An early morning chapter
Addiction
I wish I could write about being an poet and a lover before being an addict,
But sometimes your story will do nothing but be told.
As much as I keep walking further into the woods, I am truly terrified of what lies ahead.
One of my greatest fears is ending up nothing more than an addict.
It's cynical because I know these woods are not known for being forgiving, I know that more than anyone, but I go in further hoping that this will not define me.
Although I'll never admit it, I'll be surprised if it never does.
It's not that the woods will kill you, it's that one day you'll find yourself so lost you'll forget you wanted to live at all.
A boy named Silvia
How do you define yourself?
Although I have a heart that aches, I am more than that sense I get when the night grows dull.
I am every photo that I take to capture the moment, I am a collection of memories.
I am a painting I haven't quite finished, always being added to and ever changing.
I see myself in the songs I never seem to stop listening to, the meaning may change but the lyrics never seem to.
I am so much more than the pain that holds me.
A day in the life
I don't remember waking up but I do remember the shaking.
I knew why my hands were trembling, I graciously gave them more of a reason to and sat on them when people were around.
I had cake for breakfast, a lovely chocolate cake that was.
We were leaving my moms house today, we had reason to leave in a hurry so I packed my bags and left them in the car.
On the ride home my parents yelled at each other over the phone, my phone that was.
When we arrived at the gas station and my dad hugged me hello, I felt guilty knowing about the drugs in my backpack.
He drove the car and told us about his weekend, he pushed himself too hard, like he always does.
I pulled together a string of fuzzy memories and told him about what I could recall.
I left out the shaking and nightmares.
When we arrived home I wrote poems and entries.
I rode my bike but not for long.
We ate dinner together, my dad, my sister and I.
It started off lovely but soon I found myself in the midst of things falling apart all too quickly.
I said good night, I hugged him, this time without my backpack.
I went to my room and took what I thought would be enough.
It wasn't so I took all I had.
Still wasn't quite what I was looking for,
I guess that's hard to come by.
I wrote until it was past three and began writing again at five.
Soon the sun will rise, and maybe today I'll find what I'm looking for.
Some day soon
Writing is one of my only places of authenticity.
I can tell my story with little fear for the consequences,
In my life this is far from true.
If these individuals I love knew what I put myself through, I don't quite know what would come of it, but I certainly do not wish for the day.
I write about what goes unsaid.
I write about what never leaves from behind the walls of my teeth.
So for today I will let free the stories that begged to be shared.
But I hope that someday soon I will be more than a writer of sorrow.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoesíaA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
