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Floo Mar 6
You

Did not

Teach me how

To stop waiting

For your return from

The static prison of

Where your mind went when we were

Alone, and listening to the

Empty spaces between our heartbeats;

Counting- in breathless gasps and sighs- to ten.
Was that a reference to sommat compeltley unchristian o yes
The lines form a syllable pyramid bc we have counting powers amen
  Jan 5 Floo
Satsih Verma
You recite my old poems-
to understand the psyche
of human conflicts.
The long shadows won't leave
the fingerprints.

Between mind and soul
breathes a language
understood only by emotions.

I shiver when you
mime the real money. I go into
coma, to cross the
river of blues.

Future is pain.
Past was crime. In some god-
night I will write my swan song.

The life's many scripts
will remain unread
buried in the folds of sands.
Floo Jan 5
My Dearest Dictator,
I unhinge my jaw and show you galaxies
Untouchable by your limited understanding
Of me, you, and everything beyond and between
I doubt you'll ever find the ambition to reach out, and touch the worlds within me
But something got in, whilst my eyes rolled back into my brain
Orfices unguarded, an invader buried inside

Perhaps it was your prosthetic heart
Led by my despaired prosthetic words
Twisted by your faux innocence coated prosthetic fingers
That spread this noxious sensation within me
Perhaps, I've constructed these truths for the sake of dwelling in a more pronounced pain
It'll give meaning to everything, eventually

My Dearest Dictator
Remind me, how should I feel when I'm apart from you?
My Didactic Doctor's tell me that malignant tumors are best removed
But the worm within tears at me for lack of tears
The cancer is removed, but a part of me is missing, and you took nothing but my trust
You took nothing, so who did?
What am I missing?

I strip my skin, lay out my veins, and show you all the knots in my capillaries
You reply with a nine point five word description of your cornflakes, and why I should be enthralled with this revelation into your persona

I remind you of how infinitely into the cosmos my love for you ascends
Of how you're the first for whom these words are spoken
And of how I intend for you to be the last

You tell me to tell you more

I tell you of how I dream of you
Of how I lie awake, surpressing tears of joy for that you are now finally mine, and how I'll die early on account of all the sleep I lose over you
But it matters not for a moment in your presence beatifiys a thousand years without you
And I'll make sure to die first

I warned you, frequently, before we went anywhere
That I'll love you more than myself
Hate you more than anything
My emotions are a broken race car and I'm driving too fast for life, crashing is inevitable but can you please keep up, or put on your seat belt baby
I'm trying to fix it, but my repairman is busy, and it'll take years
I don't want to be like this but I am like this and I'm trying to change but don't anticipate a change anytime soon
Please
Leave me if I'm unbearable
But
Don't ever leave me, I love you
But
Leaving is in your best interests, we're not made for one another
Let me mould myself into you

The words I needed were natural to you then;
You didn't have the words I needed, but I heard the meanings I sought in what little you did say
I trusted you
To teach me how to trust you
You let me believe that my doubts were delusions
That was only ever because the truths in my doubts terrified you, I think
Doubtless truths were my doubts
You told me I was insane
I told you to go **** yourself

My Deifying Dressmaker,
He told me, that noone would ever love me as he did, and I believed him
I hope you never love me as he did, please believe me
Embrace me in your silkworm blood, and let us mourn the loss of your loneliness
Oh Ostentatious Oppressor,
Don't ever leave me; I won't survive another amputation
You're obtrusive and abusive and beautiful beyond comprehension
Worship me, until we implode
Like stars too large for observation
Floo Jan 2
Your words are a bad cliché
Written by an overdramatic teen- in his thirties
With imaginary issues,
Mass grown, like spores, in the mushroom farm of your mind
Fed a sucrose solution of sardonicism and sadness

A parasite you nurture, your mind is a mess
But I know you mean every word you type
Swallow all the poison you grow
Feed yourself on the self hatred you generate through delusion
I hate your delusions

I ordered incorrectly
My bowl is filled to the brim,but I don't want to share, and I don't want to report an error
Let me keep your incorrigible and unpleasant nature to myself
My Mr Mushroom Man
Floo Dec 2018
I open the front door to a blizzard;
Welcome - bone aching air- into my (now your) warm home!
You've expelled the warmth.
I had spent so long accumulating that.

