumb?

I’m trying to hide

that I’m dying; I’m numb.

I’ve made up

different versions of who I am.

I’ve decided against

sitting like a little lamb.

It’s only these days

I realize that I’m not

who I say I am,

but I’ve finally been caught.

Is this overreacting?

You say ‘this is from nowhere.’

Did you know these thoughts

didn’t come from ‘who knows where?’

If thoughts were an ocean,

I would’ve drowned years ago.

But, sadly, I’m stuck here, and

if I were dead, I would know.

(tw) My Home: The Monsters

A smile on my face,

A burning in my eyes,

A cry behind a mask,

Monsters behind a disguise.

One monster craves

the words to prove you’re okay,

it brings tears to your eyes

when you can’t run away

from the words that break

you down and rip your heart.

One monster bites

so constantly, you’re numb.

They try to warn you,

but your ears only hear the dumb

little monsters that refuse

to let you ignore

their presence.

One monster jumps

on the ground at a moment,

in the air at the next.

Your mind is not an opponent.

You’ll jump high,

you’ll jump low,

but the way you land

determines your growth.

One monster cries

tears in the sky light,

while telling you

their problems are worse,

they’re fighting a worse fight.

You can’t compare it,

there is no comparison,

you can’t even tell anyone

there was a war to begin with.

One monster screams

in the dead of the night,

coming up with solutions

to stop your endless fright.

One monster begs

“it will get better,

stop being weak and

try to understand

other people have it worse.”

You can miss a meal.

Understand that

this is a deal

you’ll survive.

One monster shares

a story about a girl

who’s friends with the

monsters living in her head,

because, in reality,

they were never under her bed.

Instead,

they were in her home,

in her brain,

with her soul,

by her side.

Now how did she survive?

They were not only in her home,

they were her home.

The things she relied on

when she didn’t feel safe,

when she wanted to

dig an endless grave.

The monsters were her home,

never take that away from her

unless you want a war

that is more than a massacre.

lightning & thunder

sometimes you have to realize,

you can be struck by thunder—

pain comes from words and lies—

and hear the lightning—

sometimes appearances can speak,

and don’t forget…

they can also disguise

Friends Don’t

All

I feel

is left out.

They don’t really care.

I’m alone, and they’re together.

Group of five, plus one. Wow.

“I have no friends.” “What am I?”

I don’t know, but you’re not a friend.

Friends don’t exclude you because you have social anxiety.

Friends don’t leave you on read; talk to someone else.

Friends.

Friends don’t.

They’re not friends.

“I don’t have friends.”

“Am I just a rock?”

You’re a good person, but you

promised me I would still be a

part of the group. Where am I now?

Ms. Sidelines. People don’t care. Social anxiety girl. Wow.

That’s how I’m identified, love that for me. Friends don’t.

Clouds & Stars

Perhaps the tears from the clouds

and the glitter from the stars

could make all the crowds

understand different scars.

The clouds cry too

and the stars demonstrate

that love can be true

even when not driven straight.

When a cloud shifts,

the stars remain steady.

However, through several rifts,

the clouds keep you ready.

brokenhearted cento

“This thing called love

can be so cold.”

Guess I might be freezing,

but you’re left untold.

“It’s like you’ve been replaced

by a tattoo of your name.”

I should’ve been smart,

and considered him vain.

“Know you don’t care,

but I can pretend that you do.”

I’m crying,

but they don’t have a clue.

“Forgot that you told me

you had to go.”

‘Cause I’ve been holding

on like you wouldn’t know.

But “if honesty could burn,

baby, I’d be on fire.”

I couldn’t let you go,

but I’m no longer a crier.

“Could you find a way

to let me down slowly?”

I’m a teenager, and feelings

are continously growing.

“Some stories are worth telling,

and then there’s ours.”

You’ve left me to listen,

left me to count the cars.

“That’s what you get

when let your heart win.”

But, alas, I’m just a teenager

who’s fighting her own skin.

(tw) That “Toy”

I’m pathetic, but I’m strong.

