{Flashback Poetry}: Trite & Other Poems

This is a poem I wrote when I was about fifteen. It’s funny to see how my writing style has changed over the years.


falling into the bad habit
of being ordinary.
falling into the trap
of faking a smile.

they shove chemicals
in my face,
forcing me
into believing they’ll work
a miracle
(make me whole again).

you and I know the truth;
they think I’m asleep
because I don’t answer
when you call my name,
don’t they see
I’ve seen the world
so now
I want to close it out.

I thought you knew
what it was like.
they keep offering me pills;
help me to be strong
and suffer in silence,
an imaginary smile
playing at my lips.
it’s like
sharing a secret with yourself
until they find
you in the basement
with tears staining your cheeks
and hopelessness and death
and dying.

clutching the rosary beads,
hoping for one last forgiveness
before you go to live
among broken angels
and virgin sinners
who blasphemed His name
in their last hour.


A Writer’s Hell

Paper crinkles.
Heart thuds.
I’ve been caught.
(Every delinquent act.)
She wants to send me away.

I must pay. I’m the Devil’s curse
to a Catholic school girl.
They don’t know
I’m mild in comparison
to the bitter realities I see

Can’t you just give me a chance?
Wasn’t this meant to be unconditional?
Don’t give me those drugs.
I’m sorry.
I want your love,
your acceptance.

I feel the guilt.
My hand frozen, my pen-
liquid fire burning me up inside.

(“I don’t want to go to Hell;
I don’t like the flames that much.”)

Broken Angel

Dear You,

You’re not the one.
(Not the one I think about
before I fall asleep at night.)

I got over you & moved on.
For a while, I pretended
to be over you,
but I would come crawling back
on hands and knees,
begging for your love.

But my heart is shattered and broken.
Nobody has come to pick up the pieces,
but I’m still happy.

Things aren’t exactly changed,
but they aren’t exactly the same.
I thought I loved you,
and for a while,
I guess I did.

Now, I’m lying here,
broken, waiting for someone
(the one) to pick up the pieces.

I’m a broken angel.
Broken wings,
though the feathers shimmer
around my body.
Broken halo,
though I could reach out to touch it
if I wanted.
Broken angel.

I lie in this place
between life and death.
Where I want him
(I need him)
to hug me,
to catch me
when I fall.

I need him
to love me,
but I fear I will die
a virgin, untouched, unloved
by humans.
A broken angel.
A virgin angel.

A broken angel
who waited her life away,
waiting for someone to pick up
the pieces
(the pieces of her heart).

So much angst and emotion! I was so convinced no one would ever love me, that I was irredeemable and unforgivable because I was so undeserving of love. I was so afraid that no one would ever see past my exterior and get to know the true me.

I remember writing these poems, feeling entirely alone and afraid that no one would ever give me a chance at love. Now, here I am, planning my wedding and the feelings I felt then feel so faint. However, I remember scribbling these dark words down in a sweet, innocent-looking notebook. It’s amazing to see how much progress I have made, and yet, I still feel so dark and so alone some days.

Though I have grown and changed, I can still relate to these words. Though I try not to pen things as emotional and angsty as these poems, I still feel the darkness consuming me at times. It’s amazing because no matter how far we come, we are still the same as we were all those years ago.



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