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 Oct 2018 Cledentine
noren tirtho
Time doesn't heal.
And the wound knows it.
Layers gather on the ****
but the damage remains,
hiding itself deep inside
the secret scar
time healing wound layers damage hidden secret scar
 Oct 2018 Cledentine
emnabee
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
Sometimes I think I've shared too much
I feel like I'm posting away pieces of my soul.
A part of me wants to hide my poetry away
But the other part always listens to the voices in my head
and they demand to be shared and heard.

So I don't know what to do
when my brain is at war
I think I'll just take a seat
and let both parties fight
And now I can't stop overthinking yay!
This is not a poem,
I really wish I could write one again.
This a sad echo,
from someone who is already dead.

I used to be better,
when that part of me was alive.
She was the one that understood my soul,
she transformed my tears in art.

But I killed her, I killed me,
and now I can't see through my tears
I'm drowning, but I can't scream.
  I'm speechless.

I forgot how to write poetry
blah blah blah blah blah blah
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