“Your story may not have such a happy beginning
But that doesn’t make you who you are
It is the rest of your story
Who you choose to be
So, who are you”
I am Louise Anna Marie
Häggquist Larsen
I am the daughter of a wonderful and caring mother
The daughter of a psychopath father
I am a student
I am an artist
I am kind
And I am out of my mind
I am on a journey
To see just what I can do
Who I can be
I am free
My story did not have a happy beginning
But that is not who I am
I am who I chose to be
And that is me
"And I felt empty
What's left of me?
“There's a soul, there's a pulse, there's a warrior
There's a hole where my heart used to be
Now I'm filling it up with all the things
I always said I'd be
I always said I'd be”
I’m not a child anymore
I’ve had
my ups and downs and it’s not always a pretty sight
But no matter the battle
I am still alive and I will never give up the fight
What if this is all that
we were ever meant to be;
bodies crashing
through the darkness with no
survival instinct left? What if
we'll always be bitter and anomalous,
and what if they forget
to ever fit us with working hearts?
Don't tell me
everyone feels like they are either
going to explode or murder
everyone they meet every single day,
that they're so alone that even they
have given up caring. Because
if it's such a key part of growing up,
why are there so many people still left breathing?
You're telling me that we don't have to
be lost causes, yet I am dancing
alone in the middle of the street, eyes closed,
A single drop of water, lightly salted, falls into the palms of my hands. It reads "We're almost nothing at all".
Sun defeated by the sky, it's not only today that is ending. Commuters on their way home to indifferent partners and now cold dinners don't take the time to look up and notice the one girl who needs noticing the most. She needs to feel arms around her shoulders and a mind entwining with hers. She needs to feel wanted. As I watch her slumped shoulders and shaking hands, my fears are confirmed: she has been alone for far too long. Although my body stretches across the globe; ribcage hugging the world and phalanges holding hands wit
Maybe tomorrow
I'll see you and we'll have
a conversation saying so much
more than just "Hi, how
have you been?"
because tomorrow is
Monday and isn't that how
these things are supposed to work?
I'll tell you that I've been
good, but
what I would really mean is that
I have missed you oh so much
and I've tossed and turned every night
for twelve nights now,
and I'm sorry, I'm
sorry for not being there.
And you would
(hopefully)
reply that you miss me too, and
it's okay because deep
down, we haven't changed
and we're still the same people.
Your eyes would press into mine that
we're still the same people and
Cloudbursts and Hopscotch. by lemmingtimes, literature
Literature
Cloudbursts and Hopscotch.
I taint people. But I don't
really think I care. If you think
this is about you then
it's really not and you're wrong.
You're wrong and maybe I'm
still lying to myself, and maybe
I'll never stop and
maybe I'll
never ever care. So I'll turn up
the music to drown
out the voices pounding against
my eardrums but the forecast's for heavy rain.
The forecast's for heavy rain and
it's coming solely to
wash away the chalk markings
on the pavement and
road and your back
garden, while I'm left wishing.
I'm left wishing it would
hurry up
and wear away my face, but it's
sixteen years too late
to wipe me out of exis
The cracked sun
threatens to engulf
her flawless desolation: she's
living in the remnants
of a train wreckage,
and as she holds out
her collapsed soul,
the silence
continues to beat
around her aching fingertips and
there's no one left
to sing her out of insanity.