At least that’s what you say.

It’s been too long

since I noticed your footsteps come my way.

Your words should mean nothing

to a ‘poor innocent soul’

who knew you were just bluffing.

but she just wanted a friend, a troll.

She wasn’t a toy,

toys aren’t supposed to love you.

But you just had to destroy

her until she withdrew.

She’s terrified of the test

that awaits behind the closet door,

you’re afraid of the toy chest

that taunts you with a child’s war.

To you, she was just a toy,

that was something she always knew.

But, you sure didn’t enjoy

how that toy decided to love you.

Lies Like A Cure

He gives lies like a cure,

tells everyone it’s the only way.

When they ask, he says ‘sure,”

they think they’ll live to see the day.

If I have a chance of dying to that,

my mouth will remain chained up.

I’m not waiting to feel the impact,

I’m not waiting to be corrupt.

Lies do not give you strength,

so don’t wait for that bread.

Shut your mouth to every length,

closed mouths don’t get fed.

An Open Wound

If only an open wound

could seal, could close.

But, instead, it remains open,

and keeps you on your toes.

It’s not a punch,

but it blasts with pain

as if it were one.

And it makes you strain

for a day without it.

An open wound is a song,

not a good one; screechy;

uninspired; off-beat

and expects you to act ‘peachy.’

‘Life is awesome,

Life is great.’

Well, I guess

that’s up for debate.

If only this open wound

could close forever,

because pain is a cousin

I want to see never.

It’s searing and hateful,

trying to make me pass out.

Makes me wonder what would’ve

happened had he not lashed out.

If only an open wound

could seal, could close.

But, it seems pain studied

and swore some oaths.

Ideas of Love

Sometimes we fall in love,

with ideas and not people.

It’s so normal and so true that

after all that, we still stand regal.

A queen falls for a king,

with the crown and the fame.

A player falls for an innocent,

only for the sake of the game.

Some people like an idea,

but others like their souls.

Even though, sometimes,

for “love,” we find loopholes.

Too Far

Shout words as jokes,

because you’re afraid to speak

and bring it to life as real.

You hide it, scared to fall weak.

You say everything

to disguise the terror.

“They can’t embarrass me;

trial-and-error.”

You can’t fall silent,

it’s an act of defeat.

‘Don’t be like that,

were you born on the street?’

Don’t talk too much.

Don’t talk too little.

Most words are jokes,

and we’re left in the middle.

If you don’t joke

about your insecurities,

you’re suddenly just

another human impurity.

Because that’s too emotional,

too deep and disgusting.

Somehow, I guess, honesty

died alongside trusting.

An act of kindness

is suddenly covering a slip-up?

When you help them,

you both wonder, was it picked up?

Jokes gone too far,

but feelings falling depthless.

People laugh at everyone

except feelings; except this.

Smash a heart,

make a joke.

Dance around shards,

and cut and poke.

I call you shallow,

but I may be a hypocrite.

Yet, you whine when you have

to go through the thick of it.

If a joke goes too far,

nobody gives a second glance.

They just smile and laugh,

sing and dance.

Are you stuck in a trance?

our little shoes

I haven’t been a child for a while,

those tiny little boots

now in that donation pile.

I’ve buried those roots.

I never walked away,

and I watched the growth.

I waited ‘til it faded gray,

and I could never learn to loathe.

I’m pivoting away from it.

I don’t want to leave,

but I can’t commit

to something that makes me so naive.

It’s stupid, honestly,

I held onto it for him.

Guess it was subconsciously

how I held it on a whim.

I can miss him,

but I’m not going to

turn my mind grim.

He’d want me to be new.

Those little shoes

when we danced in the rain.

You sure knew how to amuse,

and you helped forget the pain.

My little boots,

and your little Vans.

Our fun little cahoots,

and our wrecked little plans.

We sure were crazy,

in our funny little shoes.

We weren’t even close to lazy,

with an unknown path to choose.

My little boots,

and your little Vans.

Our little boots.

