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Outsider Oct 12
to the flesh.
till there's nothing left;
but bones.
Buried 6 feet under,
like a cliche,
I lay; forgotten,
by my own consciousness.
Dead, but still roaming;
only a shell, of the former self.

screeching voices echo;
pleading mercy,
past peripheral vision.
Desperate to be heard,
yearning to embody.
Lost in translation,
misunderstood, and dreaded.
Stuck in limbo, with no suffrage.

Out of presence.
Still, real.
a chance at revival.
In this poem, I portray the consequences of succumbing to toxic love, in which you lose all sense of self.
Outsider May 2019
it is so ******* dumb
to keep going back
and back again
to the things
that hurts
us most
we find
roads back
and back again
to whatever hurt
because it is better
to be hurt than alone
Outsider May 2019
Pain used to inspire me to write.
Words would flow easily through my fingers,
substituting my tears.
I used to draw my pain. I painted my canvas with feelings,
and emotions, that words could not express.
If things started to feel hopeless, music was my saviour.
I would write lyrics, amplifying the words with sad tunes,
spilling my deepest, darkest thoughts.
But now, the pain is so strong, it is all I can think of.
My thighs are covered in scars,
from when the pain got so bad, that I needed to bleed it out.
Now, I realize, that I have drained myself.
There´s no tears, no words, no paint, no blood
to spill.
I hope that whoever can relate to this, keeps on going. Don´t give up, even if it feels hopeless. There´s always a way out. Suicide does not have to be one of them.
Outsider Apr 2019
You stab me in the back.
And then you beg for forgiveness.
And I forgive, but I never forget.
Cause if you look closely,
you will see, all the scars
from before.
Down on your knees, you´re so sorry.
Begging, for forgiveness.
As you mistake my kindness for weakness,
you stab, again and again.
Until you think, that you need not ask,
for me to forgive.
And this is when I know,
that you´re not worth my while.
As my wounds heal, I become stronger.
While you, grow weak.
Outsider Apr 2019
I wear my heart on my sleeves.
As in the cuts that bleed.
Where everyone can see that I´m damaged.
How I´m broken,
to pieces.
One can never fully recover.
As my cuts turn to scars,
my sleeves will still,
never be the same.
As the same for my heart.
Outsider Mar 2019
My pulse is raising.
Sweat appears in my palms.
My fingertips are turning ice cold.
And so, follows the rest of my body.

I keep asking myself why?
But I can never seem to settle on a proper answer.
It´s an unlike pain,
that doesn´t physically hurt.

An immense trembling
that touches every nerve,
of my wrecked system.
It´s something that I can never understand.

I cannot quite grasp,
what my body is trying to tell me.
I´m forcing myself to insanity.
Outsider Feb 2019
We do
as society wants us to.
Whatever it takes
just to fit in.
What happened to freedom of speech?
And our right to express ourselves?
By law,
you´re allowed.
But still,
society keeps a tight grip around our necks.
Like puppets,
we are controlled,
into becoming as one.
Instead of our own.
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