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 Nov 2017 Sam
Lizzie
I told you I wanted to die...
You immediately said no...
Didn't ask why... Just a no...
Why so direct, no hesitation?
You surely don't actually like me... Like I like you...
Maybe I've been living in an illusion...
I'm getting anxious...
I'm crumbling, I don't think you've noticed,
I'm distancing myself again, pushing away...
I'm getting bad again, I don't know what is worse...
You ignoring me, or me pushing you away (everyone away)...
I'm a wreck, a lost cause, maybe you should give up on me...
I would if I where you... I'm not worth it... Trust me... Please?
 Nov 2017 Sam
Lizzie
She sits alone in her room,
Listening to the sound of raindrops pounding on the window,
Demanding to be let in.
She cries in silence, for the pain she bares is too much,
She laughs with friends, flirts, jokes, alive with joy,
But in the end it's when she's all alone..
She chokes..
The crushing weight of dread, loneliness, and sorrow stab at her chest..
She wonders, when can she rest…
The voices are upon arrival, telling her there's no survival;
She pulls herself closer to hide the demons within..
But how can you drown them if they know how to swim?
‘Dunk them under’, they say, ‘smother them’;
‘How can I do that’ , she asks, ‘If they are inside me?’
As the rain pours louder, her heart shatters like glass,
The sharp edges cutting fast,
She asks herself,’How much longer can I last?’
As she takes the final slash
 Nov 2017 Sam
TexasRambler
I never looked at their empty faces.
I kept my breath rancid to detour people walking by,
and insulted the few people that stuck around.

Why the hell would they possibly care about me?

After the day is over I’ll lock myself up in a dingy room.
In there no phones television or anybody else could bother me.
I’ll let my guard down for a few hours before going to work.

Then I’m back at the slaughterhouse.

Being alive is just a stale convoluted joke,
but I’m still laughing at it.
 Nov 2017 Sam
TexasRambler
Loneliness is the wild river we all drink from and bathe in.
The twisting journey to sail to clean western skies is bordering on impossible,
but can end rapidly by beautiful young sirens and boldly bored sailors.



Old Horn dogs howl for companionship into the dark night but receive none.
The disheartened dreamers gaze at the shimmering stars wishing they would be extinguished,
and many a pistolero spend their brief lives freely with reckless abandon.



All excuses add up to a superfluous score to a strike out that can't be won.
Rather it is fought with a heavy hand, knife or gun Fate can never be overcome.
Our flickering life all is but a shadow underneath a harsh Nevada sun.
 Nov 2017 Sam
Star BG
WE
 Nov 2017 Sam
Star BG
WE
We are in a maze of creations,
where life breeds insanity
and the only sane one is
the artist.
Just a thought in a creative mind of a writer who leaves footprints upon a field of page.
 Nov 2017 Sam
Iska
Broken Poetry
 Nov 2017 Sam
Iska
Hello.
I am the trending poem.                                                            ­            
         you see me and I make you feel alive
                                             so you like me and re-post me
                                                              ­    then you leave me alone to die.
Hello,
I am your forgotten lines.
             you created me with a careful love
                                                          an­d decisive rhymes
                                      and then to the bottom of your page I'm shoved.
Hello
I am forgotten, alone and unloved
                           a faded smile a broken dove
                                               I once was beautiful, touching.
                                                       ­   now, I've been replaced, I'm nothing.
 Nov 2017 Sam
Iska
A Poets Art
 Nov 2017 Sam
Iska
My dear,
they say that a poem is a work of art.
they say that It is emotion,
pouring from your bleeding heart.
and I find that to be quite true,
but not every emotion is happiness anew.
the sadness the anger and pain and fear,
they each have a place to reside in here.
for such raw emotion does set the tide
for the torrent of words
that in a poem, does reside.
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