Writings for Winter

I’m really sorry but please do not ask me to read your poems and critique them!

The troubled words of a troubled mind I try to understand what is eating you
I try to stay awake but its 58 hours since that I last slept with you
What are we coming to?
I just don’t know anymore

Hey.

That’s a really good question. So my book is a mix of old poems that have already been posted on here and some completely new ones that have never been posted.

I honestly think that just as many people would buy my book if it were made up entirely of old poems, because having a real, print copy to hold in your hands, something that the author physically crafted, is a lot different than just reading words on a screen. It feels more authentic and permanent somehow, and it also, to me, would make me feel more close to the author or somehow more intimate.

So I don’t really feel like the poems in my book have to be “better” or “different” from the ones that I “give” people for free, because the very fact that readers can now have a physical copy instead of an electronic copy is probably much preferable to most of them.

Does that make sense? :)

“It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.”

- Chuck Palahniuk (via eskimartymo)

somebody wake me up wake me up

My publisher contacted me a day ago and said that he was sorry for the slight delay in getting orders out- it’s a lot of work to package books by hand, as you can imagine.

But he put a 20% off coupon in all the orders to help make up for the delay.

So you should be getting your book soon; don’t worry! :)

Have I ever not been? When I’m not in love with people I’m in love with trees and fall leaves and warm smiles and the idea of the universe continuing to exist while I’m asleep.

andtheuniversesaid:

My mom ordered Survival Songs for me, and it arrived today in the mail! I couldn’t be more excited.
Go check her out on tumblr! This book is a small portion of her writing prowess.

Thank you beautiful! Hope you enjoy. :)

My book is finally officially available at Barnes & Noble!

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/survival-songs-meggie-c-royer/1116825386?ean=9780615871592

(But you can still order it through Fameless Publishing, through Amazon as a paperback copy, or through Amazon as a Kindle copy.)

Nope; that’s just how the printing turned out. :)

That’s very sweet of you!

One. Oh wait, my tongue slipped: I didn’t mean to call you “dear.”

I meant to say fuck you. And not in the sexual sense either,

because no one would ever want to take you to bed.

When my parent’s colleagues met me for the first time at the grocery store,

I was still in pajamas with a hospital bracelet attached to my left wrist

like a fishing hook that always keeps me head-under-water,

and I had no idea how to introduce myself without your name

immediately after mine, since everything about you always follows me around.

Two. My wrists are crime scenes I keep wanting to slit the yellow caution tape on

again and again, and you always know exactly where to find the scissors.

And hey. I’ve been single my entire life, probably because no one

ever wants to date someone who’s permanently under the weather

(my head is so full of storm clouds it’s a wonder my brain isn’t

drenched with rain), but maybe I should change my Facebook status

to “in a relationship with depression and it’s complicated”

because at least those first three words would make me feel less alone.

Three. My well-being is a practical joke and you’re just the punchline.

When I called the plumber last week to see if he could unplug the drain,

he told me I needed to unplug you instead; the issue here

is that you’re one of those cords that always fits any socket,

no matter the shape or size. People always ask me

why I always stay in bed even on weekdays.

They don’t realize that I’m permanently waking up on the wrong side of it.

Four. You’re that one pesky vulture that keeps circling the prey

no matter how rotten and broken it already is. Why isn’t it possible

for me to convince you how horrible my darkness tastes?

Why do you keep coming back for second helpings?

You feed on ugliness and chaos, but I guess I’ve never had

any shortage of those.

Five. Some days I leave the house just to prove a point.

I wish they had one of those concealed carry laws in this state

just so I could finally hide you away for a while,

but your trigger is always cocked straight against my heart.

Those are the days when all I want is for my lungs to commit suicide by gunshot

just so breathing wouldn’t have to seem like a 24/7 job.

Six. You make me feel so exhausted that even my bones have wrinkles.

Any remaining scrap of self-love has gone into hibernation for the winter,

and I’m not sure it will ever wake up.

Depression, you’ve crippled my motivation so much it’s gone arthritic.

Seven. My hobbies include acting like I’m not mentally unstable.

Even walking on a tightrope across Niagra Falls like Nick Wallenda

would give me a better sense of balance than you do.

Eight. I heard from the last woman you terrorized

that time heals all wounds. But there’s not enough of it.

That’s why I smashed my old hourglass by throwing it

off my neighbor’s roof- so I can keep pretending

that maybe my time isn’t running out after all.

Nine. When I slid out of the womb, I never imagined

I’d give birth to something as ugly as you myself one day.