Dreaming At All

Every Queen

has it’s peasants

Every dream

has it’s adolescence

It’s okay to dream

a little far.

Because you and your imagination are a team;

not enemies who spar.

It’s normal to dream

where the sun never

meets the seas

and the days last forever.

It’s average to dream

a realistic story

with a full little scheme

that ends with a fun little glory.

It’s creative to dream

at all,

you see.

Because not one person is too small.

Insincere

Behind my back

and to my face,

you just love to attack

those you call a disgrace.

I have ears,

you know.

Words can cause tears,

so stop being so low.

I’ve been here,

I offered you my hand.

But, you became insincere

and started to demand.

I’m sad to say

we used to be friends.

Don’t go back to asking “are you okay?”

We both know it’s pretend.

Badmouthing is your specialty

because you bring the constant sting.

Don’t pretend to defend me,

I heard the whole thing.

I’ve Been Strong

I’ve been strong.

I’ve held my ground,

but someone said it’s been too long

since I’ve been found.

“Do not fall.”

The motto in my head.

“Don’t even start to crawl.”

It fills me with dread.

Rest is overrated.

It’s not just a simple supply.

I just can’t concentrate it,

the strength that devours from the inside.

I’m tempted to fall down

on my knees.

I’m tempted to give up the crown

with a beg or a “please.”

I’ve been resisting.

I’ve been waiting.

Yet, you’ve been insisting

and kept debating.

You tell me to rest

is not to be weak,

but it does not make you the best

and does not save a freak.

I’m still tired.

I’m barely hanging on.

I don’t know what’s required

of resting upon.

You got me.

I’ve fallen.

Please leave me be;

it feels uncommon.

Keep Dreaming, Child

‘I had a dream,’

a child said,

‘where we floated downstream,

and the clouds had tears to shed.’

A woman smiled,

ruffling the child’s hair,

‘Keep dreaming, child,

for this world’s not fair.’

The child did not understand

but did as he was told. 

‘This time there was a band,

covered in heavy gold.’

The woman smiled

and crouched down,

‘Keep dreaming, child,

for dreams hold the crown.’

It must be a game! 

The child thought.

‘This dream was tame,

only a lesson was taught.’

The woman smiled

and placed a hand on his shoulder,

‘Keep dreaming, child,

for even weak dreams can strengthen a boulder.’

The child was confused,

but his dreams tried to progress.

With his ego bruised

he said, ‘I’ve got none left.’

The woman smiled

and patted his back,

‘Keep trying, child,

for dreams are not what you lack.’

Should Have Been Me

I was once a valuable player.

Scoring most of the points,

as the other team groaned a defeat.

Today, I can only feel pops in my joints,

as I remember teams I couldn’t beat.

It was supposed to be me,

tumbling down the field.

Why had I not taken one for the team?

Driven to a yield,

as I shouted in pain.

She should’ve grown old,

just as I have today.

Rather than being left to die in the cold,

of the hospital’s cray.

I was once a valuable player,

but as a teammate perished,

I learned that meant nothing.

We’ll all die soon,

valuable players do on the inside.

For me, it is yet.

The valuable player in me was never alive.

——————

I was once a powerful musician.

Playing the notes with my heart,

as the audience cheered.

I was overbearing, playing a part

that everyone feared.

I was great at music,

and all of its subjects.

But I became a power lunatic,

and soon revealed all my defects.

It was supposed to be me,

that everyone dissed.

Blamed for the lack of harmony,

the one they’d never miss.

I was once a powerful musician,

but as a teammate left,

I learned that meant nothing.

We’ll all die soon,

powerful musicians do on the inside.

For me, it is yet.

The powerful musician in me was never alive.

——————

I was once a graceful writer.

Telling stories in all different ways,

painting a picture,

in a world full of gray

as I poured the colorful mixtures

onto the dull canvas.

It was supposed to be me,

that lost all my friends.

The idiot of my family

was always the one of the ends.

(It was supposed to be me.)

He shouldn’t have been thrown out,

as he was the last to blame me.

I should’ve done something, cry, shout!

