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Adia Heart Dec 2015
I thought the cold air would help
But there's only ******* smoke
Free ****, I'm living the dream of a million burnt out lungs
with capillaries astray -

Sadness is a comfort
Happiness burns against my eyelids
It sears against the grey -

Age doesn't matter as long as you pay
Head high to keep the nausea at bay;
Visions blur, thought the alcohol in my
backpack somehow took effect
it was just the ******* smoke.
woah, It's been a year since I visited this site. (It's been a year since I wrote a poem).
Yeah but Beijing pollution ***** I threw up 5 times yesterday
Adia Heart Dec 2014
You speak too quietly that I forget you are suffering.
You move too silently yet your touch is deafening.
Your gaze burns heatedly, it should be frightening,
yet your touch comes too gently, still terrifyingly captivating.

I reach blindly, caught up in the whole of you, searching.
I grasp tightly, not knowing what I found, yet still wanting.
I am confused. I do not know the depth of your soul, the extent of it.
I cannot comprehend it. Yet I let myself sink slowly.
I am drifting. I am not afraid.
Adia Heart Dec 2014
When it comes to sadness,
let yourself cry.
Lock yourself in your room
and let no one hear you.
You only get a day.

When you've finally worn your heart out
to a state of excruciating numbness,

stop. *******. crying.

Now act like your heart
is only used for pumping blood.
It demands to be felt.
Ignore it.

Act like a *****.
Act as though nothing gets to you.
Sardonic smiles are your armour.
Sarcastic replies are your weapon.
Wield it without care.
Wield it as thought you don't give a ****
about who you hurt.
You care too much, and that is your flaw.
Flaws were meant to be hidden.
Adia Heart Nov 2014
It hurts to breathe.
Maybe I should
This poem looks like an angel but I do not look like one.
Adia Heart Oct 2014
I pried out my own skin
wide open
with needles dipped
in cheap india ink; I dabbed
at the black mixed with red
staining my fingers.
Do I do this for the pain,
or to get the poison trickling in
to my skin, to my veins?
A symbol, an alphabet.
Vast meanings that I tried to bestow
upon them hours later
really means nothing at all.

There's the cause and the effect,
which really goes both ways.
The pain for the gain
of the blurred out ink under my skin,
and the gain for the pain
of the sharpness prickling

my ankles, both legs
bare the stain of alcohol tinged
The skin beneath my eyelids
a darkened haze;
but the tattoo still burns
needle-sharp against it all.
Adia Heart Sep 2014
Fairy light glow
in a dark suburban scene,
there's a vinyl record playing
and the photos blur out

into colours;
it's not bright
cause we never were meant to be.
Faces washed out
into meaningless figures -
as if you were never here.
Deliberately hipster.
Adia Heart Sep 2014
If the world was made up of sand,
could we ever count them all?
Buildings, ceilings,
everything sand;
Humans too, and animals as well.
All crumbled to dust,
would anyone try?
Would anyone care to count
the dust we'll be reduced into?
If we're all dust,
are our numbers finally infinite?
Does the count stretch on forever,
are we never-ending swirls of dust?
Well, one way to know,
someone must count.
There must be someone
who's willing to do.
Oh, wait.
Do you want to count our molecules?
Brilliant! Go ahead!
Just let us crumble everything up!
What do you mean, that you'll be dust too?
You can't disintegrate,
you've got work to do!
What do you mean you quit?
You didn't even start yet!
Well, it's too late,
we've already started crumbling up.
We'll be gone, and you'll be gone too.
Yes, this is it.
Goodbye, everyone.
I guess we'll never know
if we were infinite.
I would've
to -
This is the result of TOK class, from the question: 'If the world was completely made up of sand, is the number of sand finite or infinite?'
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