Melissa Oros
Bio
Macbre poetry. In 2013 I had an emotional breakdown. I notice now most of the inspiration comes from the darker place since then (before 2013), versus my older poetry being light, funny, passionate in love, etc.
Stories (22/0)
Revere Sonder
Don't you see? It's not just we. An Aura gradients every being. the fade always has a deepest blue. That's where their secrets hide, probably not so far inside. Crawling on my my skin, edging under, leaving me reeling at a loss. For what's my reality, but your's too? Empath pain, muddled brain. Confuse her condition, trepidation...she begins to rhyme. Is it time? Depth of understanding, a curse that seeks no pandering. Ah! Free! Search for answers, escape the beast. Don't you see? It's not...so scary.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
Illness
A note before this story: I was born unhealthy, and deformed. I was a sickly, but bright, child. In my early teens I started having joint problems. Hip and knee pain, eventually my shoulder. Right before my 22nd birthday I had some heart complications. I began experiencing more severe symptoms, noticing medicine didn't help, looking back I also see the anxiety and depression. This poem is about the process of trying to find out what causes this, and the constant arrogance and ignorance of many doctors, friends, and family treating me like I was lying to get medication (my early to mid-twenties).
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
Haunt Me Thoroughly
That feeling, the one having you glance over your shoulder, which seems constantly. Are you being watched? More like a reverent chase. Or so the shame that plagues you may think. Obloquy has it's void aura of bigotry, as only a doctrinaire can excrete. Poison, emotion breeds. Aching like pain, like tears in the whipping rain, invisible to everyone except me, sensing their heat on her cheeks. Needles slid from an untrained hand, up the fingers, like pins, you see? They sing their chords, as they seize, radiating shivers in high-pitched Cs all through she. Woe is me; foe is she. Overwhelming malaise, she's falling free from grace, now dormant and the pretty leaves glide, leaving behind a worn wired skull. Stitched back to a crooked piece after one too many thoughts cracked free. Some were beauty, others glee, and the rest reaped negativity.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
The Sickness We Call Maturity
They tell you not fear change, but how can we deal when things never stand still? Her mind is always spinning, life is unforgiving, one stab after the next. The force sends us flying across the room, a trail of broken darkness in our wake. Why can't I just stay? She screams a cry, shouting hoarse 'OF COURSE!'. Just another day on the dissection tray, the needle stuck scratching it's skippy repeat, being a spectacle for your feat. Look at the innocence run care free, not knowing this illness conceived. Growth is an omission of the truth, hidden from you. Leaving us to cry, every other time we try another hope or dreams dies. What is the point? Don't catch a break, like she caught that ball. One loose screw rattles through the cogs in this machine, slowly breaking clean. What is the point?! Once held true, the line going Northeast from the time we first breathe. Now isn't it funny, there's scholarly proof, time's not linear? Hah! Now the roller coaster ride makes sense! Her stomach is feeling like nonsense, and she's screaming until she cries. One little screw, who knew. Please! Don't undo; I don't like to fly. See here, life as we know it is the sickness we fear. Look around at the bigotry, the blissfully content in low IQ, that color, that name, words spoken in vain, and actions resulting in shame. And so much belief! Belief in that which we cannot see...the imaginary?! Look at the innocence, running carefree; age is a danger, people are all strangers, life exists just to die.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
More to Me than the First Piece
Every day stomach sick, sharpness comes, swallow some, but the pain still grows. Synthetic, organic, biologically tearing apart at the seams, falling down over reveries. Chemically drained. Nightmares and torn decisions soak through frail skin. time lost, call it a trance. Or is it just life? Blink, here. Turn, there. Step, next year? Sick sad, lost, mad, elated, explosive. I'm on fire, the building is torn too, yet you still chose the highest quarters. When we fall, all those old faces flee. Collapse? Just for the f*cking TV? Pop your freedom, go to sleep. Sh*t, it's morning, now more pain to reap.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
The Antagonist of My Life Story
