What did you do to the girl?
When do they let you grow up?
How many unblown candles turning
to wax does it take?
When do they stop telling
you to change the way you are?
or hiding your the clothes
they hate to see you wear?
when does it stop
the glares of a father
every time you step
out of the house?
when do the whispers stop?
when do the sirens stop blaring?
when does a mother
stop trying
to turn her
daughter into herself?
how many girlhoods
does it cost?
How many wasted barbie dolls
and how many
wasted make up kits
does it take for a mother
to realise that her
daughter hates her?
when do they laughing at you for
loving something they don’t?
when do they stop killing
the girl who loves pink?
how many teenage
dreams need to shatter
for a girl to finally be good enough?
how many girls need to die
to make a good daughter?
when does it stop,
the house not feeling like a home?
when does it end
the urge to run away from it all?
when does it stop
trying to be the daughter who will
never be good enough
the sister too small to fill up
the hand me down shoes?
when does she stop feeling
like she’s standing naked
in front of
a crowd that hates her every
time she wants to speak what’s
on her mind?
when will the world stop
putting her on a pedestal
to make the world out of her reach?
when will the silence end?
when will she grow up?
why won’t you let her grow up?
why won’t you stop holding her back
because you refuse to let go of what was?
where is the girl gone?
what did you do of the woman she was supposed to be?
where has she gone?
what did you do to her?
will she ever come back?
where is her grave?
is that what you wanted?
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the feminine, the masculine, the artistic urge to stare at the paintings until they make you hallucinate, to read poems until they seep inside your soul, to write such words that hold the power to shatter a person's heart and fill the void at the same time.
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i'm never a priority
i'm never someone's reason for waking up
the giver, never the taker
never the taker, always the asker
i ask for time
i ask for patience
i ask for comfort
i'm never a priority
never the taker
never the reason
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I absolutly LOVE Mr Keating, but if he did that impromtu poem scene to me I would never ever forgive him, no matter how good a teacher he might be, I definitely would've start crying on the spot.
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Some lose all mind and become soul, insane.
Some loose all soul and become mind, intellectual.
Some lose both and become accepted.
- Charles Bukowski
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handwritten letters, old libraries, vintage aesthetic, neck kisses, coffee shops, rainy days, annotated books, unorganised bookshelf, fictional crushes, sleep deprived eyes, love poems for moon
12K notes
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