Beautiful Blood
- MGA BUMASA 7
- Mga Boto 1
- Mga Parte 1
The way the blade makes a slit and the blood rises out from the skin like tidal force makes hidden water from the ground rise above. The blood rises so beautifully and clots so beautifully. The way things like this become normal in life... What am I? What are we? ... Am I an elephant or an elf...? what even am I? Why do people care only when someone is no longer there...? Can't people see that no longer being present is way less terrible than being here and say "No Longer Hurts"? Why...? The way my life changed... Depression, problems, no support... everything lead me to be a dull student, from a topper to below average... People who were in lower stairs are now above me... Freindships broke, they r now trades. It feels really good to slit open the epidermis and feel the flow of blood... It makes me feel like Im worth love... It leaves scars of shame and guilt.
"Beautiful Blood" is not just a poem-it is a confession written in the language of pain, survival, and silent screams. With every line, the poet opens a vein, bleeding memories of trauma, abandonment, and self-destruction. This haunting piece explores the invisible wounds left by childhood abuse, the numbness of existence, and the desperate beauty found in the act of feeling something-even if it's pain.
Through raw metaphors and fearless honesty, the poem speaks for the silenced, the scarred, and the overlooked. It asks: What happens when the world ignores your cries? And more chillingly-Will they only care once you're gone?
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Magugustuhan mo rin ang
Tethered
Bright lights, the beat of the music beneath my feet. Distant chatter, quite whispers. The feeling of joy, loss, heartbreak, and loneliness surround me. Buried in a crowd, drowning under the gazes of people who look through you. I am but of glass, a mirror if you will, willing to be seen through, but not seen. Screaming in a room full of people when no one can hear you, let alone see you. Hidden breaths, rising, falling. Isn't that funny, falling? Laughing would be easier than standing here in the crowded place, filled with people, faces, judging every moment the other makes. I could tell you the peace I get standing alone in a room filled with people who only see you as a mirror for who they don't want to be. I could cry tears of blood, and non would ever so much bat an eye in my direction, but I love it. The feeling of being unseen as to appose being seen for the matieral object I once was. Silent, unmoving, unwilling. I am but an idea, glass, shatterable, broken beyond compare. But strong, resistance flows through me. Willing me to be the best I can be, but can I? Who says I make sense, who says I am even me, am I? That's a question I spent years wondering. Who would I be without these scars that tether my skin, marking each even, like a calender. To mend the feelings people have isn't a easy thing, but to break is easy, always easy. How easy it is to forget, to run. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, feel the soil in-between the crooks of my toes, I could describe to you the smell of the rain. Pinpoint the center of the earth, but as I stand here, again amongst the crowd of people stand in this room. I am lost again, an idea, but for what purpose? If I could run, navigate my way through this crowd, I would seek refuge somewhere dark and cold, where I could take off this cloak and be one with who I am, or want to be.
when you need me most
When you need me most, that's when I walk away. I've spent years with him-giving, pretending, sacrificing-but I've never really felt the way I thought I would. And still, I've never fully walked away. Each day feels heavier than the last, a quiet ache gnawing at me, reminding me that the person I'm losing isn't him... it's myself. People see us together and think it's enough. They see the smiles, the routines, the quiet mornings, the coffee he always makes, and they assume our love is perfect. They do not know the nights I lie awake, questioning if staying is worth the cost, or if leaving will destroy everything I've built inside myself. They do not know the small, invisible ways I've been disappearing-slowly, quietly, while he keeps holding on, unaware of how fragile I feel. It isn't that I don't care for him. He's kind, patient, and loving in ways that make me ache. But sometimes love isn't enough when it takes more than you can give-and when the person you're with doesn't meet you where you need them most. Between guilt, obligation, and the pull of familiarity, I've lost sight of myself, and I can't tell if I'm holding on to him... or just holding myself back. And now, when life throws new challenges his way, I have to face a question I've avoided for far too long: do I continue to sacrifice myself for a love that demands everything and gives only uncertainty? Or do I finally choose me-even if it means letting go?
