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Skyy Blu
You get me off..... I'm so confused. I've never been here but I like being your muse.... make me cream....make me cry...take me there--you know why---you get me soooo high...so high in your deep--so sweet, so tight, so warm, so right.... I surrender all to you-- I be yours all night. I'm so confused.... when it's this good, I don't mind being used. Use-Me-Up, I be your muse.
Em MacKenzie
Happy belated birthday Mom,
I'm sorry it's two days late,
but I've been a bad daughter
and an even worse person.
You always told me not to go to your grave or put flowers on your headstone;
"I won't be under that ground," you'd say,
"and don't waste your money on flowers, I'll have no use for them where I'm going."
I still visit sometimes, and I do still bring flowers, but not nearly enough.
I know if I had been the one buried, you'd wear the grass down with your feet and then have the courtesy to plant some seeds.

Almost eight years later I still think about you everyday
and not a minute goes by where I don't miss you terribly.
What a cruel thing it is, to live a life where you're always missing someone.
To have so many things to say and receive no reply.

You would've been fifty seven this year.
I wonder how you would look as you got older, and sometimes, rarely, I forget what you looked and sounded like when you were here.
That's probably the worst part of it.

The first time I visited your grave was about a month or so after you had been buried,
the graveyard drowning in so much snow I actually visited the wrong headstone.
I'm sure Mr.Brown enjoyed the talk, though.
It was only after digging my bare hands through ten inches of snow and ice that I realized I was four spots down.
I then recognized your grave from the moonlight reflecting off the glass vases of yellow roses we had placed there during your funeral,
wedged in place with the snow hugging them tightly;
the roses frozen in time,
it was both beautiful and aggravating.
Good things funerals cost so much,
they should be able to have someone clean up the plot after the service.
I threw the roses out and gently tried to remove the vases:
the one with "wife" shattered in my hands and my frostbitten fingers picked each shard out from the snow.
I still carry a scar from that vase.
The one with "mother" on it remained in tact, I was just as gentle with it but it did not shatter.
You told me near the end that nothing in this world, nothing was powerful enough to ever have you taken away from me.
That vase sits on my dining room table to this day, nursing a reluctantly dying plant just as you'd want.
I don't think I'll ever have the green thumb like you did.

But I have everything else from you,
you always told me Kate was raised by your sister and that she was too much when you were so young,
"But you, Emily, you're MY daughter."
You said I was a godsend of a baby, never crying, content just to sleep,
and that I carried an old soul.
You laughed at how I always excelled at being alone as a child,
and you were so intrigued by my sense of imagination and creativity.
You always said you were the same when you were a kid.

So tell me, now that I'm older and I feel so alone all the time,
am I still you?
Were you this isolated and alien at my age now?
Did you carry the empathy to cry at little things you saw on the street or in a commercial,
so much so that you believe this world to be lost?
That you saw life as one big slap in the face?

I still try my best everyday to make you proud,
It breaks my heart constantly to think I didn't when you were here.
But life is cruel like that, and I was young and ****** and arrogant.
I know if you see my daily life,
you know I'm not 100% better,
and I know I probably never will be.
But I work hard, and I always say my "please" and "thank you"'s,
and I live by your example of always trying to help anyone in need.
It might not make up for the demons that I struggle with,
but atleast I still fight them, right?
I lost some years there where I should've died, and sometimes I wish I had,
but I didn't. I'm still here. I'm still trying.
And to be honest, it's not for me, or for my family, for love or sunsets, or dogs or any of the things that bring me up to a solid "content."

It's for you, because you taught me that's what you do in life.
You fight. You fight until your last breath.

I've thought this a million times in my head, but I'll say it now,
you were always right about everything.
As teenage girls, we challenge our mothers at every turn and decision,
convinced we are mature and capable of making decisions,
and then we say hurtful things when we don't get our way.
So you deserve to hear it, you were always right.

I wish I could tell you face to face.
I would tell you how much I miss you, more than either of us could've ever predicted.
I would tell you how blessed I feel to have had such an amazing mother.
I would apologize for judging you for the drinking,
I would tell you it took me forever to realize, but eventually I accepted my mother was human just like everyone else,
and just like everyone else, myself included, you made mistakes.
Above all else, I would tell you that I love you more than you'll ever know.

