nicole ridenour
Bio
Life is whatever life wants to be, you have to decide what you want to get out of it.
Stories (2/0)
Hunger
Will it get easier? Will this pit in my stomach, this black hole in my heart ever be filled? I am coming to the explanation that it won't... it will just be another thing I have to deal with; another thing I will just have to carry on my back, but I've been carrying so much baggage for so long. No one understands that my legs are shaking; my knees are giving out. I will not be able to go on much longer. My bones ache. But my mind...my mind is worse; it won't shut up—he keeps me up at night with the thoughts of disappointment, anger, but most of all, sadness. Sadness has become my very best friend; she follows me around on dates; when I go on my afternoon walks; when I shower. I can always count on sadness to keep me occupied when insomnia won't leave me alone. I often sit till the sun wakes up from his slumber, greeting me with a warm hello. Only... it doesn't feel the way it once did. It's warm and kind, but only for a second until it starts to burn me alive. My eyes swell from all the tears sadness brings me. Always making them red and inflamed, and with insomnia by my side. When they get hungry, they eat at my soul. Eventually, there will be nothing left but bones, and maybe then, I will be at peace.
By nicole ridenour5 years ago in Poets
The Bench
I sat there. I sat on that bench all alone. I sat in the rain. You always told me to find my safe space... and I found it In you. But you are no longer here so now I sit, I sit on this bench all alone. Sometimes I sit and cry, sometimes I sit and laugh, sometimes I fall asleep on this bench the way I would fall asleep on you. The bench is my happy place. I lay on my bench and see the same stars, wondering if you’re looking up too. I run from my problems, I run to my bench, I look around me. I hear birds, I feel the rain on my face, I watch the vibrant free trees blow in the wind.. I walk farther than I usually do and I see my bench only it is not my bench but a clone of my bench. Then I realize it was never my bench it was just a bench. A bench that sat and saw the world from its own perspective, that had secrets and stories. A bench that witnessed the beautiful of the world and the ugly and is still standing. Someday I hope to be like the bench. I hope I see all the bad and all the good. I hope I go throw horrible storms and still have the strength to hold people. How strong is your bench?
By nicole ridenour5 years ago in Poets