It should’ve been me, but I just had to be fancy.

I was once a graceful writer,

but as a teammate fled,

I learned that meant nothing.

We’ll all die soon,

graceful writers do on the inside.

For me, it is yet.

The graceful writer in me was never alive.

——————

It should have been us,

yet it wasn’t even close.

We’ve known nothing,

but to pretend to survive.

Because on the inside,

none of us were really alive.

It should have been us,

yet it couldn’t be.

We’ve always been dead

if only that was something

we could see.

A Different Person

Huddled at her desk in the middle of the night,

sketching up a storm worth living through,

if I was her, maybe I’d have a chance.

if I was her, maybe I would be worth befriending too.

Scrolling through her camera roll endlessly,

smiling and giggling at the memories,

if I was her, maybe I’d be happy.

if I was her, maybe I wouldn’t have as much worries.

The MVP on the team, she gets them the most points,

she’s the leader who isn’t afraid.

if I was her, maybe I’d think differently,

if I was her, and I didn’t people please,

what would become of my mind?

Every day I’m already struggling

with the voices in my head that convince me it’s better to hide.

If I was a different person,

maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about the ticking in my head.

If I was a different person,

maybe they would be my friends.

But, alas, I’m the monster in the mirror,

and we all know how this ends.

Used To Freezing

“Cold water feels warm when you’re freezing.” — Just A Teenage Girl, Daily Prompt

The waters are cold,

but I wade in anyway.

The weather in my love life

has always been mauvais.

So how come I stay

submerged in the deep cold?

Anything can burn if

ice is what you hold.

Slowly I’ll wait for

the temperature to rise.

Promises sound pretty

when all you’ve heard is lies.

I’d rather relive it,

than continue on grieving.

Cold water feels warm

when you’re used to freezing.

I’d Rather Starve

I’d prefer to starve

than to devour all the lies.

I’d prefer to burn

than be left to your cold.

I’d prefer to die

than to believe that disguise.

Pretty people,

broken hearts.

Pretty words,

everlasting scars.

I’d rather starve

than be your friend.

You’ll call me dramatic,

but wait until this ends.

I used to have a voice,

and although my words were bold,

they were better company

than the chill in your heart.

I’d rather burn than be left to your cold.

There’s a mask on your face,

I fell for it so pathetically.

I believed every word and smile,

every joke— but now apathetically,

I can tell you,

I’d rather die than fall for your disguise.

Your heart was never broken;

it never got the chance to exist.

You’re like the Grinch,

with nothing to assist.

You’ve always fed me

the lies I wanted to hear.

You’ve made me a meal

that is supposedly ideal,

but poison hides

in the prettiest things.

This is why

I bite the hand that feeds me,

so that maybe it’ll let me starve.

Don’t Quit

If you learned it

the day of,

don’t think to quit.

Just keep on your glove.

Keep up your guard,

and smile with joy.

It may be hard,

but you do it by choice.

Don’t forget

we all make mistakes,

and yet,

you still got what it takes.

Quitting does not make you strong,

so give it all you’ve got.

Even if it’s super long,

don’t say you cannot.

Take a breath,

and drink some water.

I promise you have endurance left

and you can be stronger.

Focus on yourself

and what you are doing.

Count to twelve

and then keep pursuing.

Be at your best,

but don’t push too hard.

Even the greatest take time to rest

before they play their card.

Leave your past self behind,

even though you don’t need to-

just keep in mind

you choose your view.

His Story

Everybody wants to judge,

but nobody wants to listen.

When egos fall

and eyes glisten.

Notice how he never said

anything to provoke anyone,

but he just got beaten,

and, about it, nothing is done.

He once stood tall

and jumped before a thought

could pop into his beautiful head,

but now it’s after he fought.

No one tells his story

because words are just words.

And they prefer action.

They don’t know what he deserves.

The world needs him,

and I want the best him back.

He’s changed so drastically;

I’m scared he’ll crack.

Please don’t judge

if you don’t care to pay attention

to everything we tell.

