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5d · 25
buzzing
poesuer 5d
I try to act natural, try to blink like a human might do
but I can't help but check, check, check
the TV is off, the computer is off, the plug socket is on

where is that sound coming from?
Jan 8 · 66
mud
poesuer Jan 8
mud
his exhausted hunch, his purpling heart, his bullet shocked head
he picks the shells off the floor and kisses them
he throws them in the air and dances with them
he lies with them like a great beast would

he lost his life first day of the somme;
his medals worth no more than their weight

he cracks the bullets open like a rat underfoot
and he creates, he paints and he sings
and he could have really been something if God had saved him
Dec 2018 · 147
Sanitised suicide bait
poesuer Dec 2018
"There will surly be a place for you," a wise old woman said
"Not on god's green earth, only in heaven above, will there be a place for you."
The concept of a happy peaceful afterlife is very dangerous if you say it to the wrong person. Not that I think it's not a valid belief, quite the opposite. It's dangerous to promise eternal happiness to the disinfranchised when the only way to attain it is to die.
poesuer Dec 2018
The dog barks at the mailman, some school kids catch the bus, the sun goes up before going down

A spider climbs across the mirror and she doesn't know the shape of a human being

The dog settles down in his bed, the kids walk home together sweet treats in hand, the lesser stars start to love themselves

The spider got whacked by a hardback book and she doesn't know what a human is
How can one think like a human without being shaped like one
Nov 2018 · 144
I dreamt I wrote a poem
poesuer Nov 2018
a word doesn't have to be real for it to have meaning
nothing has to be real for it to grip your stomach and throat and force butterflies into every part of your anatomy
the emotion crawls under your skin and all you can do is feel it

a woman rises in the dawn with her fiery red hair, eating men like air
you become that smiling woman, only 17 and not even a lady
dying becomes your art, and you are indeed very good at it

a man frowned like thunder and went away, the stars not needed today
you begin to pack up your very own sky, melancholy filling your entire world until it all comes to a standstill
wind does not blow and not even streetlights shine
your very own lover is still in tact, a phone call away even
but he frowned like thunder and went away

a raven, a remorse, a rapping at the chamber door
a madness, a mania, a man whose mind is gripped by loss
a horror that now belongs to you, the pigeons on the street start to quoth "nevermore,"
every crow is an omen, every bird is wandering through purgatory just to torment you,
and you have no loss to speak of

I dreamt I wrote that feeling, I dreamt I put it into words
I dreamt I transcended humanity, I dreamt I became the art
I dreamt about the feeling, I dreamt you felt it too
I've been reading a lot to get out of my writers block and this is the result. three of my favourite poems, lady lazarus by Sylvia Plath, funeral blues by WH Auden, and the raven by Edgar Allen Poe served as main inspo. I tried to make them into something new, about poetry itself and how much of an amazing art form it is. about how you don't have to empathise to be able to feel the intense emotion and power behind them. also, I know 'dreamt' isn't a word. I just like how it looks/sounds more than 'dreamed'.
poesuer Nov 2018
I'm going to have a hard time cleaning up this mess
sorting out the bedsheets and pulling the mattress topper back into place,
throwing out the takeaway we were too drunk to eat

the febreeze won't hide the sweat and rotten food, not very well

my little den of hedonism feels empty without my love to share it with
without his arms around me, without his cologne,

I feel unclean in the morning-after mess
my bf came back for a visit. it was fun, but we made a lot of mess and now he's back at uni and I miss him again.
Sep 2018 · 164
Going, not leaving
poesuer Sep 2018
I needed to write something

Maybe about how after you went I was only left with smoke dancing in the streetlights

Or about how the stars were so pretty when my eyes couldn't make out your silloette anymore and all I could do was look up

I thought about writing about a dying lover, a ghost that I could still feel clinging to my body

But that's just not right

You're still here, my halcyon boy

You didn't smile like thunder and go away,
No funeral blues today

tether holding me to earth, I can still reach out and hold on tight

My boy, we won't see each other much

And it'll take some time

But somewhere down the line

We won't be alone
Jul 2018 · 110
sweet old man
poesuer Jul 2018
There's a man on the radio trying to show the audience how to grow onions