The chill came in
Slight as a spider's silk
Effortlessly tieing down my limbs
Pneumonia induced coma
Ground bound fly
That is I
We're going nowhere

Strength withers and erodes,
Like long forgotten cobwebs beneath porcelain bathtubs and I know you take showers but the point still stands
I'm rendered useless below the surface
But abandoned in whole

I'm faucets rusted shut,
Realeasing but a useless slither of
Thick brick
Orange
Sedimented liquid
Your negligence made using me a disappointment
But we've been in this house forever
And all our broken faucets are staying here.

Your breathless whisper was a hurricane,
And my door would tear from the hinges before I could try to run from
the damage that I foresaw

A conscious paralysis,
Being only somewhat entirely aware
Of your needfulness
And my helplessness
And our restlessness
In all that we could never control

"Come in," I say
"I'm sorry" you reply
As you enter
Floo Dec 2018
Is this the teenage tragedy?

I've heard it way too many times.
This solo singer melody,
In a choir of lonely lies

I sang her story last year,
In a bed I'd made my coffin,
Sleeping as though I'd died already,
And was just waiting to be forgotten

Back then I'd thought I was so alone,
and that my thoughts were so unique.

Until I overheard some other kids
tell of their losses in this past week.

And I realised that my solitude, was mine, and mine alone.
But all these other
Happy kids™,
Hid some pain that was theirs,
and theirs alone.

I know I shouldn't interrupt,
but your performance must be cut.

I'll tear you from this solemn stage,
and cast the spotlight on
The stagehands.

Who turn and manipulate in the darkness of your presentation

And the background dancers.

Whose elegant grace and exquisite contortions,
Distract
from your **** words and hideous thoughts

So that even you,
Sallow songbird on a stage scattered in shadows,
are entranced by their performance
On your own
Rotting wooden platform.

And I won't be your applauding audience member
Nor will I sit, with my perfected neutral expression,
Eating cyanide pills from popcorn buckets, watching you perform,
In silence,
As the others do

With my own torn vocal chords, I'll protest for your show to be cut short,
even after you had invited me to join this spectacle.

Because today, I can feel it,
Pulsating a glow, brighter than any memory I can recall,
And it's burning me.
This palpitation of the present,
Which I know is a temporary sensation,
But it's a fraction of temporary too long

You fall from a rusted swing, in an abandoned playground
Watch your blood merge with the soil and the peat
Your structure punctures through your skin,
a harsh disruption to your soft, infant self.

You want to scream, but you wouldn't,
would you?
The pain will cease in an appropriate ammount of time™,
Eventually

We don't talk about the permanent injuries from our seemingly  inconsequential  actions
A permanent solution to a temporary problem

People persistently parroted that platitudinous proclamation in pallid hopes of dismissal of your white palfrey

At least 3 of them, anyway.

You'd scream in that moment.
Call out for your mother,
Or some other great and unconquerable  force,
To annihilate the hurt,
and quell your cries.
Her strong lips laying kisses upon your sore, youthful cheeks,
in an attempt to paralyse your own
Trembling pair.

I'm still playing in those sandboxes filled with bones,
In those playgrounds where we played,
When we were blind.
And in your town,
I see you.
Crouched inside the same wooden framework.
Knee deep and ready to sink.

Over grown victim of your own infanticide,
Have you buried the bones of the child you used to be?

Would we have looked her in the eyes  as we prepared to dig her burial site-
Here
A foot step away from where her blood had mixed with the filth,
And her cries had stifled into sniffs.

How deep is her shallow grave?

And sometimes,
I think that maybe saying nothing would sound better,
But I dont want to witness my failure, before I even attempt to talk you off of the ledge you're standing on
Telepathic thoughts of "don't do it," won't reach you,
I know  that
But feelings are so much easier to feel, than to describe.

I think that,
Maybe,
You think that this sounds like just another  philistine sentimentalism.

I think that,
Maybe,
You know I don't know what I'm on about.

I'm not even sure of as to why
I'm so sure
I'm so sure.
That I want to save you
Is it even for you?
Or am I trying to save myself
From the guilt, of witnessing your fall,
After I had moved my own noose
From around my neck, to over my hips
A harness
Holding me above the  hangman's  stage I had performed on

Empty playgrounds are the loneliest things in the world.
More so than empty wombs,
And once empty graves.

Let's play together.

— The End —