Don’t try condescension.

I don’t hate you,

but you need to hear

that his story is his.

He has no puppeteer.

Everybody wants to judge,

but nobody wants to listen.

So please hear both sides,

before making stupid decisions.

Her Story

Amidst the roaring applause,

a silent tear fell,

reflecting the untold story

she could never tell.

Her story was twisted,

and you could never know

just how far that girl

will be able to go.

She played with her heart,

but which side of it controlled?

The smiling and joyful

or the sad and cold?

You heard the strings

play a beautiful symphony,

but did you hear the silence

when she didn’t agree?

As you clap away,

just know she’s a shattered soul.

And for exactly what you see.

She’s not in control.

The beauty of her song;

the weight on her chest.

Only one comes out

and claims the prize for best.

Her fingers have callouses,

her brain is in scrambles

for playing too long

of delicate samples.

She always held her breath

and closed her eyes.

And she knew that she could

never fight her demise.

She did it for the people

to please the ones she loves.

She hid her scars

behind those little white gloves.

You can’t see the pain

of the little strings.

You can’t see what has happened to her

for those little things.

Who Am I?

I’m writing.

The words feel like home,

until a place with a memory

brings an unwanted clone.

I’ve seen several things,

assumed they were part of my story.

I’ve dealt with certain people,

who only wanted my name and glory.

I didn’t used to write poetry,

now that I do I feel like bragging

about it— cause it’s amazing

to finally not have something nagging

at my mind until the day I die.

Experiences replay in my mind,

but I can’t tell who’s they are.

Is it from a book? A movie?

Or is it my own scars?

They want to know who I am,

but I cannot answer a question

I do not know the answer to myself.

It makes me seem like less than

when I can’t answer them.

I play violin.

I write poetry.

I love reading,

but I still don’t know me.

I’m learning French,

and Spanish,

Portuguese and German,

but my voice has vanished.

I don’t know how to find it.

My voice used to echo,

yet I knew where it came from.

I always knew. Until I figured out,

it was never really there, just me being dumb.

Monologues play over and over

in my brain, trying to form words

that I will never say, as I wait

for the chirping of birds

to tell my story for me.

They ask “Who are you?”

How am I supposed to know?

I don’t even know my story.

You Are Beautiful

Darling, you’re beautiful,

but if you lack confidence,

nobody else will see your beauty.

Don’t be afraid to show your prominence.

Opinions are not facts,

people are going to talk.

You are what you think,

with strength, you will walk.

They’ll call you ordinary,

but please know, Darling,

you are quite the opposite.

Your job is modeling

the beauty of an “ordinary.”

Darling, you are beautiful,

confident, and worthy.

Make a mistake, don’t worry,

it’s part of your journey.

You have a heart of gold,

but you’re terrified to show it.

Darling, don’t be afraid,

they’ll love you, don’t quit.

Sick Of You

[ONE]

I broke her heart,

and I meant every crack.

She should’ve been smart

because it was just a contract.

If I’m foul,

why did you love me?

You scowl,

but you were just a nominee.

We had a deal,

and I kept it.

I never had feelings to conceal,

but I guess yours were legit.

[TWO]

I’m left to pick up the pieces

of an organ that was never mine.

Through sobs and wheezes,

I struggle to resign.

It was a negotiation,

where I thought we both agreed.

But, considering the situation,

I guess both couldn’t succeed.

He broke my heart

and meant every sprain.i

I should’ve been smart

and considered him vain.

[THREE]

Friends don’t torment

the ones they love most.

You didn’t know what it all meant?

Now, she’s diagnosed.

You broke her heart

and meant every rupture.

You didn’t do your part,

now she’s left to build up her structure.

I’m ashamed of the fact

that I used to be your sidekick.

While you polished every crack,

I became sick.

She and I both.