Who has the heart to tell him he's mistaken?
Jul 2018 · 435
As the bruises fade
poesuer Jul 2018
No more blood letting rituals to clense me of ***** hands

my blood flows only through heart and veins

As it should-
my blood flows,
my chest rises,
the light, once again, shines on my ****** skin
Jun 2018 · 252
scarabania
poesuer Jun 2018
my skin peels away as I itch the bumps moving around beneath it
beetles burrow into my flesh and search for a home
soon they will find
that there is no home here
Jun 2018 · 270
foreplay
poesuer Jun 2018
he shows me his music,
I show him my arts

we show off our writings
and then we show hearts
all I can write about is him lately. ah.
Jun 2018 · 170
To London
poesuer Jun 2018
the jittering of joints at high speed and under the pressure of gravity made the perfect backdrop to the half melody tangling us up

the music of my love, his voice quietly mimics songs he could have written for me if he had got there first

but I prefer the music he did write for me
I prefer it more than any Frank Ocean or James Brown

cute thing, hot thing,  
sweet words, sure

but I prefer the words
of my everything
I wrote this on the way to a car seat headrest concert with my boyfriend. I love Will Toledo, but I love my boy a whole lot more.
poesuer Jun 2018
the angels must have curled each and every delicate hair on your head for it to fall so perfectly over your forehead
your eyelashes too-
each one perked up so heavenly, hooding two tiny impressions of planet earth in them, the whole world is there to be seen
your mouth as well, hallelujah be sung from it
teeth carved from the very same clay that God crafted into all of his beautiful creations
poesuer Jun 2018
I feel the running water with the index finger on my left hand

and though I can't tell if its scortching or freezing

but it gives my skin the burning feeling
so I hold my wrist there like a muddy boot that I'm trying to clear the grime off
May 2018 · 95
parroting
poesuer May 2018
a little bird told me
to stop smoking so much

a little bird told me
to get better

a little bird told me
that I am loved

I told the little bird
to mind her own **** business
poesuer May 2018
what's a poet to do when words just aren't enough?
May 2018 · 109
monomaniac
poesuer May 2018
"no, I don't hate you,"
with a voice flatter than roadkill
that's what she said
Apr 2018 · 88
przc to crplx
poesuer Apr 2018
kids like drugs and feeling good but drugs are easier to get I guess
Apr 2018 · 188
mother hates moths
poesuer Apr 2018
he spreads his tiny grey wings before he takes flight,
short-sightedly finding the closet light source he can

he cares not if the light will burn him when he reaches it,
he cares not if the light will last long enough for him to live and die in the warmth

he simply craves the light;
the only survival instinct left in his tiny, temporary body
poesuer Apr 2018
its an all-consuming thing, this suffocating feeling
like the pretty and delicate hands that once restrained me

held to the floor kicking and screaming, into crying and heaving
easily overcome by anything that wants to throw me to the ground

those tiny little sins wash over me
weeds that grow over the grave I was buried alive in,
moss that forms in the cracks of my headstone

church bells that ring out for a funeral

but you,
only a gentle voice
you,
only good intentions

you don't take no for an answer
not like the feral dogs that you don't like very much

an unstoppable feeling,
but not like the kind that tried to **** me over and over

ethereal, this feeling is pure
I feel it in my heavy heart

and the weight is lifted because-
you, you burst through the all-consuming malice

you, you become the bright light that god spoke on the first day

you, you become my salvation
poesuer Mar 2018
if you see a bright light it's only human nature to chase after it
Mar 2018 · 101
not so bad!
poesuer Mar 2018
only a few touches, only a few trickles of blood
it didn't last too long, it didn't hurt too much
only a few minutes- barely anything at all!

so grow up, little victim complex
your martyrdom is forced
(and you were not!)

