Lyra Brown
Lyra Brown
Nov 23, 2012

the girl that you once knew
is still right here,

my holes weren't made for you to fill.

Of black lung victims
Holly Salvatore
Holly Salvatore
Sep 10, 2013

I'm a matchstick
With a sulfur head
Dying out quick as I'm lit
But God
How bright I burn
For those few seconds in
A darkened mine
How I shine
Reflections in dirty eyes
And lantern light
How I singe the fingers
Of black lung victims
Lying underground like
Spent matchsticks

There is a dead feeling in my chest
from rotten words and promises
I inhaled

#lies   #promises   #broken   #words   #sad   #life   #pain   #sadness   #depressed   #thoughts  
Agnis Lynota
Agnis Lynota
Apr 17, 2013      Apr 18, 2013

I cherished
every breath you took.
Originating from your lungs.
But yet the one thing I cherished the most
Is what made you die.
The cancer disintegrated your lungs,
the organs that I used to thank everyday.
Yet, they were the ones who took you away.
They made it harder and harder to breathe
until God told you it was time to leave.
I know you had a heart of the sun
shining and beating until the day was done.
And when you left my sight,
you left your reflection on the moon so bright
Just to let us know that you're not gone,
you're just waiting to meet us after our dawn.

Allison Knowles
Allison Knowles
Nov 28, 2012

So many times that I've been disappointed
I'm not alone, I know
but these circumstances drown me
in the feeling
I wish, and hope for things
I cry and plead with your logical self
Please listen!
but you never do
I try to care about your life, and I
just want you to care
someday I hope you can
for his sake
for your sake
for mine
I just want better for us,
how did I become the enemy
Please! could you explain it to me?
I'm worried
I'm afraid
I'm paranoid with good reason

and when finally you seem to acknowledge
the danger
It's never lasted
you just fall back down
without good reason
I'm sad
I'm scared
I'm disappointed

Alexis Jas
Alexis Jas
Nov 9, 2012

i just need to sleep on this head
full of forgotten strengths and ever-present sorrows
and hope that the stale morning will come
within the blink of an eye

like thick steam
my thoughts will dissipate into the cold, dry air
and become nothing but a homogeneous mixture
of nitrogen and oxygen

soon consumed
into my waiting lungs
too damaged by smoke
to know the difference between clean air
or anything else

Aug 30

Releasing from my breath
Burnt out oxygen
And the residue
Of what's killing you
As it sweats out my pores
Being part of my being
Toxicity in lucid masses
Rushing every part
Cheating the courses
Flowing by vein
particles mixing in my brain
Bleeding tissue like a rat
On a war path
Smoking the plague
Smiling pearly gates
That gaped into hell
As I scream your name
Gaged on the tears
Just a choking phrase
Get it joking
But in reality
Just smoking
As I lay my
Lungs on the line
Staining the yellow belly
Of my
Only fingers sin

Feb 14, 2012

My life is made of paper memories
Connected by dust motes,
Eclipsed in tiny dates,
Strung across the sky.
Burning at the edges
Because it refuses to rain.

The soaked windows
Just remind me I’m blazing,
Perpetual melodies mixing,
Strangling me with their complexity.

Only the night knows of the stars like me
Staring at the Polaroids suspended from the clouds.
Between you and I,
I haven’t really stopped gasping for fantasy.
I live lungs deep in sleeping,
Only stage one of waking up.

With eyes closed I see your shoes,
Matching mine
Mouth hiding behind freshly cut sunshine
Protected like a smuggled dove in your hands

All my breaths are made of
Other people’s words,
Melting into shapes
To smear into my heavens.
Holding firmly in place by my temples,
A creature of me.

One day you’ll grow human, but
For now I’ll be drifting,
Playing with sails
Like old rolling grass.

Someday you’ll see me outside this window,
Curtained by rain
I’ll be flowing between the pages,
Waving at your smoke,
Camera in hand
Hanging up our pictures.

Feb 6, 2013

Castles find solace in lords. Mansions find solace in money. Money finds solace in money. Money finds solace in money.

The Lung.
Joseph Burley
Sep 20, 2012

The Lung.

The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A tramp drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst  arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung,  the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.

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