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You planted flowers in my heart,
By whispering sweet-nothings in my ear..
I closed off the gates,
As I chose not to hear..

But gardens grew as you tried every way..
I did not know how to stop them,
I did not know what to say..

But the sun disappeared,
and skies turned to grey..
The flowers slowly wilted,
when you kept away..

I wasn't so sure of your affection..
And with close inspection,
I could't tell if those flowers were real or fake.
Still it does not mean that my heart won't ache..
Has it all been uttered?
Are there no words left to say.
Have they truly all been uttered
In a completely better way.
Or am I missing something.
A letter in the alphebet.
If there truly is something
I haven't thought of it yet.
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Luisa C
I want to find the words
to explain to you
how incomplete my heart feels
without the strings bounding yours to it
but how can I say anything
when I've realised I've lost something
I thought I knew,
even after all the time spent with them.

They're just another memory
made to be laid to rest and fade away.
It's hard to know I find myself not able
to say anything
to someone who I don't recognise,
someone who's now become a stranger to me
once again.
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Luisa C
train.
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Luisa C
I'm on a slow moving train
Rickety, unsafe; chugging desperately.
Swaying under constant beating rain,
And I sit trapped and sick in pain.

Empty compartments, curtains torn and charred,
Boarded windows, seats worn and scarred
And there's a lock on the door
Where laughter and chatter flitter from the walls;
It becomes louder when we pass
The graveyard

The smoke from the screeching wheels
Dances its sinister rise, and is all that I breathe;
I choke on the fog and water fills my vision
People mistake the invisible devil for air.

And I think, what's scarier?
A train going nowhere with no destination
With my ticket lasting a lifetime
Or a train with an eventual
dead end.
train metaphor depression misery imagery
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Phoenix Bekkedal
bleach
the pink splotches on my not white clothing are because of you

dilute it and you have soap
drink it and you've got death

hum and click your fingernails if they're long enough to reach the table

rub it into your skin and forget your parents' identity
clean the counter with it

bleach
bleach bleach is for cleaning
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Anderson M
Ego when bruised
Walks with a limp
Its eyes watery
Shamefaced, gait wobbly
It can easily be knocked of
It’s feet, as its legs suddenly
Appear spindly, malnourished
I guess starved of necessary fiber
And nutrition. I wonder if it’s got a spine
No wonder all it does is whine
When splashed with hot water.
Methinks, for one’s step not to falter
One ought to on the altar
Of one’s well-being slaughter
In cold blood the monstrosity that’s the ego.
#justsaying
 Apr 2017 Beckon
Corvus
Pain.
It's tempting.
Hidden in hearts
That hold onto memories.
Addiction.

Healing.
It's reluctant.
The mind fails
But it always continues.
Affliction.
A double elevenie, which was incredibly difficult to write. http://www.napowrimo.net/day-twenty-three-3/
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