why do you claim trauma on something
that didn't mark you anymore than you do yourself?
a bit **** but I need to get out of my writers block. have a self-loathing self-blame poem.
Mar 2018 · 96
truthfully
poesuer Mar 2018
you can't tell me that its not my fault when you weren't there to see how much I deserved it
Feb 2018 · 249
don't waste our resources
poesuer Feb 2018
I fought against this life as hard as a scared child could and it still didn't work
I tried my hardest to be truly alive but I was too weak
I have no choice in being this way

you threw your life away because you couldn't be bothered to live it
poesuer Feb 2018
Victor Frankenstien went shopping through morgues and cemeteries and picked out only the very best features,
stitching them together with string and tape

the flowing black hair and the delicate pale skin,
it should have been perfect

but once the lightning struck and the creature opened his glassy eye the truth was revealed

you can't make a person that way
not a good one anyway

the hair was matted and the skin that looked so fresh on a corpse was jaundice

the monster was a monster by design, even if it was not intentional

I understand what it means to take what seems so beautiful on other bodies and stitch it together haphazardly trying to make something perfect

I have Victors hands, the hands that play god

but more than that,
I have the sickly skin and the glazed-over eyes

I have the very best things I saw in everyone else

a gentle angel with one million eyes to watch over her children,
I took her kindness
a wretched holy beast that could never be hurt, I took his aggression

I stole ideas and attitudes that resonated with me,
I stole the rebellion that I saw the righteous wear in books and on TV
I stole the heart that some sweet girl wore on her sleeve with faith in the world around her
I plagiarized, I became everything I thought was beautiful

with my Frankenstein hands I had created a self to live in, an idea to thrive in my useless body

I thought I could live as the perfect boy, the perfect person

but the ideas split off, still inside me
growing and expanding and bulging out of my skin
my bones ***** under the weight of so many people within

the sweet, the angry, they were always at odds

a monster, a monster that lies in poppy fields and dreams about love

a sweetheart, a sweetheart that slices rats in half just to see what their insides look like

I am not the perfect thing I wanted to be
I am fractured like the bones I had to rip apart to make them fit

I am too little too late and too much too soon all in one,
not enough, never enough, far too much to bear

I am the god I swore was dead,
I am taxidermy animals that don't look quite right

I am fractures of what I wanted to be

I am Frankenstein
but
I am also Frankenstein's monster
it's weird having DID. so much identity disturbance.
Feb 2018 · 237
infanticide
poesuer Feb 2018
the wretched shackles that bound my wrists clanged together dreadfully as I shook
they themselves being the bindings between my innocence and the gallows patiently awaiting me

the voyeurs shout-
"murderess, o foul murderess!
burn eternally, you foul murderess!"

I am numb to these accusations,
as I am numb to the fear of death

the benevolent masses, the enemies that seek my execution,
these are not evil spirits
and so,
the guilty verdict that once grated against my skin now feels as soft and gentle as the clouds that, too, await me

I have retired the melancholy
I resolve myself to die with the dignity and gentleness that I had conducted myself with from the moment I was given life

I resolve to hold onto the sweetness and maternity that I showed that sweet boy,
that I had used to hold him for the first time

my hands, nothing but affectionate to that boy, my boy
the same hands that loved and cared for him from his very conception,
these are the hands they convict

these hands were supposedly the weapon that choked the life out of that sweet fawn, that I had loved so dearly

and so, these are the hands that are held accountable
bound behind my back, wrapped together tightly

these are the hands of love that have been convicted
so I started reading Frankenstein. Mary Shelly is an amazing writer, I decided to write a poem in her style as practice. I'm quite happy with the result, honestly!
Feb 2018 · 124
gunpowder season
poesuer Feb 2018
fireworks catapulted into the sky with ****** pride
that I'd only ever seen in the eyes
of some narcissist
(he fell down in the same way too)

on the 6th of November
all that's left was shell-shocked
cardboard lining the pavements

no more gunpowder,
he used up all its power on
flashing lights and trickery

not really anything but
a couple seconds of fake thunder
until he dwindled himself to death
when I was a kid I'd always sing "gunpowder season's plot," instead of "gunpowder, treason, and plot," I always thought it sounded better that way.
Jan 2018 · 187
the aching flower
poesuer Jan 2018
triffids sprouted out of my brain, sinking their roots into my cerebellum
replacing electrical beats in my arteries with venom

they ate through the back of my left eye
they wrapped my whole mind in their murderous vines

as my body was shaking and my vision began to smother

I gained a new found respect for my headaching mother
my mum gets awful migraines.
Jan 2018 · 206
I notice these things
poesuer Jan 2018
when I say I love you

your mouth twitches slightly,
barely opening and curling up at the sides
like your hair curls around my forefinger when its just you and me in bed

you'll lay your head on my chest sweetly and timidly,
looking up at me with those bambi eyes
while I completely forget that I hate eye-contact

