I want to be a poet, Is that anyone else's dream?

@4579Xx

I feel this deep within my soul...

No joke, one of the most powerful things I've ever read. Dude, I can feel the jagged edges on these words, and I felt absorbed in this. Seems to me that your bio dad is missing out on the biggest way. This one got me a bit emotional, and I admire both you and your poetry.

Well, now i'm inspired to find something. Lol. 

We met when we were five—

two awkward puzzle pieces that somehow fit.

Dirt under fingernails,

matching giggles,

secret handshakes made in whispers.

We fought,

like kids do.

About crayons,

about who got to be the fairy in our made-up worlds.

But it never lasted.

Nothing ever felt that deep when friendship was the only language we knew.

Then came middle school, and suddenly everything cracked.

You were still Melody— but louder.

Sharper.

Like every part of you had to be heard,

even if it drowned out what we used to share.

You told me you were LGBTQ+. And I listened.

I tried to hold space,

to understand the parts of you you were still figuring out.

But soon, that became all there was.

Your words were flags and labels,

declarations on repeat.

Like if you shouted loud enough,

you could erase who we used to be. 

And I— I faded in the echo.

We stayed friends,

technically.

But it wasn’t the same.

I missed our old world, the one before middle school and walls made of difference.

Maybe we just grew in different directions.

Maybe we loved each other in ways we didn’t know how to keep.

Maybe you needed a voice, and I needed the quiet.

And neither of us knew how to meet in the middle anymore.

Poetry Dump.

Trigger Warning. Please keep your mental health and safety in mind while deciding to read.

(I tried to go through and censor it, but i'm human, and may have missed a couple. Please comment if I did)

I’m so f****** done with people right now.

and i mean it this time.

not in that “haha i hate people lol” way—

no.

i mean done

like throw-my-phone-across-the-room done,

like scream-into-my-pillow-and-then-laugh-about-it-later done,

like every word out of someone’s mouth feels

like static on raw skin.

i’m done with the way people twist

quiet into accusation.

like if i don’t say something,

they get to decide what i meant.

i’m done with people making

a whole storm out of a sigh,

but ignoring the *** thunder

when i’m actually drowning.

what do you mean

we can’t be friends

because i don’t want to date you?

like—

what the f**** happened

to liking someone as a human

and not as a prize?

and the ones i do like?

they just want

a thigh gap and a blurry bathroom pic.

they want hips,

not heartbreak.

they want access,

not connection.

what do you mean you loved me?

you didn’t even ask

what my favorite color was

until after you broke me.

you don’t get to call it love

just because i let you in

before i knew better.

and what do you mean

your parents beat you

but it’s fine?

how is that fine?

what part of “i stopped feeling like a person in my own home”

do we keep sweeping under the rug

like it’s dust

and not trauma?

i’m tired.

so tired.

tired of my texts

sitting there,

read at 2:07 AM,

never responded to.

tired of people laughing

when they see i’m hurting—

like the line on my wrist

is a punchline,

not a cry for a second chance.

tired of the *** fist bumps

when my eyes are red,

and someone says,

“yo, you’ve been blazing again?”

like maybe it’s easier

to think i’m high

than to think i’m hurting.

and yeah—

maybe they’re right.

i’m tired of being told

i’m not fun anymore

because i quit

the *** that almost

f******

killed me.

four years.

four.

but yeah,

sorry i don’t wanna throw up in your sink anymore.

i guess that makes me boring now.

i’m not asking to be worshipped.

i don’t want anyone to bow to me.

but for the love of god—

can someone treat me like i matter

without asking for something in return?

did i miss the moment

where they passed out the rulebook

that says who gets to be respected

and who gets to beg for it?

what if—

just once—

the guy texted back

just to say

“hey. you good?”

instead of

“you up? send something.”

like i owe him

some soft skin

because he remembered my name.

what kind of ***-up world

raises boys to believe

that my “no”

is just a challenge?

why is it always my friends

getting held in warm arms,

kissed on foreheads,

while i’m the one

who gets ghosted

after spilling my guts?

why do i feel like a punchline

every time i set a boundary?

why am i the b****

when i say,

“don’t talk about my dad like that”?

when i say,

“i’m not ready to talk about it”?

when i say,

“just let me have a f****** minute”?

why am i the villain

for wanting a little peace?

why is silence

only a problem

when i choose it?

it’s my life.

my grief.

my healing.

not yours.

so no—

i don’t owe you

a damn thing.

not my stories,

not my body,

not my time,

not my smile.

this pain?

this rage?

this truth?

it’s mine.

not yours.

