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  Oct 2021 Ben At93
Sally A Bayan
Moods are in synch once again
with this monsoon season
raindrops come with threads of pain,
maybe there's a good reason
why pain...rhymes with rain.

there's pen and paper
for, when rain pours
is when my poetry flows
softly weeping its woes
like ice...that quietly thaws.

sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 2020
(just a poem)
  Nov 2020 Ben At93
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who am I?
I couldn't tell you.

I am a shapeshifter.
I have many hues.
My emotions depend
on the feedback of you.

If you love me,
I will shine.
If you play coy,
so will I.

Hurt me,
go ahead and try.
I will turn dark
and blend into the night.

You'll never know
what character I am.
You'll never know
because I don't even know
who I am.
Wow! Thank you, everyone, for the kind words. I've never felt more at home than with Hello Poetry and the people it comes with.
  Nov 2020 Ben At93
Make babies, not by-products of ***.
Abusive marriages lead to an abnormal upbringing. Stop giving your kid what you got. Don't fight in front of them. Because, it leaves a long-lasting effect.
  Jun 2020 Ben At93
Risa Njoroge
On the once beautiful oval oak framed mirror,
From a hand that once so soft and tender,

The fuel that runs this almost empty body,
Burning through my blood veins like a snakes venom,

From the bruised hand that had a conflict with the mirror,
But even more from a broken heart that can no longer feel,

Or heal,
Ripped out of my chest, ready to be laid to rest,
Love is life's great test, one I have failed at I must say,

I Lay,
Here in a pool of my own regrets,
Swimming through memories I would rather forget,

This delicate flower they call a heart,
Yet your promises and actions do not match,

In man I can never, for their words and actions not longer match,
It was never love, for you I was just another summer crush,

Here we are at last, with my bleeding hand and broken heart,
And all I can say is
No need holding on to people that hurt you! Brave it and move on!
  Jun 2020 Ben At93
Miranda Renea
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.  

But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).

Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.

Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.

Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love

Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away

Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ******, and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.
My coach made me rewrite the poem again, and this is the result.
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