We became sick of you

losing you

a steady beat of rain,

that suddenly grows louder

and harder against the glass.

a slow whoosh of wind

that begins to grow faster

and pulls against the trees.

the murmuring sound of thunder,

close to the eardrum,

when it comes like a flash, pounding

against the ground.

lightning and thunder

and wind and rain,

now might you wonder,

what caused this stormy pain?

the lightning is the flash,

when you realize that

a heart can turn to ash.

the thunder is the heartbeat,

the hurried rise as you

register that you’ll never be complete

because they’ll be gone.

the rain is the constant thinking

when you can’t stop

because your heart keeps sinking.

the wind is the reminder

when you hear it constantly

it lives in your brain, so much

that they say, “don’t mind her.”

this is the hurricane,

the storm that lives

in the backside of my brain,

just remember,

there’s always an after storm.

And eventually, the storm stopped.

And the after storm

was the all-black feeling

that you

that you were gone.

(tw⚠️⚠️) lipstick

I’ll never wear lipstick just to get cat-called by boys,

never wear short skirts and walk home alone.

I’ll never show my shoulders, they’re distractions; decoys.

Too bad for me, boys distracted by too much skin shown.

Grow up, you boys, and let us wear makeup,

without earning nicknames like “cake-face.”

Grow up, you boys, close that mouth shut,

let us wear what we want, without having to guard our waists.

We’re not stupid if we like to dress up.

“What about men? How do women have it harder?”

I don’t win games because of good luck,

see, let me state a point before your misogyny’s departure.

It’s nighttime and you walk home alone,

see a stranger behind you, make sure to grab your keys.

Otherwise, what will happen, is they’ll trail you like a drone,

they’ll even steal you without even a ‘please.’

This happens to men too, I’m afraid,

but it’s not worse than what happens to women.

They find women weak, so they take out the blade,

then they taunt you for being too fat or too thin.

You’re either too weak or too strong,

too muscular or stringy,

too short and stubby or tall and long,

too distant or too clingy.

You’re either not pretty enough,

or the opposite of hot,

or you’re not cute, but rough.

You’re a toy to be bought.

You have certain hobbies,

you’re a tomboy or girly girl.

Have a certain shape of your body,

it makes them want to hurl.

You can’t speak your mind

without a friend turning on you.

More haters tend to target those so kind,

while the truly evil have only a few.

You’re either childish or too mature,

way too old or way too young.

Way too tempting, used as a lure,

or way too strict and high-strung.

Men have it hard too, most think of them as robots,

but I state a point that women have some aspects harder.

It’s easy to claim your side has the worst of the story’s plots,

but it’s a relentless task to understand the side farther.

I’ll never wear lipstick, just to get cat-called.

I’ll never wear a short skirt or show too much skin,

and I have no intention of “playing the victim” and getting mauled,

because I’m the one who brought me to this situation I’m in.

I’ll never wear lipstick, but it’s not because I don’t want to.

It’s a shame the reason why I won’t do so,

but “boys are boys” so what can we do?

They’re always boys, even old, they’ll never grow.

Only A Woman

To anyone who thinks

women belong in the kitchen,

I hope you must know,

we’re not the only ones who pitch in.

If I’m “only a woman,”

how come I can beat you up?

In games and reality,

you claim it’s just dumb luck.

I’m not saying we’re better at all;

even if it would be easy to argue.

Instead, I shall share that we

women are alongside you.

You just have to be willing

to let us stand there.

Don’t belittle us because

we can produce heirs.

I’m not “only a woman,”

as I can do just as you.

I can walk with dignity,

and carry just as heavy too.

“Only a woman” is such

a derogatory phrase,

it leaves me to wonder,

are they stuck in a haze?

Dear men, we are your equals,

if not better, but I’ll settle for equality.

Treat us as such; we shall not slander,

this phrase should not be used so commonly.

Moonlight Over Sunshine

I’m not a huge fan of

the sky’s new glow.

It’s more like a glove,

on the darkness,

the dark, how I love it so.

It faded from beauty,

darkness and moonlight,

to colors and sunshine,

a demotion without a fight.

Among the sand, many

take their places to watch

yellow and pink colors flood

the skies full of stars.

They treat the beauty as mud,

the darkness as a threat,

because of all its scars.

