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I hate that feeling.
That feeling when you are sad.
But you have no idea why.
You feel very empty.
But nothing in particular happened.
They ask you whats wrong.
But you can't explain
Or they don't even ask anything.
I don't know which one is wrost.
It just feel like
I miss someone,
I never met,
Like I need someone who doesn't need me.
The loneliness hovers over me.
Takes control over me.
I don't even care.
Iisolate myself on purpose.
Sadness become My best and only friend*..
I used to write a lot of poems online.
They'd trend, attract followers, etc.
I thought I'd publish a book one day,
People seemed to like reading my stuff.
But, eventually, as most fame does,
my 15 minutes wore off.
I started getting less likes,
Less comments,
Less recognition for my work.
And I guess it made sense
Because I wasn't writing as much
Or spending as much time editing.
So I read through my old poems
To see if I just got worse
Or if there was some underlying reason
For my loss of popularity.
And soon, I began to realize
The only poems I wrote
Were ones of heartbreaks and sadnesses;
Poems of woes and loneliness.
So I wondered to myself
"What changed?"
And saw that I wasn't writing as much
Because I wasn't as sad as I was
When my peotry flowed more smoothly.
I didn't need writing as an outlet
To cope with my pain.
It's not that my life got much better,
(It didn't at all)
But I was learning to continuously find things
To be happy about;
And less to write my
Depressing monologues about.
I had begun to move on with my life
And teach myself that bad days are unavoidable,
It's how we react to them
That determines how we feel.
I used to write a lot of poetry.
But now,
I live it.

- p. winter
 Sep 2017 The Lenora
amrutha
call me at the midnight hour by the rainy window
we will watch the blue stars come alive
shooting down
into the late december sea
 Sep 2017 The Lenora
wordvango
on the moist spot the sheets curl around her
make for indentions in my head
memories unforgotten all these years hence
still I picture long legs
in the air
hear her crying my name
Geronimo be mine
I should have told her
my real name
 Sep 2017 The Lenora
Traveler
Take a moment to consider
The way life feel's
In late September
As the tired mirror
Begins to age
Elegant and wise
You still
  Rule the day...

A single spark
Of a brilliant light
I can feel your bed bugs
Eternal bite
Beneath your covers
Such delight
You are my thirst
My appetite
Oh where are you
Out there
Tonight
....?
Traveler Tim
You know who you are...
My sweet distant star!
 Sep 2017 The Lenora
Cecelia
I don't know what to say to them.
All they do is distort my own view.
All they do is try to condemn
My own world that I've created through you.

How could they know what I haven't said?
How could they share what they don't understand?
It makes me want to stop wishing I was dead.
But at the same time, to wish I was under command.

One that's not my own, because when I'm free to my own self,
I reveal too much.
2017

-cc
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