Take me back to when I was free,
Free of responsibility and commitment to be a certain way.
Panic and misery consumes and attacks me.
“It’s just a phase, it will all be okay!” - It’s what they all say.
Just how long will this phase last - when will I find where I fit in?
The reality is, that if wont get better; your walls will simply get weak and dim.

Book of Life

Life is like that old dirty book

on the shelf

Tattered pages,

We realized our minds are cages.

So how must I free myself?

At first I thought, death,

swallowing some pills, 

and taking my last breath-

but I realized that I would give

into my imprisonment

as a prisoner,

death certificate with my lip stain

as my signature-

But I want to die free-

to die having what I want,

and being who I want to be-

it doesn’t matter if anyone sees

In this prison, there’s only room for

me, me, me!

So make your prison your own,

be it old, tattered, even torn-

keep reading each chapter

until the story ends.

Maybe there’ll be an epilogue,

six feet under,

six feet wide-

May as well go along for the ride.



Its just one of those days where everyone needs to go away. Back off , forget how to talk and walk away. No I don’t mean to say it nice. Please step off , I mean duck off , hop off and fly away. For it is foreseen to me that today is a I hate you all go away day ! s

People I wish to sacrifice to Satan.

1. In first grade I was told by a teacher that I was too opinionated, and she said “girls should be seen but not heard” and I wanted to ask her why I couldn’t be both, but it was as if she’d taken my voice and put it in a jar made of glass so that it could be seen but not heard, and as if she’d made a few holes in the top so that it could breath, but nothing more. So I listened as she taught me to not take up too much space, sit down back straight and voice down.

2. There were some boys who told me that I couldn’t play with them, because I was a girl and I was just supposed to “be pretty and stuff” and I wanted to ask them why the genitalia between my legs made me incapable of playing football with them but I bit my tongue as I’d been taught but I still got my answer when they used the word “girly” as an insult and “grow some balls” as the cure

3. I was thirteen when a boy said to me that I weren’t pretty and it was probably the way he said it, as if I’d failed my reason of existence that made me go home and cry myself to sleep praying to someone, something “please make me pretty, please make me pretty, please make me pretty, please make my waist thinner, my legs longer, my hips wider and my boobs bigger”. That “something” did obviously not answer my prayers

4. One day he showed up, my knight in shining armour, with a breath smelling like a chain-smokers jacket and his lips tasting like the strongest kind of liquor. He called me beautiful and told me to take off my clothes, and I wanted to say “no”, but I bit my tongue and watched as he took them off for me. He was my first but he wouldn’t be my last. “Slut” and “whore” they called me, because I bit my tongue and swallowed the word “no” as I’d been taught when the boys told me to take my clothes off.


I would like to sacrifice my teacher because she ruined my childhood so much. And everyone else mentioned here.

A friend asked me who I would sacrifice to Satan if I had the chance. // a list poem by k.s.b (mockedink)

Four things I wish I’d said

1. It’s not my job to make sure everyone around me is pleased by my behaviour. If they don’t like it they can leave, and so can you. I will not let you take away my voice, because in the future I will still be saying things like “I think”, “maybe”,”I guess so”, “sort of” and “I don’t know”; as if my voice is excusing itself for being heard. I will be seen and I will be heard, what I do and who I am is not to impress you, so I will take up space and I will not sit down and agree to be less than who I am.

2. You boys talk as if girls and boys aren’t equal, maybe you forget that unequal doesn’t always mean less, but sometimes greater. I know that I will always feel greater than someone who tries to limit me.

3. Pretty is a six letter word pronounced with two syllables, and I think you are right, I am not pretty. If you had called me pretty you would’ve limited me to a simple word, but words can’t define me; I am so much more.

4. No, I don’t want to.

—  Four things I wish I’d said. // A list poem by k.s.b (mockedink)
this poem is connected to “people I wish to sacrifice to satan