She who converses with monsters.

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I’m so stressed out.

Not knowing where I’m going to be living these next few weeks/months has me in panic mode.

I just want to run away, but that even has me scared to death.

I have no more space
left within myself.
It’s all filled up
like shoving
all your favorite books
on one shelf.

there is nothing
inside of me.

I just found a letter from my daddy addressed to me in the back of a book and omg I can’t stop crying.

Or is death just too too sad for any of us to talk about?

If I wrote a book of poetry all about sadness, and cancer, and…starstuff, would you even read it?

I had a dream about my dad last night.

We had a full conversation
before I reminded him he was dead.

what can you say when your own writing almost brings you to tears.

I am going to curl up with passion.
I am going to read my cards again.
Gods, he will answer too.

Anonymous asked:
Dear Ms dear poetry I am so sorry for you loss I can't lie and say I know how you feel Or say it could be worse cause it can't. I'm one of your newer followers and I have looked through blog and I find you to be a big inspiration, remember when you can't speak the words write them. I hope you'll feel better soon keep writing. - fellow poet writer

Honestly, be grateful you can not relate.  And all I can say, is make sure to show/tell your parents you love them as many times as you can, because there will come a time when none of us will be able to do that again.

I hope I feel better too. Thank you for this, your words are much appreciated, Anon. :)

For a writer, I’m not very good with words.

My daddy passed away a few hours ago, at 11:52pm after fighting a long nine months with cancer. Even through these last few months it’s hard to wrap my head around it all. Because as children we sort of grow up believing our parents are immortal. Everything has just happened so fast. Too fast. But I’m grateful that I can say that I was with him until the very end, holding his hand. My heart is broken; however I know he’s in a better place and no longer suffering.

He was my biggest supporter, and that ‘dad’ kind of annoying. I miss him terribly. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’ve never lived alone before. But I also know he would never want me to stop writing, or creating.

Two words: fuck cancer.

I am the cat whisperer.

I am the cat whisperer.

Sad poems need pretty titles.

April was lungs weak of blue, and
scalpels held in heartless,
uncaring hands.

You told me you were no coward
that the seas and the oceans
whispered in your ears and told you
only the bravest of men
deserve to kiss their beds.

May passed too quickly.

No time for mourning
when I gained ten pounds
of pure muscle
holding up your stars.

People asked too many questions.
People told me I was strong.

One day in June
you woke up to a skeletal frame
that wasn’t yours and the biggest,
strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.

I had cornfields in my eyes;
You misplaced your anchor
and your mind.

saidthegiant asked:
Don't be sorry for being what you are and expressing that in whatever manner it comer out. Ever. Don't you dare censor yourself, beautiful.

Thanks. I’ve just been avoiding this because of the deep sadness I feel. I don’t want to look at it, but I can’t stop writing it out.

Actually writing for once.
It’s sad
I’m sorry.