I just love your eyes, your hair, your trembling slightly-open mouth

when I say I love you

are you trying to say it back?
Jan 2018 · 127
I'm spiteful like that
poesuer Jan 2018
I hadn't lost anything but a few coins
yet the grief overwhelmed me

a snake slid into my mouth slowly and ebbed down my throat

I could feel it drag itself through me
my body nothing but a means to its end

I pushed my fingers in after it to try and catch it, missing it

failed again by dull reaction time

I felt it writhe around in my gut
here was nothing I could do
to stop it from eating away
at whatever it found deep inside

so I poisoned it,
streetlights outside my window were glowing tenderly,
I watched my shadow's mouth fill up

pills first, then *****, then blood

I wanted that little imp slithering around in my insides to die

even if it killed me too
Jan 2018 · 485
confessions and mud
poesuer Jan 2018
you can't forgive me for things
I don't even know I did-
the blame is all mine

people have died because
of the vile things
I become when I'm sad

I, too, will to die that way
cut with things I don't remember doing
(my head aches so I know it happened)

I will collapse
under the weight
of multiplicity
I will bury myself
beneath mud and stones
no more "I", no more "us"

just myself,

the only self there should be
poesuer Jan 2018
I notice your
subtle plagiarisms

it could be a word I used once

or my angels leap from
my head onto your paper

you'll change the name of 'angel'
to "you",
meaning "I"

it's never too obvious

but I see my influence
I see my thievery mimicked beautifully
in my writing, the angels signify a destructive yet alluring force of the true self- the ego, or lack thereof. I wonder if you know that when you talk about me the same way.
Jan 2018 · 92
the graveyard years
poesuer Jan 2018
I've been in this dingy cell with the same vengeful spirits ever since I first learned how to break the law

I've been down dark back-alleys with ghosts that wear their ******-riddled heart on their sleeve with pride

I live in the graveyard with nothing but phantoms

if I had more bodies I'd give them out like candy
to all these wandering and crying souls
desperate to feel real again

but I don't,
all I still have is a tiny bit of spirit

so I'll give that out instead
Jan 2018 · 86
epilepsy eyes
poesuer Jan 2018
the thing that holds me back
is
sensitivity

I'm too sensitive to light,
I can't stand outside in the sun
not for too long

like bright white hospital halls,
sickly, sterile ***** lights

it's being hooked up
to the machine
that scans my brain
while a strobe light flares up
my epileptic heart

its car headlights
with their beams set to high
on tired pedestrian eyes

I keep my eyes shut tight
if I need to face the sun

the beams raining down on my
pale winter boy skin

it hurts to be out there
it hurts to look
Jan 2018 · 100
a talk with mis(ter) oginee
poesuer Jan 2018
I asked you who you were and what you like to do and you responded with a list of girls you want to ****

I asked what music you listen to and what TV shows you watch and you responded by telling me that the girl at the coffee store counter in the black coat with the dyed hair and dark blue lipstick probably had a tight *****

I asked you if you care that I think you're defined by the young girls whos names don't even matter to you as you drag them through the mud

I asked if you thought a woman is worth anything more than tight jeans and fully-made faces

I asked if you thought that a woman had something more to offer her legs and whats between them

and you told me to shut it with that feminist *******
and help you get that girls number etched into your bedpost
Jan 2018 · 293
and that's about it
poesuer Jan 2018
I don't write that kind of poetry
you know the type,
pretty flowing words that trickle down the page like a quaint little waterfall in a fancy garden
while daisies open themselves up with so much confidence
without any doubt

and I say something about myself without saying anything at all

the three dimensional poems that you could take a stroll through
and you can lay in the summer grass by the lake
you could get lost in the meaning

even though you're not so certain what the meaning is,
at least not for sure

no, I'm not so good at that

my words are more like...
running through the forest while it's dark and cold
because you want to get home and you're positive
you just heard something rustle in the dead leaves behind you

