Traveling as a volunteer to help out a city devastated by Typhoon Haiyan.
So I might not be able to post or write anything until then as I am expecting a lack of internet and electricity there.
Me and my best friend are accompanying a ginormous truck full of relief goods and donations. JUST TWO OF US TWENTY YEAR OLDS I HOPE WE DON’T GET RANSACKED BY DESPERATE PEOPLE T-T I heard much looting is going on.
Two hour travel by boat, and two hour land travel. Uuugh I have an irrational phobia for boats and drowning, and the weather is shitty again and I DONT WANT TO DIE, wish me luck :/
In the mean time, have fun reblogging my old poetry by clicking page 2.
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winter in my bones,
summer in my skin,
spring in my hair, and
autumn on my lips.
- I Am Made Up of Seasons | Sade Andria Zabala (xpsycho)
I fucked my way through apathy.
Well, you know what they say.
“The best way to move on from someone
is to get under someone.”
And I’ve been getting under many someones.
Just not the right one.
But if you asked my best friend,
she probably won’t believe it.
Well, who am I to argue when
I don’t even know what I want anymore?
I think that’s why I do one night stands.
Maybe I’m trying to be a cynic when I’m not.
Maybe, like in the movies,
I’ll meet someone who’ll tell me I should stop
giving myself away to assholes with low IQs.
Someone who’ll stay long enough
to chip off the ice on my nails.
Someone who’ll stay long enough
to still love me in the morning.
At least, that’s what I tell her.
“I want back my happy Mondays,
and sleeping in on Sundays,” I said.
She gripped my hand and gave a steady smile,
“You’ll find someone. You will.”
Seven years later,
she grips her engagement ring.
I give a shaky smile.
My best friend asks how I am, and I tell her:
“I’m still doing one night stands.”
Sade Andria Zabala (xpsycho) | How We Got Here
Why are all my poems shit??? This sounds so fucking off and amateur.
And whoever thought it’d reach this point?
I am so empty.
I need someone to fill me up, this cavity in my chest.
Nothing I write makes sense,
Nothing I write is honest,
not even this,
why would it when I haven’t been able to feel
anything real in the past twelve months?
I used to be so emotional that I hated myself for it.
Feeling so much beauty for the world
that it felt like my chest would burst.
Having so much love to give that no one wanted to receive
that it felt like my heart would spill over.
And now nothing makes sense anymore.
I’ve stopped living in the grey areas of life,
I’ve been seeing things in black and white.
And everything I write or think is shit.
It’s not real, it’s not real and I
want to rip up this crappy poem
and scream my fucking head off until I can feel
something besides the crinkled edges of paper
on my palms.
I would rather be a little girl
with shards of glass living inside her
not being able to breathe without her ribs
feeling like they might shatter,
than be this zombie immune to pain
shuffling daily through life’s routines,
not caring for the homeless,
not caring for the senile,
not giving two fucks about the
that were killed or are starving in wherever-fucking-country
on the news last night.
I used to think apathy was the secret to life.
That it would be better to feel absolutely nothing
than have to live with the pain of feeling absolutely everything.
But I’d rather write something that nobody likes;
embarrassing cringe-worthy words full of promise that sound like
they were penned by a mentally unstable naive five year old,
than a viral masterpiece that sounds like it was written by
the next Sylvia Plath, devoid of meaning or feeling
besides writing for the sake of writing.
FUCK. FUCKING SHIT.
Where has it all gone?
Sade Andria Zabala (xpsycho) | Warning: This Writing is a Piece of Shit and So Am I Because That’s What Growing Up Does to You
Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck life. Fuck the people that broke our hearts.
I feel like crying and I want to cry
but I can’t because I am an emotionless robot.
Have you ever loved someone so much that just thinking about their face makes the insides of your chest hurt?