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  Apr 2018 unnamed
Kim
We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Almost.
Please don't ever become a stranger,
whose laugh I can recognize anywhere.
  Apr 2018 unnamed
Ciel Noir
What other kind              of creature could divide        
        Each different thing             into its different sides                
  With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
"Inked Vein's Bleeding Sins"      
(written by me on April8th2018).

  You mentioned, "Why write 'coz
            nobody even reads
   them much less clicks like,"
   Maybe that shouldn't be a
     question, maybe you ask...
        who are you writing for,
       them? or for you & your
                soul's sanity?
   If you answered, 'for them'
  then maybe it's not your
                 reality? 
 I write 'coz my inked blood vein's bleed what everyone calls
                        sin;
I write for their sins, I write for mine, I write the sins committed  by soul's since the beginning of time. I don't write to make up some dope thyme. I bleed the sins committed by soul's before
          the beginning of time.
I write about sins committed by all mankind; those committed in heaven, in earth, under earth
   and everything in between.
  I know our ONE & Only Perfect REDEEMER, already shed His precious blood to cover all sins
               like a flood.
  I write for the sanity of my afflicted mind, I write from the blood that's on the sword that pierced my very soul.
I write so maybe our sins can be covered & we're made whole. I write 'coz I feel God's Holy Spirit in my soul. I write to claim His
       victory; that keeps Satan's
     demons away from the my soul.
                     ~Venjencie©
This was my true poetic reply when someone asked me, why should they even write anymore because no one  read's them anyway. Their words, not mine. So I in question form to make them think is why I wrote this & mentioned some of the reasons that I write.
  Plz don't misunderstand the last 2 paragraphs. In no way is my intention to lead a reader to believe; that I bleed to redo what God did or because His was not good enough.
My intention is to imply that I write because my heart is sore and pierced by the inhumanity of this world. That's it, no more and no less. In no way I'm I trying to make a comparison to me and Him being alike. My metaphor only means, I write about the sadness & hurt through my blood(which is my metaphor for ink in this particular piece. Blessings and Love.
  Apr 2018 unnamed
Stefan Smith
depression depression depression

Stop it.

Leave.

I is me and
you are you.
Seperate from identity
yet your lies root to my core.
I can't help but listen as
gravity gradually seems heavier
and
heavier.

You can feed on me
that's fine.
Distort my reality
and take my smile.
But you will never take my hope.

The endless source behind the
Truth
Of my soul.
You'll never cease the
I in me.

So form each woe,
but forever is my soul.
Endureth this universe.

Go ahead.

Take me.

depression depression depression
  Apr 2018 unnamed
A Thomas Hawkins
Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again
Follow me on Twitter @athomashawkins
http://twitter.com/athomashawkins
  Feb 2018 unnamed
Kimber
I keep throwing gasoline on my already burning problems.

I'm addicted to the pain.
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