I'll be turning twenty-nine next month,
which means I have one year left of smoking.
I didn't forget my promise to you, I'll quit on my thirtieth birthday.
I'll continue looking out for my sister to the best of my abilities,
even though she can be impulsive and brash on occasion.
I'll continue to show empathy and kindness to as many people as possible, just like you would've wanted.
And finally, one day I hope to keep the promise I made to you so many years ago:
I promise to try and be happy.
Extremely personal write, but needed to get it out. If you're lucky enough to still have a mother, tell her you love her today and thank her for existing.
The Noose
Hey staan stil vir een sekonde. Mamma kyk na my wonde
Dis nie wonde nie my kind
Jy mag dalk net so **** maar
Baie meer het al baie meer verloor
As ek haar meer kon mis.
Het ek gedisintegreer.

Hey, stand still for a second
Mom looks at my wounds
It's doesn't hurt my child
You may just think so
Many more have lost much more
If I could miss her more

Did I disintegrate.
Lila Timberwolf
I was young. A girl of just 13 when my life was taken away from me.
He was a leader to me and someone I trusted deeply. But when doors were closed and rooms were dark, he was a demon.
He took little pieces of me away. My sanity, my trust, my everything.
No one knew what he was doing but neither did I. I was young and naive. Always trusting someone.
All I could do was feel trapped as he touched my innocent tiny body. Touched all the parts that he shouldn't have. Parts that were mine and mine only.
I felt trapped and suffocated over the months it accured. I felt more and more disturbed and felt like this wasn't right.
My mother told me to say out loud if things like this happened.
But I couldn't.
I would disappoint her. So I lashed out at him. It was sudden anger and trapping myself in my room for him to stay away. Countless knifes littered my room if he ever forced himself on me.
That little girl disappeared with his hands.
And to this day he is still in the family. The demon I am forced to consider my father.
No one knows.
Not that I would ever tell them.
Deadwood Jawn
A gentle caress of the death touch
A loving kiss of the oblivion
A ****** explosion of
my insides outwards.
1) Rejection.
2) Abandonment
3) Worthlessness.
4) Misunderstanding.

I do not feel good tonight.
Bor ehgit
Lay, calm and still. I'll put the kettle on. Our sunday morning routine begins. She lays in bed and rolls from side to side. Occasionally extending her arms to stretch away the nights rest. I, boil the water and line the ceramic mugs evenly on the counter. Tea bags already placed inside and tied to the handle. As the sun creeps through the blinds, it's heat settles into the wooden floors. From the kicchen I can hear the sound of our vinyl player dropping a record into place. Then, as the music slowly starts, the kettle begans to whistle. A soft morning kiss and our day has begun.
Padro Luca Ivaldi
I'm losing grip
My finger slipped
In the sky
Where I fly
Back to earth
Back to birth
With no recollection
Of losing direction
-Luca Ivaldi

Giving your all to make others happy and ending up alone hurts the most.
I sleep,
to not think of you,
but wow,
you wouldn't let me alone,
even in my dreams,
yet you ask me,
to give up
but hey,
did you know,
we're married with two kids,
in my dreams.
Marsha Singh
Too late when you realized
we were dancing in quicksand –
too late and too deep, and you caught
unaware; you didn't know that my love was an
ambush. You didn't know that my heart was a snare.
Quiet whispers of dawn
Springs softly upon the fawn of  your rested brow
My eyes gaze with fondest affection.
Drawing me inwards
to perfection
With deepest regret
The final curtain has been drawn
Am left with a brief sense of emptyness
My whole life is shattered, the last kiss. upon your lips
will ever be our last.
i look at you
and see the past
a past
so, so unenjoyable
but you're here
and sincere
or the sincerest
i've ever known
which could be
a falsity
the you
that i'd thought i'd known
to me.
LP Sills
I told everyone
that you were dead.
I accepted their condolences.
Smiled politely,
while my chest hemorrhaged.
that just made sense.
clinical lovers,
we chase perfection
and the stars,
and I found them both.

she shines like the word,
and her beauty falls
like the word,

a million ways
and words,
and in all of them,
she’s in some sense
from beyond the sky—

maybe that’s why i see stars,
when i see her.
both are there to find a lonely gaze,
to bring life to a dead muse
and tend the fire of a smothered heart

and both
will never stare back at me the same
never be tight in my arms.

there’s always the dream
for us clinical lovers,
once a star i loved
and now, a galaxy—
who i leave unnamed
for the sake of my soul.
I remember the evening
that we sat clinging
to paper cups
of coffee gone cold

over secrets spilled and memories told
two bodies cursed
with hearts grown old

behind your eyes
I found new worlds
A winding road stretched out for miles
to a small cafe at the end of the isle

Sweet pastries filled the mouths
of those who sat beside us
and stayed for a while.

