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WistfulHope Sep 2018
I once felt like words gave me power
Like they gave my quiet shell of a self a leg to stand on
Now I feel like I have none left to speak, to write
I've been drained of verbs and left broken -- immobile
My adjectives fall soft and simple, even the deaf don't pretend to hear
It's strange
Being so far removed from the one you called yourself
I don't know what there is left for me to say
It's like being a young musician on stage
And people have slowly stopped cheering as they realized
You have no more tunes left to play
Yet I've stood frozen, stuck, despite myself
I'm waiting for them to come back
The words
The crowds
The self that I used to know
That I thought I did know
I haven't a clue to where they've left, to where they'll go
But I hope that they find it
The messages they seek
I can no longer provide them
My inkwell bone dry
My spirit missing it's former vibrance, now dully meek
They once called me wicked
I thought it ironically sweet
That for someone so bitter
Many worshiped me
Hiii...
It's been a while, I think, since you all got a nice wordy note from me.

I've been writing poetry for...8? 9? years now... And I've gotta say, I legit cannot tell if I've gotten better or worse. I used to write because I was ****** at life, or violently angry with myself, or if I wanted to do bad things. I don't feel like that anymore. Pretty much never. I've survived some ****, but now (all things considered at least) I'm starting to thrive a bit. When I was at my height of popularity on this site, or at least what my very ****** up and disillusioned perceptions gathered to be the height of it, I was sick. I was having regular dissociative episodes, was severely depressed, engaging in self harm in a variety of forms nearly daily, and very suicidal. If anyone is going through some ****, please seek help, and hold on. I promise it gets better. But yeah. When I was very aggressively using this site as an outlet, I amassed a good sized follower count and trended almost daily. The only poem I ever had make daily poem (which btw was toward the beginning of my worst downward spiral ever) was about hanging myself. Like what the **** lol. But if I helped people -- or even just one someone somewhere -- feel less alone, then I'm glad. But ever since I had started to get better I got less attention here. Which is kinda a weird feeling. I'm not sure if it's cause my writing started to **** or if I got less 'interesting' for lack of a better term, or maybe a mix. Or maybe it's all the changes this site has had over the past 4 years since I joined. Either way, it's weird... I feel like I don't know how to keep writing or improve... Idk, I'm just kinda...
stuck. ...This has been a stream of consciousness.

Anyway, I love you all. And in a special way those of you who have left this world for another. I will never forget you.
Pax,
Wicked
  Sep 2018 WistfulHope
Aquinas
The lungs of who you are betray the bones of what you've become.
I could keep you in my hands for as long as I can hold my breath,
but that feels too long.

You're trapped around the grave of the person you wanted to find in me.
I can't be her for you.
Even for one night.
I can't be here for you.

You know it's true that your hands are tied between two more.
I'm not with you anymore.
I got the last laugh now you deal with what comes.

You miss talking,
and my ears don't miss being talked to.
You wish this was different,
and I do to.
You still don't want change,
but my bones are broken, and through them I feel my lungs.
WistfulHope Sep 2018
Crying in the street
Tears run thick
And I don't bleed
Contrast of how it used to be

Lying on the grass
Still and quiet
I don't dare laugh
No desire to fight it

People drive past
I don't stare
I scroll through likes instead
Likes though no one cares

Someone tries to speak
But they are mute
I don't like listening now
Tuning out's the only way not to lose

I'm not the same
So much has changed
Yet it's also deja vu
Years later I recognize you
  May 2018 WistfulHope
Tupelo
It's funny how silver tongues
can rust when the storms
finally decide to pour

It's funny how fragile we become
when the lights come on

It's funny how easy mistakes are made
when the heat begins to rise
WistfulHope Apr 2018
It's prickly and has one yellow bloom

It's not much, I know

It's painful and protruding

Like the worst memories that slice through the good

But soft and warm with a welcoming glow

Rigid and stiff but beautiful and exotic

Proof that there is joy found in the desert
For my dearest lover, my greatest friend,
my most treasured confidant, my companion 'till the end.

Happy (early) Anniversary.
  Mar 2018 WistfulHope
fiachra breac
go maithe dia dom é!
is peacach mé,
agus tá bás uaim.

le do thoil,
sábháil dom uaim féin.
i tried it in english and i don't know if you heard, so here it is as Gaeilge because that's the language you made my heart speak.

god forgive me!
I am a sinner,
and I want death.

please,
save me from myself.
  Mar 2018 WistfulHope
Justin
Life is like a sound
You correct it when it's out of  tune.
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