// even when your hope is gone, move along //

this kind of pain is like riding a bicycle

you have to

keep going

keep going

just to keep the bike upright

you move along so you don’t wobble

so you don’t hit the ground

and get bruised knees

i have to

keep going

keep going

because if i start to slow down

all the cruel whispers will come out

to fill the empty air

the air that is vacant of

busyness

friends

responsibilities

things to keep me distracted

if i don’t keep moving

my thoughts will make me stumble

and i will hit the ground

and get a bruised heart

so

keep going

keep going

*

(in addition)

*

i am so weary of riding my bike

i ache all over

when do i get a rest?

i want to crash into a tree

lying on the asphalt with a spinning head

the only thing i see is the sky

how very far away it is

from rock bottom

i am bleeding but i barely notice

are there any band-aids?

you can cover my wounds with them and put a kiss on top

but the blood is seeping through

and we are out of bandages

 that’s fine

because they’ll turn into scabs eventually, right?

it just takes time

(i am so sick of waiting)

 i will pick at them and make them bleed again

digging up old problems

i just can’t let go

these will take forever to heal

and when they do, they will leave a scar behind

they make sure not to let me forget

how you yelled at me to keep biking

when i had no strength to continue on

so

thanks for nothing

---

hey, so i wrote more depressing poetry. it’s kind of fun, actually, and relaxing — spilling my guts onto a page at 3 a.m. and then sharing it with strangers online. because you all care so deeply about what goes on in my head, right? (sarcasm.)

this poem is about melancholy and people who don’t understand it. the people who know sadness, but not sadness. the people who don’t believe that you’re actually hurting, or who think that your pain isn’t important because others have it worse.

my poetry kind of sucks, i know. but i feel like it’s important, i guess? not to anyone reading this, of course. because these are just messy words from a messy mind. but it’s important to me, because my abditory, the world i’ve made inside myself, is built out of poetry and snatches of songs and foggy forests and the sound of rain against my window. even though my words won’t have much meaning to you, they mean everything to me. i need to collect them and use them to patch up the walls of my little world, so that it’s always a safe place to hide in when reality gets too sharp.

xo

loren