Most people celebrate

the pink and yellow glow,

the sun rising slowly;

the moon falling unknown.

I find a new debate:

Which is better—

sunshine to moonlight

(my favorite part of ‘day’)

or the growing light

and fading, but not gone,

stars and moon.

Most people prefer the light

of the sun, the shining star,

but I personally like the moon,

its light only a reflection,

yet a beauty that won’t decay,

it won’t fade so much so soon.

When sunrise starts,

I feel shaken and broke.

Black is a color,

far more luring than

pink, yellow, or gold.

The sun likes to flaunt,

as its echoing taunt,

stars shine better

than moons do, you see.

Because reflections

are only a fraction

of what can be.

When sunset occurs,

I’m finally complete.

The darkness a friend,

no one but the sun

can manage to cheat.

lonely together

Just my mind and I.

We’re lonely together.

If only that weren’t true,

but it’s always been

just the killer and I.

Overthinking

Sitting on a beach.

Simply overthinking.

You really call this peace?

My brain can’t stop speaking.

It’s one after another,

thoughts so constant

they’re making me suffer.

Just let me be honest.

Let me talk to someone,

I hate being alone.

Because thoughts can consume one,

so far, that’s the worst effect known.

So as I lay trapped in my mind,

I have to tell you something.

This type of thinking isn’t kind,

it’s like flying with a broken wing.

Overthinking is devouring;

it tears you up and breaks you down.

It’s the feeling towering

when you start to drown.

My thoughts are dangerous,

and flat-out stupid,

and quite strangely traitorous,

and unnecessarily intruded.

Please don’t tell me,

it’s better to be alone.

I have to disagree

because my thoughts are not my own.

Guns Clicked

Guns click, guns fire, burning skin and bone,

till every enemy fell from their high, high thrones,

till every child and soldier had collapsed in pain,

till every soul left realized no one could win this game.

The water of the past splashed with tints of red,

it held onto parts of everyone who had bled,

against what they believed, they fought,

till very death to whom they had been caught.

Guns clicked; they fired at the innocents,

those that swam away, knew their lives would never again commence.

It seemed to be destined for my friends,

as the fire burned on the shore, signaling lives’ ends.

The guns clicked, aimed in my direction.

They drew like sharks to the blood’s watery connection.

I don’t feel the red around me, I’m almost numb.

Once I was the smartest of all of us, now I’m simply dumb.

Smart people don’t wait for the guns to click.

They don’t wait for a wound to pierce and the blood to flick.

The guns clicked, they fired to the water,

as not only bullets came, but so did animals who slaughter.

The guns had clicked, and they had fired,

but I waited for more pain until I felt on my wrists, wires.

A cold, cold wind splashed across my face,

almost as if the water from the memory of such a place.

I waited, but not because I was smart.

The memory of the guns had torn me apart,

till I landed in the cold, lonely hospital bed,

until short moments later, my soul had fled.

Just remember, the guns only clicked until I was dead.

Favorites

I’m in love

My favorite roses are ever white,

and in gardening them, he delights.

What a perfect, fair gentleman,

with his toffee and coffee hair,

with his sweet, soft as a Teddy, voice.

I might be in love

My favorite smell is ever lavender;

his cologne has the scent of it: spectacular.

What a lovely, charitable gentleman,

with his eyes of the sea and waves,

with his smile as bright as the sun.

What is love

My favorite animal are the ever dolphins;

he swims beside them, with messages he sends.

What a caring, generous gentleman,

with his embrace warm as cookies,

with his words delicately spoken.

Maybe I’m not in love

My favorite memory is the ever mountains,

where he wants to go to celebrate war wins.

What an… interestingly kind gentleman,

with his intentions not quite known,

with his mind far from our world.

Who is he

My favorite person is my best friend, Ray,

but he thinks it’s him who I should say.

What a narcissistic and nasty man,

with his naive attitude, self informed,

with his arrogance, “so adored.”

Loving him is not meant for me

Makeup

My grandmother always told me

I’d grown up so much, yet I knew a secret.