like telling your blaring warning signs to calm the **** down,
it's just an uneasy feeling

like telling the paranoiac to grow up and walk the **** pathway

it's shameful, annoying,
it's just some dumb feeling

no,
I don't write the sweet paintings kind of poem

I write my heart out into my notebook before I scribble it out and decide I had better not bother

my poems are regret-
regretting putting something good in my butchered understanding of art and words

every piece is the best I can do
and that's about it
Jan 2018 · 129
セバスチャン
poesuer Jan 2018
I could write something about not being able to find the right words
I was honestly planning on it,
I'm not so good with language
for someone who calls himself a poet

nevertheless, I am a believer in definitions
and surprisingly enough
I like words

I dress everything up in adverbs and poetic devices
still,
usually the things that make me happy don't make very good poems

although I'd still like to try for you

immortalising this feeling in any descriptor I can pull
out to describe it

I like making things pretty, especially with words
like I make myself look pretty when I know I might run into you

on the off-chance that you might notice
I sparkle when I see you
it's not just the glitter, either

I'm not wearing any blush, it's all natural

there's this thought in my head
a foreboding that it might turn bad

just like I might **** you off so bad that
I start to look more appealing to punch than the drywall

having said that, it doesn't really matter,
I'm always scared

you wouldn't hurt me like that

I trust you enough
to fall asleep next to you
because I know I won't wake up with knife marks

I trust you enough to be vulnerable, to be mentally ill

to tell you,
I'm not a normal kid
I'm not healthy

but know that you're not just an extension of my recovery

you're not my ego-boost machine
or a stuffed toy for nothing but empty affection

I really like you
the things you do,
the way you talk so posh

I want to be with you
the way you are with me,
the way you're so sweet and patient

I want to be better with you
to not be so much

don't misunderstand,
I don't depend on you

I can breathe on my own
and my heart doesn't stop when you go home in the morning

but I'd much rather sync my heartbeat with yours

and rest my pretty little head on your chest while I fall asleep
I don't know if I should send this to him or not. it might be a bit full-on. It's true though. I like making art about those that make me happy.
poesuer Jan 2018
flipping tables and throwing computers out of windows,
thats me!

I love breaking monotony up into tiny pieces

trying to jump out of the window
the carnage begins as you hold me back,

"don't ******* touch me,"

I scream so loud
like an air raid siren telling you to get to a shelter before the bombs start dropping

like a rattlesnakes jittering tail,
this is your warning

because if you don't let go

I'll break your ribs and your jaw

I want to keep every bone
that I've broken in a fit of rage

I want to wear your authority around my neck
like I do your teeth

I want to throw you into the bonfire

my peers cheering me on can be the wide-eyed children with sparklers,

I'll be the fireworks that you can hear blowing up from miles away

you can be the king that burns instead of of a guy

you can be the head teachers, my parents, the entire police department  

I'll be defiant
foul-mouthed
and disrespectful

I want to be the problem child

god knows
I love getting angry

I'll burn this school to the ground

it'll burn for days and days

I'm a forest fire

every step I take is arson
Jan 2018 · 753
holy number 7
poesuer Jan 2018
a 7 day
is the only day
I can get into heaven

46 times a year
(not including the whole of july)
I'm allowed to try

7, 17, 27

lucky numbers

I didn't think I'd make it through 2017
a year of free passes
to let the angels walk me down the aisle
and marry me to the sky

on a 7 day
they- the angels-
will calm my trembling and convulsing body
clean up all of my *****
take out the part of my brain that makes me feel bad
grab hold of my bleeding wrists and bandage them with feathers and love

they hold my hands
lifting me up by the grace of god herself
and 700 eyes emerge
out of every wound and pore in my skin

and I become
my own angel
my own god

I will become
my own holy number 7
suicide by number 7 seems like a wonderful way to go. Maybe thats my autism talking.
Dec 2017 · 268
its only a body
poesuer Dec 2017
sometimes it was only a suggestion,
disappointed glances when I say I don't know if I can

sometimes it was a knife up against my thigh, my only hope holding still and doing as you say