I wish I could slash the umbilical cord that ties you to me,

but truth be told your skin is just too thick.

My mother always said that getting attached is a mistake.

Ten. Fuck you again. Fuck you then, fuck you now, fuck you still, always will.

Yes, yes, 100% yes! But I often find that the pieces that are scariest to share are actually the best pieces because they reveal the most vulnerability, which is really integral to writing poetry.

Sometimes it can be hard, but putting that fear behind you is honestly your best option.

Chances are if the person it’s about sees it, they might actually enjoy the piece and think it’s good.

raspberrymilk:

Type Poster by Black Monday on Flickr.

What you must understand is that sometimes there’s more flesh

left on a fish carcass than bone, that sometimes everything goes

the soft bruising of rotten fruit, that there are days

when even picking up groceries feels like a bloody victory.

My father always hung up the phone when I called on his birthday

as soon as I uttered the words I feel so- and the dialtone

finished the rest of my sentence. There are men

that have made dating so painful I would rather yank out my eyeteeth

one by one with string than ever get into someone else’s bed again.

I was taught in grade school that when a stranger approaches

asking for help finding his dog, you should automatically lift up your skirt

because whatever is about to happen will happen anyway.

Straight from birth, when the umbilical cord almost choked me,

I learned that sometimes it’s not just ropes that can form nooses,

but people too. I admire the bravery of fall leaves because they’re experts

at learning how to let go, of the last cigarette in the pack

because even when alone it still has the power to steal the breath

from someone else’s lungs, of women that carry their wounds

like wooden crosses on their backs every day.

What you must understand is that there has been a plethora

of cousins and uncles and strangers in my life

who have looked at me in silence like they were skinning a rabbit,

who tried to crack the sharp ribs of How are you today?

just to find an I’m fine covering up a screaming wealth of

Hand me the sharpest knife you can find’s underneath.

My bloodline is just another reason to feel ashamed

for something I didn’t do.

I started writing seriously when I was about 16. I did write a lot when I was a kid, but it was always for leisure. I never really had a passion for it until about two to two and a half years ago.

And I don’t consider myself to be good at drawing, although I admittedly don’t have much experience with it!

I adore art, and photography was really my first love.

“I want a tattoo of the first morning we woke up together. I want the memory to hurt.”

- Clementine von Radics (via ted—bundy)

I am truly glad that my poems were a source of comfort for your ex-girlfriend; I’m honored that my words could be a safe space for her.

I hope she has a wonderful birthday, and I can tell how deeply you care for her. x

Hello! I actually found the first poem I’d ever written in a notebook the day before I left for college. It had something about blackbirds and breaking glass and falling sky and the phrase “shudder all your basement sound” in it. Kind of odd.

I miss Flickr a lot, so it’s wonderful to hear from someone there. I’m honored that you’ve followed my “journey,” since the very beginning.

Your message made a day full of cough drops, Cepacol, and troubled sleep (I’m sick) infinitely better- in fact, you made my entire day with your message.

So thank you, A. :)

My dear, you are most certainly not the only one.

"I still catch myself feeling blue about things that don’t matter anymore.”

-Kurt Vonnegut

I’m really sorry but please do not ask me to read your poems and critique them!

The troubled words of a troubled mind I try to understand what is eating you I try to stay awake but...

"It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for..."

somebody wake me up wake me up

I preordered your book and I never received it.):

Have you ever been in love?

andtheuniversesaid: My mom ordered Survival Songs for me, and...

I'm sorry if you have already answered this question, but I'm curious about the reason your book starts on page 17. Does that number mean something special to you?

You should post more pictures of yourself. You're very pretty and it may humanize you more, if that makes sense. Show some people that you aren't a magical writer that can give them life advice twenty-four/seven because you yourself are human. That and you're just really pretty.

Dear Depression: A Hate Letter

Have you ever written about someone or something and been really proud of it and wanted to share and thought that people might benefit from reading it but been too scared that whoever it's about will see it? Hope that made sense. I have this problem alot.

raspberrymilk: Type Poster by Black Monday on Flickr.

one of those poems in which everyone hurts the protagonist

Sorry if you've answered this before, but may I ask at what age did you begin writing 'seriously' and have you always been a writer (for leisure) since you were young? A lot of writers are also good at drawing, are you, too? (:

"I want a tattoo of the first morning we woke up together. I want the memory to hurt."

Hello :) Do you remember the first poem you've ever written? and if yes, what was it about?

Sometimes I come home and cry for no reason at all. Am I the only one?