I've always been a tiny bit sad. I always found myself feeling things a lot more deeply than some people. It is hard being a highly sensitive person (HSP) in today's world. Don't misunderstand me--I do believe the world is filled with all different kinds of beautiful souls, but with 7,404,976,783 people on this planet, it is still easy to feel alone. With so many different people, there is so much adversity that it can often been hard to find others who truly understand you.
I discovered in my preteen/early teenage years that reading poetry was an absolutely exquisite way to truly feel like someone, out in that gigantic world, understood even the darkest parts of who I am. The special thing about poetry is that it doesn't have to be sad, or happy. You can make it anything you need it to be.
Words can cut, they have the power to build you up, or tear you down piece by piece. I have found that people often think that the words left unsaid between you and a loved one are the most painful. However, I do believe that it is the words left said to ourselves that are a great deal more damaging.
Well, now I think I've talked long enough. I am now going to show you one of my own pieces. It is very dear to me, because it helped me through a really rough time. I was hospitalized for a week on a psych unit and my therapists told me I needed to speak more about how I was feeling. So, one morning in group therapy, hands trembling, I read this poem, and after I had finished, there were several people who said how much they related to the poem. One gentleman asked me for a copy because it gave him hope, knowing someone else felt that way he did.
I am going to share with you this poem now:
"2 AM consciousness"
"Rain washes all the pain of yesterday"
"Everything happens for a reason"
"You deserve better"
"It doesn't matter what people think about you, it's what you think about you"
Words that are supposed to "help" but are really fucking lame.
I'm sorry for being crude,
I'm just struggling.
The weight of living was always a burden I've struggled to bare.
I was like a little kid playing with the idea of a flame. To set myself ablaze,
With the hopes of feeling whole again.
But I forgot what happens when you touch fire,
It hurts-
I've always had empty spaces inside of me.
I tried to fill them up, with anything that could pour into my insides.
But no matter how much I shallowed, I always ended up empty.
Again.
I always left pieces of myself behind, in a book,
curled up inside a coffee shop.
everyone and everything took, but nothing was given.
I was never whole because I left a piece myself inside of every thing I had ever loved.
The most dangerous thing I have ever encountered was myself.
My mind is trying to kill itself.
I'm alright.
It's okay,
the storm,
and I have been friends for a really long time.
So, it doesn't hurt anymore.
With love,
D