sometimes it was pretending to pass out so you would stop choking me

but sometimes it was only a feeling
a feeling I could ignore

for a second this is real
passionate, it feels good

and it doesn't hurt me

only for a second

but
those kind gentle eyes turn black and mean

and sweet and kind smiles turn into snarling dog bites

I don't know if I like it or not

but this feeling when I turn it down

guilt, shame, I couldn't say

all I know is
you don't have to worry

my body is just flesh
and my blood is just red

and 'no' is just a word
just ptsd things: having nightmares about people you love and trust in the position of your abuser.
poesuer Dec 2017
my heart isn't beating
its dying and resurrecting itself with more volts than it takes to power a whole highstreet
a thunderstorm of rebirth-
of hope
and of faith

transmigration,
between the you I see and the you I think I see

I turned the volume down as quiet as I could,
like I was protecting a secret

like I was the one confessing
and you were the jury

before I think to press play I calm myself
control my breathing
and
read with stable, steady
dilated pupils

what you have to say

it buzzes around my chest like glowflies
and I think about your voice

and I press the button

and I feel the electricity,
the lighting bolts,
before
I fall down on my bed
while
the eye of the storm
passes over

and I can't stop smiling
s b n
Dec 2017 · 160
reign
poesuer Dec 2017
If I let you into my temple, my personal church of the redeemed

I trust you to not desecrate the children's graves

I trust you to not take my good will for granted

keep me sacred, keep me holy
keep me from falling from grace again

never take my forgiveness for granted
never forgive me unless I have earned it

break my body into smaller and smaller pieces until I'm nothing but ashes

burn my church down, throw my symbols into the sea

and once again, rebuild my holy place

any old shed will do

I will rise along with the sun in the morning
and bless you with a kiss from the light
Dec 2017 · 300
spite is
poesuer Dec 2017
spite is
making new
memories
in the clothes
that I never
gave back
Dec 2017 · 161
picking up bad habits
poesuer Dec 2017
when I was in a chior
there was a certain song
where our pianist
always fumbled on the chorus

and it wasn't very noticeable
but it stuck out to me

maybe I should have said something

but then again
I am not one to talk
about always making
the same mistake
Dec 2017 · 290
yuh
poesuer Dec 2017
yuh
you
make
my
heavy
heart
feel
weightless
Dec 2017 · 380
cool like you
poesuer Dec 2017
I grew up
wanting to be you
because you were
cool and mature

the cigarettes,
the alcohol,
the ***

the peak teenage life
that this little boy
idolized

and in the end
I did end up like you

but I realized you've always been
a scared, scarred child
like me

and the life that we chose
isn't really a choice

it's the curse that came
from an old man's ***** hands

and while you tried to wash it off
you dragged me into the bathtub

and your
beautifully manicured hands
were filthy

you grabbed my wrist so hard
you might have broke it if I tried to resist

I wish I had snapped my arm out from your grip
and shouted for my brother

but I didn't do that
I kept quiet

because I wanted to be cool like you
Dec 2017 · 118
belonging is relative
poesuer Dec 2017
I'm the 5th child
the youngest out of my siblings

I'm the 3rd daughter
and I'm the 3rd son

and I'm a little bit lost
in this family dynamic
Dec 2017 · 195
cloudburst
poesuer Dec 2017
and the pit in my stomach opened up
like the sky does when I pray
but I don't know if god was listening
or if this feeling will go away
tryin out some rhyming!! look at me woo
poesuer Dec 2017
people tell me
"never stop writing"
but unfortunately
I don't have a lot to say
Dec 2017 · 108
ungodliness
poesuer Dec 2017
hurt me if you really want to

you can't turn me off

and I promise
I won't ever say no

there isn't anything my unclean body couldn't bare through gritted teeth
and hyperventilation

I'll have fun,
even if I don't like it
even if I try and cut the ***** memories out

because I really do like the bad feeling

the willing victim.
Stockholm syndrome?
no.
It's not a person.
it's the feeling I can't escape.

I like to hurt
and I like every touch to burn holes in my skin like I do whenever I get sad

I like each word to be sharp and venomous like a cobra
no-  
a boa constrictor, wrapping itself around my tender heart and choking it until the only thing beating is you-

or anyone.
I don't mind.

just make me cry and
I'll do whatever you say.

I don't want to be clean.
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