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i still
do not know
the poem i've been trying to write
and maybe
that's because
i haven't been
writing one at all
or maybe it's because
the poem i've been trying to write
is not ready for paper
and maybe
i'm the paper
that's not ready for it
 Feb 2019 countingstars
jrae
If I sketched an angel without wings
would you be able to tell
she’s an angel?
The sky behind her would be pale yellow
The world below, gray
Like the color of the outline of her frame
I’d describe her face as angelic
Which is supposed to give it away
But maybe you’d only say she looks nice
 Feb 2019 countingstars
emnabee
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
 Feb 2019 countingstars
Flame
You never even loved me
As much as you hurt me
 Feb 2019 countingstars
haysia
They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love.
"
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
 Feb 2019 countingstars
Bethany
The line is thin
I walk it nonchalantly
As if I don’t care
Secretly I do

The bridge is high
I dangle carelessly
As if I’m not scared
Maybe I am

The end is close
I tease it unknowingly
As if I know
Truthfully I don’t

The day is long
I fake my way through
As if I’ll be here
Probably I won’t
 Feb 2019 countingstars
Mykenzie
So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough
 Feb 2019 countingstars
Charlotte
My parents think I just have a mental illness

they know nothing of what is wrong with me

if they knew they'd feel like they failed,

Failed at being parents.

In therapy, I tell about how I love my parents and that they love me

but they cause my heart to hurt.

They are the most talked about people in my therapy sessions.

But they'll never know about the whirlwind of seasons my brain goes through.

These seasons are controlled by mother nature

mother nature being them.

But they just think I'm naturally mentally ill.
not really even a poem more of a journal entry really...
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