--------------------------

i don’t think i’m attractive.

and i don’t mean that in a fishing-for-compliments kind of way.

i mean i genuinely look in the mirror

and flinch

I feel like a sketch someone gave up on.

like they got bored halfway through

and left the rest of me blank.

and yeah,

it’s sad.

because apparently

half of being beautiful now

is just believing you are.

and i don’t.

not even a little.

i don’t have the kind of confidence

that lets you walk into a room

and assume people want to know you.

i walk in

and assume

i’m in the way.

and the worst part?

i don’t even have someone

to say that to.

like really say it—

ugly-cry-on-the-floor say it.

because the few times i tried

it turned into advice,

or awkward silence,

or someone telling me

to “just love myself.”

i want to be loved.

not the cute kind.

not the “look, we match outfits” kind.

i want to be chosen.

craved.

seen.

held like someone might lose me.

the kind of love that wraps itself around your lungs

and makes you forget how to breathe for a second.

i want someone to love me

with the lights on.

with my makeup off.

with my scars visible—

the metaphorical ones

and the ones that still sting

when i pull my sleeves up too fast.

i want love so bad

that i hand over pieces of myself

just to feel wanted.

i let people cross lines,

call it closeness.

i let them tell me “i love you”

just because they touched me.

just because i let them.

i’ve always been

the girl guys want in theory.

the fantasy.

the photo.

the body.

but not the actual

me.

never the soul part.

never the version that cries too easily

or overthinks goodnight texts

or spirals when someone forgets her favorite song.

i’ve never let anyone take all of me.

but there have been nights

i stood on the edge of that line

with tears in my throat

and thought,

maybe if i give it all away,

someone will finally stay.

they say

you can’t love someone else

until you love yourself.

but that’s b*******

i love people

to the point of exhaustion.

i love people who don’t love me back.

i love people who forget me.

i love people

even when it hurts.

but when i look at myself—

really look—

i want to crawl out of my skin.

sometimes

i wonder

if the only way i’ll ever love myself

is if someone else does it first.

if i watch them

memorize the shape of my laugh,

kiss the parts i always cover up,

and say,

“you don’t have to earn it.

you already are it.”

and maybe that’s pathetic.

or maybe it’s just human.

either way,

it’s the truth.

and i’m tired

of keeping it to myself.

----------------------------

i’m the kind of girl

who says “sorry” before speaking—

even if i’m the one bleeding.

like i’m scared my voice might inconvenience someone.

like existing is something i still need permission to do.

i type out full paragraphs

then delete them,

then retype them,

then delete them again

because no matter how i say it,

i’m scared it’ll sound like too much

or not enough.

or both.

i’m the kind of girl

who laughs at the jokes

that are actually about her.

because it’s easier

to laugh with them

than to sit in the silence

of knowing no one stood up for me.

not even me.

i say “it’s fine”

so often

i’ve forgotten what

not fine

tastes like

on my tongue

i cry in the shower

not because it’s cinematic

but because the water

masks the sound.

and that matters.

when you live in a house

where even your sadness

has to be quiet.

i romanticize eye contact

because sometimes,

for like half a second,

it feels like someone

actually sees me

and doesn’t flinch.

i fall in love too fast—

not because i’m naive

but because someone said

“how was your day?”

and i swear

no one had asked me that

in weeks.

i mistake kindness

for something permanent.

i take bare minimum

and build a future with it.

i put halos on people

who barely looked at me.

and i call it love.

i say

“i don’t need anyone.”

i say it a lot.

but truth is—

i just don’t believe

anyone would stay

if i actually said:

“i’m lonely.

can you sit here?

and not leave

just because i’m quiet?”

i’m the kind of girl

who writes poems

in the middle of the night

then hides them under

fake folder names

like “math notes”

because god forbid

someone finds out

how much i feel.

i write things

i’ll never post,

never share,

never read aloud—

but part of me still hopes

someone will look at me one day

and say,

“what are you thinking about?”

and actually wait for the answer.

