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 Jan 2016 Bipolar Hypocrite
Born
It takes darkness to find yourself
© Ibrahim
 Jan 2016 Bipolar Hypocrite
Born
We can't forecast death
and that's what makes
the pain so dreadful
© Ibrahim
My lust, my thirst,
Day by day happen to increase,
But the truth is it darling,
That my life till date has been cease (d)
 Oct 2015 Bipolar Hypocrite
Born
Why do I call you baby

        and think about ending us

         why is it
I'd rather destroy this heart that craves you
than let you stay in


                    this is it
                    hand me a knife
                    I seem happy-ishh


I used to complain that your killing me
now am happy that your killing me

                   I got fine with dying
                   I don't need fake hopes
                   Or illusive love fairies
It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane
Mike opened this piece and we went from there.
Hope you enjoy this Hello Poetry collaboration too :)

It goes without saying, just how honoured we are to have this as Daily <3
Y'all are the greatest <3
Thank you so much <3
A splash of cool water runs down my face.
The droplets collide with dust
that is settled onto the backside of my callused hands.
I tighten my grasp on the edges of the pasty, beige colored sink,
and slowly tilt me head up.

My eyes open...

The room that was once well lit, is now darkened.
Revealing only my hazy silhouette in the mirror.
I stare into the glass for a moment.
Subconsciously criticizing the inadequate outline of the reflected shadow.

The door opens...

She steps in.
Her bare feet slightly sticking to the linoleum floor,
creating a small popping sound.
A single ray of light follows her,
like she was stepping onto a dark stage in a theatre full of thousands
glaring attentively.

My focus is pulled away from the cloudy pane of glass,
and is forced in her direction.
My entire being flutters with nervousness as she walks by.
Her silky blonde hair flowing as if an ocean breeze is passing over her.
A short lavender night gown is draped over her soft, pale skin.
Each passing second is highlighted by her perfect form,
as she glides by seemingly unaware of my presence.

Exiting without a second glance behind her,
she slowly shuts the rusty hinged, wooden door,
and the light diminishes.
I stand silently waiting; hoping the door will open again,
and the goddess enveloped in white will return.

Not a sound...

I turn again to the mirror.
One last chance to see myself clearly,
and hold on to that abruptly fleeting moment,
but,
when I adjusted my worried and desperate eyes,
I could no longer see my dark wavy silhouette.
It was void.
An empty mirror looked through my solid outer shell,
and saw nothing.
I looked down at my hands,
attempting to unravel the puzzling circumstance.

I too, saw nothing...

The floor beneath my feet started to tremble,
raising an ear piercing screech.
The gold lined window casing stretched and morphed,
leaving the glass without holding edges.
The pane drops,
crashing into the sink below.
Broken glass raises into the air, pieces of the woman in the lavender dress appear in the separate shards,
and the entire room disintegrates.

I am left...

Surrounded by a blank, cold atmosphere of white.
Alone, and with nothing,
I walk.
Forever...
© Kyle Fisher
Carve out a chunk,
the happiness hunk.
The one that stays clear
of all of the junk.

Without this fine piece,
one is never in least,
content with ones self.
A man without peace.

Take out the side,
with ego and pride.
That part is the worst,
Just set that aside.

Believe when they tell us,
it too, makes us jealous.
When envy is stricken,
a man over-zealous.

Cut out a slice,
and anger's the price.
Lets get rid of that,
it's not very nice.

See, this ones a cage,
where bad memories age,
and morph into new forms.
A man full of rage.

Punch out the holes,
that sadness controls.
It can be so hard,
when charred into souls.

Aside from the rest,
but, nested in best.
the sadness takes hold,
and a soul is depressed.

The thing that most feel,
has taken the wheel,
is fear in itself.
Although, its not real.

Fear is insane,
it confuses the brain,
into thinking its there.
A mans shadow of pain.
©Kyle Fisher
I’m no Alice in Wonderland,
But I am more like the Cheshire Cat,
They say I am more deranged
Than the Mad Hatter’s hat,
They say I can be quite rude
Like the Queen of Hearts
And like the March Hare
I sometimes nervously fall apart,
I’m no caterpillar
Blowing smoke rings
But I might as well be same to them all,
Because I’m madly curious about things.
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