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Living in an absurd world
Abandoned by loved ones indeed a cruel world
The poet shares her experiences
To all she expresses deepest condolences
Life is worthless, love is meaningless
When our souls are scorched, oh the emptiness

The Poet’s experience speaks of torture
Every Pain that makes the mind rupture
Oh if she can discover that silver linen
That blissful hope felt within

The Poet cries out for a ray of happiness
Yet compounded with sadness
She wishes she never came to exist
In a world where problems persist
To any other poet who thinks of the world in this light oh has another view of the world please join me in writing on the Poet's Experience.
Be proud that you're stronger than razor blades. That takes courage and strength.
If you're not there yet, don't worry. One day you will be, if you just give it time darling.
You miss the relief and you kind of grow fond of your scars, and you probably don't regret it, but being Clean is a different kind of permanent relief that you will never regret.
You made it.
you can't cut forever.
If you beat suicide, you can beat anything.
Time is all you can give it to heal.
If you let it though, it will wash everything away.
Yes, everything.
Even the pain.
There’s a post-it on my mirror that reads,
“You are enough.”
I still remember the day I placed it there,
long after the initial dust settled
from the gunfire I started beneath my own skin
like the itch of an insect trying to gnaw its way in,
and I blamed the bullets on the loader of the gun,
but someone had to pull the trigger.
So much time has passed now
that I forget it sticks there,
funny how a reminder can become
so commonplace,
how I can look in that mirror every day
and never once notice the three words
that used to empower me.

But today I did.

Life is just a balancing act
of continuous changes and steadfast invariability,
but my own scale has always favored
one side more than the other
and never the side I desire.
Sometimes I don’t recognize that reflection anymore
but in best way imaginable.
The fingers that pressed the note to glass
were weak, overly trusting, and dependent,
but the eyes that watch its message today
have witnessed its every honest actuality.
I am enough.

I.
am.
enough.

But maybe now
it’s become too true.
 Jan 2015 Aparajhitha Sudarsan
kj
I do not believe my love is pretty
Or that it belongs among your soul.
It is pathetically afraid of catching glances.
And it clings to distance with a passion.
It is alive but it dances among shadows.
It curls under your hands
And races backwards
Hiccupping into the dark.
I never claimed to love
Before any of my heartbreaks.
So you kiss my lovely friend
Unaware that I have fallen.
I just wanted to say
that I forgot what I wanted to say
because you look so cute bending over
to scoop the cereal out of the bottom container,
and your smile slants just like a three-day crescent moon
when you spill some Fruity Pebbles on the ground,
or how you cradle your cup of milk
like sometimes you cradle me when we’re half asleep
and our dreams start to play tag with one another,
dressing themselves in the fog we’ve created
from the steam our kisses drag out. And I guess I get
how ******* you get when you’re sneakers are unlaced
but your mind is tripping between hours spent here
smoking this and banging yourself up with that. I guess I get
how you can loose focus, but I’ve caught you at your lowest
and I’ve straightened you out just by kissing the pressure points
until you’ve been strained like elastic and your heart has thickened.
I just wanted to say
that I forgot what I wanted to say
because you pull at my thighs like I’m made of clay
when we’re messing around in the shower,
letting the water fall around us like our own little storm—
you’re the perfect sound of thunder. But you’ve left me
in puddles on my carpet, pulsing to the beat of my fluid heart
as I try to remember exactly what it is about your face that I love so much.
I bet you’re getting tired of hearing me ask if you’re up,
of if your’re busy, or if you could just knock on my door two times
instead of once so maybe I could feel it through the thick skin
I’ve grown over the years of stopping and locking and shutting down.  
And I guess I get that. But I also, just. . . you—
I forgot what I wanted to say.
From consciousness
Are birthed your thoughts
Whose rays
Strikes the mind’s mirror
To create a reflection
Of your imagination
Silhouette at first
Bordering the edges of light
Finally, becomes clearer
To those with vision
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