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ɪ sᴀɪᴅ,
      
  "𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵"

       . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . .   ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢʀɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ.
 Oct 2020 Emaya
dailythoughts
make noises in your head so you can’t hear your heart
 Oct 2020 Emaya
J
Once-In-A-Lifetime
 Oct 2020 Emaya
J
Indeed, she’s a
once-in-a-lifetime
shooting star;
fleeting, cutting
through the
night sky.

What joy to
have seen
such fire.
What misery
to know she
will never
be mine.
Once-in-a-lifetime
 Sep 2020 Emaya
Ricki
What is a poet if not a victim?
For he seems to be the only exception to a world of goodness.
Oh, what better way to depict him, than his own victimization?
What is a poet if not a child?
Granted, some are aged, but they all whine.
What is a poet if not broken?
He does mention his glass shards on the frequent.
Do keep in mind that he will never be doing fine.
What is a poet if not psychotic?
For him and all his kind appear to be mad.
What is a poet if not sad?
Spoiled minds of the depressed kind truly are poetic.
What is a poet if not contradictive?
For him, it's quite addictive.
What is a poet if not guilty?
For he may not always have the ability to plea innocent and play the victim.
What is a poet if not old?
Granted, some are young, but they're all wise.
What is a poet if not whole?
He is full of courage, he is bold.
So tell me, how is he not whole?
What is a poet if not sane?
Sure, he may be vain and a little odd, but he does write with utter sanity.
What is a poet if not glad?
He writes of love and purple lips.
Though his happiness may dip, he truly is a joyous soul.
What is a poet if not a fool?
He does accuse and misconstrue.
What is a poet if not a man, just like me and you?
 Sep 2020 Emaya
Meera
You’re not a poet because you know those ‘fancy’ words
You’re a poet because every word you write comes straight from your heart

You’re not a poet because people admire your work
You’re a poet because you write for your own contentment and not for people's consent

You’re not a poet because you feel alone
You’re a poet because pen and paper are your biggest companions

You’re not a poet because you understand emotions better
You’re a poet because you let them flow freely

You are not a poet because you’ve failed in love
You’re a poet because you’ve been in love deeper than anyone else

You’re not a poet because you are strong
You’re a poet because you don’t hide your weaknesses

You’re not a poet because you can heal hearts
You’re a poet because you know what it means to be broken
Dedicated to all the poets here. I feel happy to be a part of the community.
 Sep 2020 Emaya
Jade Massey
Masked
 Sep 2020 Emaya
Jade Massey
People assume things. They tend to do so every day, no matter the situation. Why? Who knows. What? All kinds of things. For example, they assume that the happiness I show them is real, when it is only a faqade. My happiness is the mask I use to hide my bitterness, my hate, my depression, my anxiety, my lonliness, my helplessness, and the broken pieces that I truly am. I mask many more things than this. My sanity is the mask I use to cover the fact that I truly am not in the right mind. I might not be insane, but I am certainly mentally unstable. My wholesomeness is the mask I use to hide the fact that I am beyond repair. I am broken in heart, mind, and spirit. My body may be intact, but the soul it masks is broken. It is broken in a million pieces and these pieces are slowly turning to dust - beyond repair. My smile is the mask that hides my tears. The tears that fall when no one is looking. My laugh is the mask that hides the screams of pain that constantly **** me from sleep. The screams echo in my ears and they never vanish until sleep takes over again. The make-up on my face is the mask that covers the tear tracks. My empty, emotionless eyes are the mask that keep my inner despair hidden. The hat, or hood of my hoodie are the masks that hide my scarred scalp. The scars there are from countless hairs being pulled out by my bare hands when I have a breakdown. My pants are the mask that cover my scarred thighs. The scars are from countless nights of countlessly and raggedly drawing razorblades across my sensitive skin. I am completely and utterly masked, hiding everything true about myself like a coward. I even take it so far as to hide my cowardice with a mask called strength. It is better to be masked than left out in the open with nothing to shield yourself, wouldn't you think?
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