When your rock wall crumbles, like it has no mind left to spare, and you have nowhere else to turn. You may be quivering with quick past pleasure, but at the moment words mean nothing. Never will they grasp the hurt unless they reap such a dead seed. The depth of this root eats at her soul, depression brings darkness; she can no longer see sense in deserving color in her life. Hide, sad girl, behind your wispy veil, the woman is missing in action-or she wouldn't be so weak. Is there truth in these words? Pain overtakes, mind goes static, rage bursts forth. Tears cut path's regret; pointless endeavor. Yet forgiveness handed so freely, underserved, as she is blind to what they see. The me I don't see. Beneath these eyes I see what lies-the negativity rules this life of mine. In this beautiful life, so full of light, why must the shadows guide? I am the shadows, giving off no light of my own, only absorbing every tiny refraction into the void that is me. I'm not only the darkness in my existence. In tough times, I bleed a black sea, flooding small ones sweet dreams, and staining his stunning green rings. Where do I go from here? The abyss is scaring me; I'm too afraid of the dark to fight for the sky. Can she embrace the light, losing one fractal, of what lurks inside, at a time? One tall crutch of support, weaves beneath an arm and around slim clavicle, to pull me high, and a petite cane intertwines fingers of strength, so fine, to keep her from hitting the ground. Whimsy loose in the middle, lost without connection, she'll struggle to breathe. It's the ink between these lines that flow free to share the antagonist of my life story…
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
This Story Doesn't Matter
Sad girl, smart girl, sick and deformed; a geek in her own right. Eye for words and numbers so clear, nose in a book and impatiently waiting for others too succeed. Dangerous to breathe, harmful to see, and a waste to be. Charmed in ways others never spent though always feeling the damage surrounding her. Dysfunctional ways not the demon hiding in her deep dark tent. Harsh words, and a hit or two, kids shall be brutal; never cared much for it, always looking to treat others better than their pain. Broken trust, violated by another's lust, into a shell she shimmied free to hide so she could be. Heart break, and new life, near death and disorder, painfully aware with shocking agony; is this really PTSD? Or am I just a drama queen?
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
Never Forget Charloma Drive
Not Always me, I know you can see. What a mess is she? A wit-lacking, lazy, open mind. Sometimes strange in peace and crying joy breached screams of cocky. Feelings low, our comfortable plateau. Remember a twinkle in her eye, life high on fresh free, so hungry. What do you perceive? Many merry; marry? Not she. Closing her eyes, a world spins by, too late, too busy with vanity. Delicately, piece by piece. place this mind-so puzzling-to your custom design. Down hill, spiraling through this negative fantasy, how can I be me? She's new, she's never blue around you. She's high, now why? Why?Why waste your time with...she's not me. Me? All kelly greens and sun shiny December smiles through crimson sighs. Don't question the significance of this street. She's beauty.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
Valentine's Day Massacre
In a glazed cast view of your smiling eyes I'll binge in hopes of second chances, and love everlasting. One so close we could read and hold it dear, so close it's almost here. Scrapbook pages blank with words, memories of sharp tips and blood flowing free of skin's reign. Look down at your feet, I beg of you, my blade goes deep. In the midst of all the chaos my heart is held hand in hand with yours, how can I be too? For long, so wishing the day to come when the mist clears and crimson skies fly far from here. And in the break of silent's night our doomsday is about. But there are no moaning half-tones to scare you away. A simple kiss shades of bright light of the endless and unguided. Melt away the light, sigh into me, relieve this never ending pain. I beg of you, take me please. This could be love, love for searing words that cause endless backfires of nice taunts and sweet smiles. My piercing screams are heard through thick head, and you never knew I was trapped inside. An illusion of happiness blinds the way home. Keep killing me softly with gentle graze and forbidden mishaps. My story quakes with lack of shine in fair coverings. My love shakes truth of all the hidden under lashes of such demand. This pin shivers sadly as if it knows it's fate, as do I in the hands of you. Sick sighs around bring inspiration to express pieces of sorrow as my mirror drops to board. I'll stand here, for all to see, and spare a weep over bloody dew. Destroy your sight, destroy the daggers in the wicked smile of man's breath. You did.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets