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Eleanor Dec 2020
I wish I had a pain medication strong enough to cure this headache we call life
I'm being a bit dramatic, don't mind me
Eleanor Sep 2020
Come and breathe with me.
Close your eyes and feel what I feel.
You cant can you? You cant close them, because we are standing on the edge of a cliff. Your closed eyes would only make you sway. Gravity will call your name and your feet will betray you.
Breathe in the air of disaster. Do you smell its smoke? Its sweet is it not? Its enticing and dangerous and you want to breathe deeper. Your nose is a ****** for the scent.
Feel this wind that sweeps around our barely lifeless bodies. Like mannequins we stand here quietly. Almost like we are invisible. That is how the world feels. People rushing by and around me like the breeze. I watch silently from within my own body unable to control anything on the outside.
I watch others control my own actions. They put me in danger and I let them. Why do I let them? Answer me why do I let them?
Breathe in this truth with me. The truth that we are never controlled by our own will but by the fear from within us. The things we have gone through in the past. The unknown. It takes us by the hand and leads the way. We call out and ask where it is taking us but does it answer? Why would it? I already know.
It takes us to the end.
So breathe with me and we will wait on this cliff edge a little longer for the void to call our names.
Eleanor Aug 2019
We write as to not be bored. Bored out of our minds, we start to see & feel & think things we never hoped to see & feel & think. Thoughts of death & sorrow haunt our minds when there is nothing else to do. We start to forget who we are & where we came from. We are lost in our own internal dialogue, escaping what we feel we cannot handle. After just moments of our boredom, we are gone & lost to the secret world within, & perhaps, there is no point in trying to find our way out.
- Z.B.
I wrote this absentmindedly while doodling in cursive
  Aug 2018 Eleanor
Walt Whitman

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you:
You are to die—Let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you—There is no escape for you.

Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it,
I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half envelope it,
I sit quietly by—I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself, spiritual, ******—that is eternal—you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.


The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions!
Strong thoughts fill you, and confidence—you smile!
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines—you do not mind the weeping friends—I am with you,
I exclude others from you—there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate—I congratulate you.
  Aug 2018 Eleanor
Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Eleanor Apr 2018
There is something to be said about being alone in the dark.
A sort of soft silence, when one rests on the floor. Mentally uncomfortable.
Eyes gaze to the ceiling and the mind as blank as the feeling of apathy which stands before.
There is something to be said about being desolate in the dark.
A sort of calm, when the same melancholy song plays in the ears.
Eyes squint, but never falter. The ears attentive to repetitive words, although never becoming completely clear.
A longing for companionship, but the same time the sad solitude is just so selfishly, sickenly sweet.
The pound of the drums in the ears.
The darkness before the eyes.
The realization of how late in the night one has reached.
Oh yes, oh yes indeed.
There is something to be said about being detached and floating in the dark.
A sort of morose addictive loneliness.
The stillness all around.
Falling in love with the sorrow.
Eyes stay drawn like light curtains, while the ears still listen deeply, never falling into the slumber that should be awaiting.
Eleanor Jan 2017
Hello small collective group of people who were nice enough to follow me on this wonderful little website!

This isn't a poem obviously, but since I have been absent for more than half a year just wanted to let anyone who cared know that I'm back and doing well (:

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