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Emily Donoher Aug 2020
When I say “I feel sick”
what I really want to tell you
is I am sick of fearing     sick
of fearing living but what
do I do if I fear dying too?
Where is my home
if not the ground or under it?

You say “we all feel like you”
but I am standing in a room
there is a subtle bang
and I am the only one fleeting
I am the only one but I am
one of many hosts this illness inhibits
so why do I feel so lonely?

Loneliness promises      safety
has been      distorted
thoughts now occupy me so
i am sorry i cancel plans &
cry in concerts &
make excuses &
leave early &
silence myself
but the thoughts are loud
and I am aching (everywhere)

I am at war with my mind
  Jul 2020 Emily Donoher
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
Emily Donoher Jul 2020
pearl feathers you refuse to call white
scared it would mean something if you did
scared your scepticism will cup cold palms
around your warming neck and squeeze
what little belief you have out of you
a corpse will always be a corpse
but the soul of a wanderer will wander
into the wind and sky and I
and you too if you just let him
so let him

let him be the breeze
that forces you to stop counting
the number of days that have passed
since he last hugged you

let him be your buoy that
serves ground in an ocean
that knows of no stillness

let him be
the flickering light
the white butterfly
the fallen feather

he will be forever with us
let him be
Emily Donoher Jul 2020
thirteen days left of summer
i am thirteen               thirsty
for genuinity                today
served me nothing         i am
hungry        to be     eighteen
in grass that is chrome green
feeling ***** but feeling clean      &
not apologising for it
A plastic flower is
    Called a flower
    Though it is soulless.
    What is love
     If I am alone.
     Being away from you
     Makes me look like
     A plastic flower.
Emily Donoher Jul 2020
tired of hearing talk of
butterflies       are tired
of their wings being the
object of one’s affection
and we are one          to
talk          about the skin
that dress souls like gar-
ments that we peel off
at the end of a long day
we are raw and naked
and who to see us if not
just curtains &  hollow
bathtubs               filled
with aching spines that
carry heavy souls        and
what’s the point if nobody
asks to look inside anyway?          
tired of talk of skin and form
there is so much more to see    

just ask about

— The End —