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danna22081 Aug 5
It might be said:

It seems like I haven’t written in some time,
And for the most part, I feel like the culprit of an unconscionable crime,
Since I have concealed the truth;
The resonating echoes of suffering endurance
As tears relentlessly rolled from my eyes.

I don’t mean to superficially endorse my emotional inconsistencies.
You see, I’m not one to drag my legs after the crowd of glaring faces,
Who tend to blindly follow the patches of dirt so deeply treaded upon,
Holes of inescapable traces become no more than hazes... shadows
Embedded within their hearts… for they will not, and cannot turn back.

Yes, I do see the monotonal wisps embedded within the pits of my world every once in a while.
Blacks and whites come in more than the empty, obscured skies,
Of brightly-scattered stars every twelve hours.
This place is not an epitome of intricated shades
Painted on an innocent, blank spread of canvas.

They can never turn back, though they decide so blindly,
Alongside their extravagant loops of wonder, interwoven within the flutters of unprecedented laughter,
Curling lips, rosy cheeks,
As they glance up to the blinding streams of light…
The one they thought was theirs.

But they weren’t theirs; they were nothing more than clandestine deceit,
Clearer than the fullest moon in the pitch blotches of a long, lonely night,
Stretching into the depths of their deep-rooted perceptions,
The strands of monotone they so greatly ignored.

I choose to see the blacks of night,
And the whites of light in my world;
It clears my vision,
Despite being psychologically-driven.
Sometimes, the one you love
Is the underlying monotone you blindly overlooked.
I think with my mind,
And not with my heart.
You see... I'm a bit complicated.
  Jul 22 danna22081
Pyrrha
A poets heart is like a riddle
The answers are clear but hidden
Pellucid until they are ready to be seen

When a poet falls for you
They fall for all of you
Your insecurities become their favorite parts

Beware of a poets heart
Full of emotion to drown you in their words
They pull you in and refuse to let you go

Be careful with a poets heart
They are easy to capture, hard to contain
Even easier to break and harder to replace

Don't underestimate a poet
We are the masters of charisma
Words are our vice

Never forget to treasure a poets love
Theres nothing else like it in the world
No amount of searching will give you the feeling of a poets heartfelt
"I love you"
danna22081 Jul 8
It might be said:

All this time, I was searching in every
Place, every dwelling led by the tugging vessels of my heart.
I never thought to peer into my very self.
I hold the answer to the greatest of my nerves;
Not all is contained in the perfected, coiled curves
Of a brittle, interchangeable key.

My change is inevitable…
And slight refinements in the wards and cuts
Of the key I believed I would keep
Are therefore inevitable.
And so the doors of justice obnoxiously flashed before my eyes,
But what I saw was not quite anticipated.

It was not quite the epitome of ecstasy,
Nor the quintessence of miscellaneous puzzle pieces,
Mending their corners and edges within one another,
Settling within the dull patches of irreversible actions and traits.
I saw one thing, one person,
And that was me, looking into myself.

For I am the three dimensions,
And I consume the elements which I so
Continuously twist into myself…
Every time I peer into the beaming, towering doors before me
With the assistance of one, temporary key.
But I can never decipher the elements I intermittently hold.
I finally understood the value of one key; that is, once it was held amongst many before it.
danna22081 Jul 5
It might be said:

I slowly, yet eventually
Peered through the keyhole of a three-dimensional world.
How I saw all three? I’m not quite sure,
But all contained elements more distinct from the other,
So distinct, I don’t remember them all.

The keyhole, nothing more
Than a piece of rusted, brittle metal
Coiled, and carved… intricated into the miniscule
Dents which hold the answer to these curves
Contained within my nerves… ready to be twisted.

This room… these dimensions,
I can no longer class them under one area.
They were consumed by emotions, by values,
Purposefully, and tortuously designated,
But I just can’t… remember.

I can’t remember them, but these dimensions were meant for me.
They must have been, because I hold the key
To unlock the hole requiring the simplest
Twist of a persistent wrist,
But where is this hole I so consistently yearn for?
How nice is it for some people to symbolically express their thoughts through their writing? And many readers often interpret them differently.
danna22081 Jun 5
It might be said:

I would love to speak to you,
To read your state of mind,
To understand your hue
Of shades which seem to shape,
Which seem to mould your own sense of self.

Speak to me!
Enlighten me... tell me...
Why you seem to have denoted
Your form of communication with me,
When everyone else seems to be understating this perpetuating perception.

For I consist of eyes
Which strenuously stretch to the very depths
Of people’s lives.
The very details,
Which undoubtedly entail the ****** within their narratives of life.

The emotionally-driven sector of my brain
Prohibits me from detaching my attention,
From the issue upon the boat which sails...
Within a stormy sea of tenacious tides...
And waves which withhold my bail, and enlightenment.
I have written this poem as a psychological response to a particular issue in which I am not very much involved, however engaging in, myself. Forgive me if the poem is too vague.
danna22081 May 20
It might be said:

Have you ever caressed the pure sensation
Of utter hate?
The broiling, boiling, baffling faze
Of anger, threaded within the gnashing, fierce teeth…
Face, red as roses in the midst of incoming spring
Season. Yes, I have felt the sensation of hate.

I have not hated enough to delve in it,
Despite my strong incentive to be frowned upon
Along the gnashing teeth for knives,
And inflamed cheeks for rose thorns,
For indeed, I am hated,
And I will never, contest these… genuine facts.

You see, I would much rather view such
Innocuous faces before my eyes and sentimental wellbeing,
Contrary to false love,
The curls accumulated by lips as raspy smiles are formed,
Whilst cheeks glow lilac as condescending complements reform-
Yes, I’d much rather be truly hated than falsely loved.

For true hate divulges truth,
And false love instigates falsehood;
Thus my general wellbeing removes all images of
Artificial gush, for all one could  
Unapologetically attempt in consolidation of personal self,
Is ultimately demolished by myth, and nothing else.
Hate is a short word of deep expression.
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