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I'm just a bit peckish
and ready for a skirmish,
said the early bird
who was feeling wormish!
say
Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
Lover Girl by Laufey
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague
From The Start by Laufey
 Jul 3 LL
Vazago d Vile
I said:
“I think I have ADHD.”
They answered:
“No, you’re just a ******. Get a job.”

So I ran.
In circles.
Around a reality
that never gave me room to breathe—
just fingers pointed and ******* advice.

They didn’t see the war in my head,
just the pupils.
They didn’t hear the silence in me,
just the noise I made.

I asked for help—
they handed me judgment.
I reached out—
they recoiled,
like I carried plague and guilt in my veins.

And then—
years later,
when everything’s burned,
when I wear my diagnosis like scars and proof,
they show up.

With a box.
“Here’s Ritalin. It’ll help.”

Ritalin.
Legal speed.
The same thing they hated me for chasing
now handed over
wrapped in plastic and prescription smiles.

What the **** happened?
Was it the label that made me worthy?
The paperwork that made my scream real?

I was never chasing a high.
I was chasing peace.
I was never after drugs.
I just wanted to understand
why my mind never shut up.

But there was no room for that.
Not then.
Not until now.
Now that the system sees
what I’ve been screaming
the whole
****
time.
Written from the frustration of being mislabeled for years. I wasn’t chasing a high — I was chasing silence in a storming mind. Misunderstood as an addict, dismissed by the system, denied peace. This is for everyone who had to scream just to be heard. For those with ADHD, for the fighters, for the forgotten.
 Jul 1 LL
Keegan
Drown
 Jul 1 LL
Keegan
Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.

The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.

I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.

And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.

I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.

And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.
 Jul 1 LL
Yonah Jeong
794
 Jul 1 LL
Yonah Jeong
794
don't confuse, good at speaking, saying good word.
 Jun 29 LL
Lynn Stillman
I was never lost
Just waiting to be found
Baggage and all.
 Jun 29 LL
Zywa
I lowered myself

into the round pit, covered --


with flowering thyme.
Autobiography "In den vreemde - Kronieken" ("In foreign parts - Chronicles", 2024, Frida Vogels), chapter 'Laren' (1938)

Collection "Trench Walking"
 Jun 29 LL
David J
Oh thirsty boy…
Thrown himself in the well
Learned how to drink
Until his belly would swell

Oh thirsty boy…
At the the bottom he stands
greedy for more
Scarring his hands

Oh thirsty boy…
Does not try to climb
Rather dig through the mud
Seeking water in the grime
Oh thirsty man…
He knows where he’s been
He’s still there now
To far down this hole of sin…

“Why… Oh. Why was there no grates, no walls, no barrier to entry. Seek and you shall find, so why has no one shut the doors…. I look up defeated, my hands to bruised to climb.”
 Jun 28 LL
Lynn Stillman
Shame
 Jun 28 LL
Lynn Stillman
I cower within
Shames the constant companion,
that just won't go home.
 Jun 28 LL
CE Uptain
I like to write in the graveyard, I know people there
It’s nice and quiet, city sounds fill the air
A peaceful feeling comes over my mind
All of the memories my heart can find
I don’t see any ghost walking, I only hear voices
Some trying to say make better choices

I like writing in front of my grandfather’s stone
He makes me feel like I’m not alone
I look up, I see more stones of granite
All those names and dates, with no faces
Their memories are there, just in different places
When I finish and it’s time to leave
I’ll dry my eyes, stand quietly and grieve
As a poet, I take my notebook anywhere and find inspiration there too. Doesn't always work. Sometimes I come home with empty pages.
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