How the hours went by,
people just passing through
The descending sun ending
a forever with you.
is it bad
that i can already taste the goodbye
on your tongue?
Debbie Brindley
Lifes tragically hard
more things going wrong

Sometimes I do wonder
how sorrowful
the lyrics would be
if written as a song

A song of great love
and trust

Of passion

Of illness  
and fear

Of anger
and heartbreak
over the one I hold dear

What sad lyrics they'd be
If my life with you
were a song
Dennis Willis
Of emotion
Roar thru this day

These new gaps
in my life

Places nothing matters
ever escapes

Circle each other
Like big time wrestlers

Throwing sparks
From clever costumes

And it's hard radiation
sleeting chest high

Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis
simone jewell
we write because we are told
we write because we are cold

so why write poetry?

is it to obey
is it to simply misbehave
is it due today
is it more than what we say

if not
why do you write poetry?

because I can
because I am

we are made to feel
we are made to speak
some people are quiet
and others are bleak

words are expressive and alive
but some words are best left to die
anonymous avengers
I read a quote somewhere that said,
"I don't know how many times I have survived myself, without telling anyone else."

And I felt those words shoot through every nerve in my body. I felt them so deeply.

And I wonder how many of us feel the same way.

How many nights we fought off the suicidal thoughts, the urge to cut, the urge to purge, the urge to run or to hide out, alone, too afraid to worry or bother our friends and family.

How many days and nights have we all suffered in our own darkness alone?

People like us fight a battle no one can ever fathom because it's a battle no one can see. And we don't let them.

I've fought myself and survived myself alone so many nights.

There were nights I use to lose my own battle. But some how still came out alive.

I guess that's how we keep going. Because every time we give up we come out stronger.

You fight yourself and beat yourself up for so long that eventually you become a master of surviving a war.

We're warriors.

"I don't know how many times I've survived myself, without telling anyone else."

Tonight, I'm telling all of you.

I survived myself.

And if you're still here and you're reading this, you survived yourself too.

It's not easy but you did it.

And I'm so proud of you all.
The original quote "I dont know how many times I survived myself, without telling anyone else.", which triggered the whole poem was written by @deadwatered. A talented poet I follow on tumblr.
Helena Wayte
The moon dusts off the rust,
Begonias woebegone,
Withering wisterias forlorn.

And in the morning,
A flower of mourning.

A blossom, a *****,
Baby's breath
In a smug golden wreath

Left bright yellow carnations
Of shifting grey hues,

There might have been some blues.
YELLOW CARNATIONS: disappointment, regret
BLUE CARNATIONS/MOONDUST: a rarity, mystery, fickle, truth
who says that storms can’t be beautiful?
Ariana Bagley
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.
im so sad
im so sa
im so s
im so
im s
im s
im so
im s f
im so fi
im so fin
im so fine
Memories flicker in my mind,
fireflies always escaping my grasp.

I try to catch them,
keep them in a jar,

But they escape,
leaving me lost and alone.
Jaden FC
Maybe if you try it all the time,
You’ll have the chance, wait and fly.
You know right? What am I talking about?
Not status, nor money or even a price.
How about if you try and get to know yourself, to accept what you are and always be great.
Great on your mind and smiling with your eyes, loving our own company to share in life.