I was never old enough to be included,

No matter what, talking was all I’d get.

I was grown and started wearing makeup.

My grandmother told me I was pretty.

I looked myself in the mirror,

and couldn’t help but cry tears of pity.

My grandmother always told me

I was gorgeous, just like my mother.

But, you see, I only look like her,

same nose and even same hair color.

I was gorgeous on the outside,

but even that wasn’t true.

That’s what I’ve been saying,

as my brain drowned in blue.

My mirror image believed in makeup,

and eventually real me did too.

I’d practice it over and over again

until it finally looked like I grew.

One day, my grandma came to visit,

My appearance wasn’t my focus, and yet…

My grandmother looked me in my eyes,

“You’re gorgeous,” she had so easily said.

I wasn’t wearing makeup and my hair wasn’t up,

My brain searched for reasons why,

why my grandmother told me I was pretty,

but I could only feel it was an outright lie.

I thought it was a lie until the next afternoon,

I guided myself to the mirror and stared.

No mascara or eye shadow, nor lip gloss or anything.

It seemed my real eyes had let down their glare.

My grandmother always told me

that I was pretty, and beyond makeup,

this was something I could not believe.

Until that one day, when she whispered so abrupt,

“You’re gorgeous.”

I’m still so proud, so proud that I can pretty,

without makeup or curly hair, flawless skin and outright flair,

I’m so proud that I can be me.

Maybe makeup doesn’t make me now,

but it did for quite some time,

please look to the mirror and be proud,

because it’s not the “guaranteed beauty” that makes you divine.

Hard To Get

Il m'a dit, ‘Je t'aime’, mais j'ai secoué la tête.

He would give you beautiful love

but you would hate him entirely.

All of your friends decide it better,

for you to play hard to get, you see.

And what’s better than faking?

Oh, my dear, reality is far superior.

Because if you get a little attached,

your worthy love will feel inferior.

You knew quite enough about love,

and its treacherous connection to hell.

It lures you in, with sappy words, “I do.”

as if instead of show, they just would tell.

They would let your heart swoon,

but they would let it burst into flames;

let the sun spark the fiery ashes,

‘till you’re the only scapegoat to blame.

You told yourself and your friends

that hard to get was the game of a kid.

But truly, my dear, it never really was.

You had yet to accept even one nice gift.

And even if he was a kind soul,

he would give you a slow death,

because everything else he tried,

the time he spent to give them depth,

the lovely things, all had yet to suffice.

And on your hurried last breath,

you mumbled a quiet “I love you”

and with that brought a surprise,

whether it was right or true,

it still mattered to both him and you.

He gave you death,

as if it were coffee.

He gave you death

and you—

Et je l'ai aimé pour ça.

Amnesia

Sometimes I wish I could erase

all the memories of you that drill into my head.

Forget the fact we used to be close.

It only hurts when you remember what they said

before they went and got themselves dead.

Your words are a reminder that echoes through my brain,

a calm yet menacing feeling pounding down my spine,

I hope one day I’ll see you again,

until then I’ll live in melancholy, knowing you were never mine.

It’s selfish the way I wished you lived,

so maybe someone would love me like the Beast loved Belle

or Prince Charming loved Cinderella,

instead I’m stuck with the memories that make me feel like hell.

The last time I saw you alive and well, and on your feet,

was when I was so young, so small, and just a little child.

A wound from years ago, but it’s still fresh,

like a bakery’s dough and pies, with a smell that lingers a while.

I love the way you talked to me,

but it still hurts to think about you.

Because honestly, you were the only reason

I didn’t disappear out of the blue.

They say never forget what made you,

that “your experiences make you wise.”

But every time I see or hear your name,

the only sound anyone can hear is cries.

The pain you caused on accident

ended up needing anesthesia.

Honestly, Dame, you make me

wish I had the worst kind of amnesia.

Don’t take that the wrong way,

no matter what I will always miss you.

The smell of your cologne, boy,

has got me trapped in the past too.