--------------------------------

do you know real pain?

like the kind that makes you flinch when a coat sleeve brushes your wrist too soft,

like someone whispering your worst memory back to you by accident.

the kind of pain that smells like rubber bands and burnt toast

because that’s what the room smelled like when everything cracked.

do you sit in the corner with the creature you once swore was a monster,

the one that used to live in the back of your 3rd grade closet,

and now it follows you into job interviews

and relationships

and the grocery store?

do you play pattycake with it

until it lets out a soft laugh—

one of those broken ones, like it forgot how—and you realize

it has dirt under its fingernails and it braided its own hair

and you never once asked

why it was hiding in the first place.

do you know the kind of pain

that hums lullabies

through your molars at night

so you grind them down to stumps

trying not to listen?

the kind you tuck into bed like a child

and say,

i’ll give you five more minutes.

just five more.

and then it stays the night.

again.

have you ever looked in the mirror

and not been scared,

but bored

because you’ve seen this version of yourself

every single day

and she still won’t tell you her real name?

do you crave being touched

and recoil at the same time?

like your skin is starving

but your bones know better?

do you know real happiness,

or do you just hold other people’s joy hostage

because you can’t find your own?

do you know what it’s like

to call yourself “broken”

before anyone else can,

just to steal the power out of their hands?

have you ever wanted to be loved

so badly

you sat through apologies

that never even included your name?

have you ever braided your past’s hair

with fingers that still shake

and apologized

for not coming sooner?

because if not—

if you only know the pain you’ve caused

and not the pain you’ve carried—

then maybe you don’t know it at all.

maybe you’re just the reason

someone else learned how to flinch.

Thank you all for the love and support you’ve shown me in the short time since I created this forum. I don’t receive much of it in real life, so it truly means a lot. I’m grateful to everyone who’s taken the time to read my poetry. I’ll do my best to keep sharing both old and new pieces as often as I can. :)

@4579Xx This was an awesome poem. 🙂🤗

@4579Xx

💗

Apparently, I Deserve This

I don’t think you respect me.

Or my space.

Or the fact that I’m a person

and not just a problem

you get to yell at

whenever control slips through your fingers.

So maybe you’ll read this.

Not because I’m writing for your attention,

but because you love digging through my silence

like it owes you something.

I’m writing this

because I’m hurting.

Because I can’t scream loud enough

to crack your ego open.

You act like respect is owed to you

just for breathing,

but the way you talk—

about me, about Scott, about anyone

who isn’t bending beneath your mood swings—

makes it almost impossible

to give you anything but distance.

You trash talk behind closed doors

then act like you’re the gold standard.

You’ve talked *** about me

like I wouldn’t hear it.

Spoiler: I did.

You didn’t even care if I did.

You treat me like a criminal—

every mistake,

every slip-up,

is an excuse to punish.

To control.

To tear through my privacy

and call it love.

You want betrayal?

Try telling you I was hurting myself—

and getting my phone ripped away for a year.

You said it was my grades.

I know better.

You just didn’t want to deal with me.

That wound still bleeds.

This trip was supposed to be good.

But you?

You found reasons to scream.

Tiny things.

Petty things.

You promised summer.

Then decided I didn’t deserve it.

Like my effort is invisible,

like joy is a privilege you dangle

and snatch away

just to feel taller.

You never say you’re wrong.

You say your anger is justified—

like yelling at me

the second I open my eyes

is somehow reasonable

because you’re annoyed.

It’s not.

It’s just exhausting.

You want to know what hurts the most?

Seeing how other people treat their daughters.

Like people.

With patience.

With care.

With decency.

And I come home

to cold stares and louder mornings.

Not a daughter.

Not even a person.

Just a target you aim your bitterness at

because it’s easier than facing yourself.

And maybe—just maybe—

you’re right.

Maybe I am the problem.

A selfish, broken brat

who doesn’t deserve anything

because clearly,

you don’t treat decent people this way.

So I must be something else.

Something revolting.

Something wrong.

Right?

Or maybe you’re just

wrong.

And I’m finally done

letting you convince me

that your cruelty

is something I earned.

@4579Xx This was so good to read. Thank you so much for this. 🤗

You Made Me Black and Blue

You never hit me—

not with fists.

But I learned how bruises form

just by watching

the way you looked at her.

How your words

cracked louder than thunder,

how she shrank

without ever being touched.

I counted silences like storm clouds.

Knew when to hide.

When to smile too big

and say “it’s okay”

before anyone asked.

She used to laugh in the kitchen.

Did you know that?

Before your voice

turned every room into

a place she had to survive.

And I watched.

Too small to fix it,

too old to pretend

it wasn’t breaking me too.

I carry the ache she couldn’t speak,

the tension that never uncurled

from her shoulders.

And I wonder—

did you ever notice

you were teaching me

what love was not?

You made her gray.

You made me quiet.

And somewhere in all that damage,

you made me black and blue

without ever laying a hand on me.