Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

You are a bone in my throat I can't swallow, I can't vomit. I am bracing from the pain, I am ready to let go, a thousand times of pain just for a measly ecstatic memory with you ‘ When I concluded the poetry I immediately wanted to understand her frame of thoughts, why she would write such a depiction of pain. Was it because of my interference? Just then, the GPS i placed on her beeped, she was on the move. I followed her to a local restaurant.

Raisa wrote a poem entitled in the quiet, she then reread her work. In a lonely corner of the silent night, I hug your shadow in this loneliness. The longing that slices the heart, Flowed with tears that did not stop. In every beat of my heart, There is your name that echoes sadly. The hope that used to strengthen, Now only a painful memory. I walk in empty hallways, Without direction, without light. All the promises you once made, Are now just shadows that disappear slowly. Time passes slowly and cruelly, Leaving deep wounds.

The date of this poem was from a few weeks ago, so this was a recent feeling. I flipped through more pages, only skimming some of the poems until I came across a poem that was dated for today. He must have written it this morning. It was called: Phoenix. She’s become intimate with loneliness. So much so that the most trivial rupture sends her into a turmoil of discomfort. Locked away where the world can’t find her. Silenced and afraid. Masked behind a smile. But there’s a fire that burns deep within. A fire like no other. A voice so soft.

He lit a joint and rummaged one of the side tables for pen and paper, to write down the words rioting in his head. "Be gone already The weight of your fears Keeps holding me down. "I ain’t no bearer Of other people’s burdens. "I’m the one hand You can reach out to And all you do is run. "Be gone already I won’t give in To you anymore. "I need to be myself again Remember what it’s like Before it’s too late." He read it over and cursed aloud. That wasn’t him. That was no lyric. That read like one of Silvia’s poems.

"You're not meant for this. You were bred for balance and blood. Not poetry." She laughed. It cracked. "Poetry doesn't survive in crowns." Her eyes trailed to the shelf nearby where a small wooden box sat—Ceres's first sketch, made when she was seven. It was a mess of lines, supposedly a wolf. Blythe's throat tightened. "What kind of mother risks the world for something as fleeting as...him?" She turned back to the parchment. "What I feel is dangerous. Not because it's wrong. But because it feels like the truth."

Mine does too, But I learnt to smile, Against all odds. Heartbreak, Trauma, Depression, They made a home in me, Did they try same with you too? You're the kind of broken, That people far and wide, Would one day come to watch. Your scars would be beautiful, It'll shine for all to see. You're a different kind of beautiful, You're broken beautiful. A masterpiece, Most times isn't perfect. It's the flaws, That creates art. Be proud of yourself,

I sighed, "What about when you hit her? Was that BPD then? Does it make you violent? Make you drink?" "I spent every second of every goddamn day regretting what I did. I cheated on her that night and I lashed out my anger and frustration in the worst way." He said. "BPD does make one violent, yes, but it really doesn't affect me like that." "I was fucking 8. I was just a fucking little girl and you hit my mother right in front of me." I avoided his eyes as I spoke, flashbacks replaying in my mind. "Mom begged you to calm down and control your temper because I was there but do you know what you did? You hit her in a way I had never seen before and that was-"

My thoughts kept circling around Zinnia, and I kept pushing those thoughts away. Suddenly, a poem popped into my head; In my head, I am fighting fire with fire. The flames are getting bigger and brighter. I can hear it crashing. I can feel it burning. I am tossing, and I am turning. I am burning, and I am screaming. I am crying out for help. Why are they not putting the fire out? They are making it bigger. It is burning faster. I can feel it spreading through my body. Why are they making it worse?

Vincent's poem thus; When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark. I could no longer fight this battle with myself and Jeffrey.

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.