A Little Bit Of Joy | ✔
[Featured by wattpad romance, teen fiction, young adult and psychologicalnovel] Joy Jones was a seventeen-year-old kind and optimistic girl working in her grandpa's flower shop, but she had a secret. She was suffering from acute lymphoblastic leukaemia and wanted nothing, but to die peacefully. That was until Logan Kellerman, a young man with suicidal tendencies came storming into her life and stole roses from her grandpa's flower shop. Instead of running away with what he came for, he found himself falling deeper and deeper into her as she made his heart skip in delight, for she was, in her own words, a little bit of Joy. * * * from some of my readers of this book, thanks❤- ❝I LOVE YOUR STORY OKAY. THIS STORY AND YOUR WRITING- IT GIVES ME HOPE YOU KNOW.❞ - aimawrites ❝This is so different than so many stereotypical stories on here and i'm so glad i read it.❞ -lepus_leporis ❝They're both so poetic and beautiful and perfect for each other. GAHHhh I love them.❞ - alycecaswell ❝The way she vividly describes the world makes me so happy. Heat keeps rushing to my cheeks in pure euphoric joy. This book is making me so grateful for everything around me and I never want it to end.❞ - nylammeeyn [highest rank: 7 in sad] [cover by soulanatomy]Kumpleto
Depressing Poetry
I write these poems when I hit my low points I hope if anyone reads this you enjoy
Cold Water
[BWWM] I was only twelve years old when the world turned cold. The day my mom died in that car accident, I felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my heart. My dad, who had always been my hero, suddenly became a stranger, filled with rage and blame. He couldn't see that I was hurting, too; he only saw me as a reminder of his loss. The accusations cut deep. He said it was my fault for being there, for not doing something to save her. For being the reason she was in the car in the first place. In the years that followed, things only got worse. The abuse started gradually-a harsh word here, a shove there-but it escalated, leaving scars that I carried long after the physical pain faded. I was drowning in my own despair, struggling to keep my head above water while my father's anger raged like a storm around me. I only had a break from his anger when I started living with Aunt Dina-my mom's older sister. Well, that was because she found me nearly dead on my bed after I took a dozen pills. I was tired of living. I had hit rock bottom. The harsh whispers that followed me around and the stares at school. I pretended not to notice, like it didn't bother me. But it did. I was alone. Then came Athalia, a ray of sunshine cutting through my darkness. With her, I felt something I hadn't felt in years-happiness. She became my light through the darkness and my lifeline. ••••••••••• ● Warnings ⚠️ ~ Mention of suicide ~ Anxiety attacks ~ Rape attempt ~ Mention of self-harm ~ DepressionKumpleto
Teenage Sparks.
This is for all of you who feel like the world hates you. Who takes a blade to their skin. Who looks them self in the mirror and criticizes themselves. Who is hurt on the outside. Who is broken on the inside. Who feel the need to stay strong and cry by themselves in the dark emptiness. Who feel like they have no one when they are surrounded by millions. Who are hit. Who are tortured. Who are hurt. Who weep. Who need a hug from someone once in a while to unload the hurt. The pain they carry within them coiled in the disaster and wretched awakening of their tears is more than we can measure. No one but them knows the feeling and the burden they carry. I hope you read this, and feel like this has helped you. Even if one in a million love you, sometimes that one persons love can cover the other nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine people's hate. Just know that there are people who will love you. Who will hug you. Who will let you cry on their white shirt and ruin it with your mascara or stain it with your tears. ➖➖➖➖➖➖ Gwen Holland has lead the life of abuse. Of depression. Of hurt. Bearing with her the wight of the sky. Bruises lining her stomach. Broken bones every month. Bags under her eyes from lost sleep. Patches of blue and black bruises laced like silk on her body. She has kept it all a secret with full sleeve shirts, jeans and tights. But all this is at stake when her heart finds the person to whom she can fully unload her burden on. Who can help her. But to Gwen, Allen Walker is the last person who would even understand. ➖➖➖➖➖➖ *DISCLAIMER* This story contains graphic violence, self harm and suicidal chapters. There are detailed abuse and lines that may seem inappropriate to some people. So if you feel discomfort then feel free to read something else. ➖➖➖➖➖➖Kumpleto
Poems (collection 1.0)
please don't read this (i laugh here, but i'm not joking). this is a relic. consider this the museum of my progression in writing. you can find the better (marginally) stuff from this one in "Poems (collection 2.0)". Thoughtful, often sad, and angry poems. It's an outlet. A way to be heard. Not genius; only jumbled messes of the multitude of my thoughts fighting their way out of my brain. There's so much I want to say, but not enough time to say it. Here are my attempts.Kumpleto
It does get better.
People say it will get better. But to be fair, most of them never were in your place. They say you will get happy again, but how can they know? I've struggled with trauma, mental illnesses, and self harm for many years. These are (mostly) poems - about me and my journey of getting better. ! As this is about self harm and other previously mentioned topics, it might be triggering. I don't glorify it in any way, though. I'm also not a native English speaker. If you find any mistakes, please tell me so I can improve.
Bright lights, the beat of the music beneath my feet. Distant chatter, quite whispers. The feeling of joy, loss, heartbreak, and loneliness surround me. Buried in a crowd, drowning under the gazes of people who look through you. I am but of glass, a mirror if you will, willing to be seen through, but not seen. Screaming in a room full of people when no one can hear you, let alone see you. Hidden breaths, rising, falling. Isn't that funny, falling? Laughing would be easier than standing here in the crowded place, filled with people, faces, judging every moment the other makes. I could tell you the peace I get standing alone in a room filled with people who only see you as a mirror for who they don't want to be. I could cry tears of blood, and non would ever so much bat an eye in my direction, but I love it. The feeling of being unseen as to appose being seen for the matieral object I once was. Silent, unmoving, unwilling. I am but an idea, glass, shatterable, broken beyond compare. But strong, resistance flows through me. Willing me to be the best I can be, but can I? Who says I make sense, who says I am even me, am I? That's a question I spent years wondering. Who would I be without these scars that tether my skin, marking each even, like a calender. To mend the feelings people have isn't a easy thing, but to break is easy, always easy. How easy it is to forget, to run. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, feel the soil in-between the crooks of my toes, I could describe to you the smell of the rain. Pinpoint the center of the earth, but as I stand here, again amongst the crowd of people stand in this room. I am lost again, an idea, but for what purpose? If I could run, navigate my way through this crowd, I would seek refuge somewhere dark and cold, where I could take off this cloak and be one with who I am, or want to be.
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