Give it a chance, try harder on that.
That’s the best advice I can provide.
when will you read between the lines
of the words I’ll never speak?
Just breathe.
Everything will be okay.
December nights are
Longer, colder and darker
Stars, please bring me light
My first haiku
Ally Ann
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of ****
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
JK Cabresos
Love is not blind,
but he who did not see your worth.
Copyright © 2018
Just a cut
just a scratch
what’s that mark
it was just the cat
just an excuse
just another lie
what’s with the bracelets
just fashion why?
just a tear
just a scream
why were you crying
just a bad dream
But it’s not just a cut
or a tear
or a scream
it’s just one more
until it’s not
until you die
You promised to stay
and never leave my side.
You promised to listen
and never guide me wrong.
You promised to help
and never let me fall.

You promised to love me
and never did.

Is it really a promise
if you swore to do something
you knew you never could?
Jon Hansen
I may not be a lot
I may not be perfect
I may be weak
I may be anxious
I may be depressed
I may think I am nothing
I may have voices screaming what I should be
I may be quiet
I may hate myself
I may not like myself
I may not want to be here
I may wish I was never born
I may think of ending it
I am alive
I am here
I am enough
I am human
And THAT is enough
This morning I awoke to the soft patter
of rain against my bedroom window
and I realized

I’m going to be just fine.
not really poetry but who cares
dear you,

i’m in love.
yes. you were
waiting, i
bet, for this.
this time, though,
it is not
what you would
think. it’s me
this time, not
you, although
it’s still you,
but not in
the way it
used to be
you. it’s my
fault this time,
my doing,
my painful,
it’s you in
the sense that
i cannot
control you.

this time,

it’s your mind and your thoughts
the things that slip off of your tongue
the words you put, pencil to paper
the ideas that come out in your songs

it’s your eyes and your sight
the careful observation of beauty
the need to bask in warm, pure light
the stare you give me, rarely now

it’s your movements and your touch
the hugs where you grip my shoulders
the times where i’m drunk and playing with your fingers
the warmth you give off and your gorgeous smile

none of them
are mine to
have, to take
to keep, to
love, to break

i miss you
and to go
and detach
to break what
we have, that’s
the hard way
out. but i
am trying
to help me.

i feel the
same way i
did when you
said i was
wrong about
this. about
how i feel.

i try to
not panic
and quiet
sob in the
bathroom at
3:27 am
every night.

i’m hoping
myself of
you, means that
the dreams will
go away
too. but if
they stay,
i’ll give you
a quick call.
a text, to
be honest.

i love you,
with every
part of me.

keep in touch,


it is better to regret doing something instead of not doing it at all.
this isn’t going to make sense
cause it’s not supposed to
and if I’m being honest
this isn’t for you
it’s not even for me

I’m stuck
I’m trapped
I’m lost
I’m every other word that describes people who feel at a dead end

I’m typing on a ****** phone
That’s connected to a ****** connection
That could possibly be a metaphor for my life

I’m writing
Because I don’t know what else to do

I’m writing
Cause that’s what they told me to do

But they also told me that what I think isn’t always true
That I’m special and I just don’t see it

But that’s the thing
I don’t see it

And if I don’t see it then why should it matter if anyone else does

And if I’m thinking something why should it matter if it’s true

What matters is that it’s in my head
What matters is that it’s always there

But here I am
Stuck in the same place
Back to square one
No progress made
The same questions, whether true or not

Will I amount to anything?
Do I really help?
Am I really worthwhile?
Do you actually care?

I see these people
When I’m online
They smile and post
They edit and pose

I can’t help but wonder

Do you really smile, or do you just do it to look happy like me?
Do you really feel happy, or are you trying to lie like me?
Do you understand what I feel?

Or is it just me?

I’m not trying to be selfish
I don’t want a lot
I just want to be happy
And I want others to be happy with me
But neither is happening

So instead there’s a poem
That doesn’t even ryhme
That makes no sense
  I’ll try harder
kendra Danaher
Being with you is like being a pet goldfish
I am in a bowl trying to swim away
Hitting nothing but glass
Trapped and can’t escape
Eric W
The rain forms rivulets
racing down our windshield,
soft whispers in the night,
promises of the things to come,
morning sons and daughters,
of life given selflessly,
my hand in yours,
writing gentle vows around your finger;
take my name and I'll bear
your burdens as you'll bear mine,
with lace and white veils,
the shields we'll use
******* and bound
across these shifting time lines
with each other
once again.
A love so sweet
It tasted
Of forbidden
“Social media is taking over our lives,”
she tweeted angrily.
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