Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
My Darkest Hour*

My darkest hour never ends
The hands refuse to meet
Surrounded by silent shadows
Lurking in the street

The twisted, winding maze
Is shrouded in a haze  
Cannot escape my head
Thoughts alone cannot be said

The Sun will surely rise
Six marks dark's demise
I cannot take anymore lies
I surely hope he isn't late

My friends have left me lonely
They’ve stranded me at sea
I’m drifting in the current
Hopeless as could be

I’m out of flares and no one cares
They wouldn’t come even if they saw
Jones has won as he has all
And I’ve been crushed between his jaws
Sometimes depression looks like you
Depression can look like me
it can also look like nothing
Depression is not something you see
I give her my jacket knowing when she’s gone
It will still smell like her hugs

Putting my arm around her shoulders is more honest
Than when I raise my arm to the square

I don’t know where she is going in life
But I wouldn’t mind if it were the same place I was

The wind blows silently when she is speaking
Because even the flowers want to listen

If her smile were a disease, I would gladly infect myself
Especially if there were no vaccine

My chest is an air mattress when her head rests against it
I don’t mind when it deflates, brining her a little closer

Even in the winter I can smell fresh-cut grass
And it brings back memories I wish she were a part of

If I were made of mirror, when she looked at me
She might understand why I stare
Today is the day to look back on the year,
From the good and bad, the smiles, the tears,
And to think about how much we've grown
And changed the year with the seeds we've sown.
Here's to the next new year- as it will pass by,
Let us hope we laugh more than cry,
Spread more love than spiteful hate,
For we never know when it will be to late
To let some one special know that we care,
To gather the courage to fulfill that dare.
So let us take the challenge, conquer our fear
And joyously welcome the new coming year.
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words shatter my soul
Like a thin sheet of glass
In a fragile windowpane
Faced against the icy, piercing,
Wailing winter winds.

Fractures and bruises heal,
Barely leaving a mark,
But a shattered soul-
It remembers each and every
Crack, break, chip,
Often leaving pieces behind that
The jealous, thieving wind stole in hopes
Of making parts of the beautiful glass its own.

Fear not! For the very thing that destroyed
Can also mend the glass,
Molding, sealing the mess back together
Until a new, stronger, more beautiful
Picture forms to illustrate the story
Of the stained glass soul.
When you press your ear to my chest
Checking the life of my heart
I hope you can hear
What I was too afraid to say
"I love you," killed me
Because nothing is worth dying for
Quite like love
We're all going to die
I'm tired of seeing books with pages left blank
I'm tired of seeing no dedication page giving thanks
Life is a story
Not something to give up on halfway through because the vocabulary gets too hard
I'm tired of seeing covers that are scarred
Because there are certain passages that should be starred
There are signs
Exclamation points and pauses in words on a page
Tired of parents being forced on a stage
To read the could've been story of a child who couldn't take it anymore
In this day and age
Every book should come to an end with no pages left to be filled
No blank white paper left at the end
Waiting for lines that will never be written in
Because nothing is sadder than
when a child's story ends with a period in place of where a semicolon could've been
Would've been
Should've been
But wasn't
Because nobody cared
Because this kid was scared
I'm tired of seeing hurt plastered on someone's cover
And the damage and look of distress goes unnoticed because no one has the time or ******* decency to take the book and read it for a little
Not one second to stop and patch up the fraying edges
This needs to stop here and now
Because I can't stand to see one more story end with a smoking gun
dangling body
With words spoken at a eulogy
I'm done watching lives
Turn into shorts stories
No more bodies burried in the dirt
Stop letting stories come to an end
When all that was needed to keep it going was a friend
But instead you're left staring
A blank page
A blinking curser
the lights of a hurse pull in
A young body
Withered and thin
Waiting for the after life to begin
We are only human
only able to be who we are
slightly imperfect
as long as slightly means
a lot
and imperfect means
I've been spending a lot of my time thinking
and been doing my fair share of looking for inspiration
but not without some perspiration
I guess what I ended on
was being human
such a cliché
I know
but I think that there is something to be said about it
being human
interesting that everyone knows
knows how ****** people can be
and yet continue to act so petty
lies and deception
everyone assumes they are the exception
not comprehending their misconception    
giving everything but affection
hating - people
breaking souls
aching hearts
slivers of confidence being torn apart
all because they just prey -
on the weak
the ones to shy to stand up and be the hero they seek
living life just for the end of the week
Don't be that person
the one who makes a kids life worsen
all because you're too ******
to be your own man
to take a stand
and lend a hand
to the poor kid sitting alone
because no one
will ever know
what it's like to never have grown
grown up with nothing but your thoughts to come home to
when home is only their mind because they've never had a penny to their name
let alone a claim to fame
not even their family backing them up
so who are you to put them down
down lower than the ground
because one day
they will put themselves there
and it's all because you couldn't spare
small smile
instead swears thrown like knifes
stuck deep into the thoughts of their mind
thinking that know one would ever be so kind
as to show them that life is not a solo climb
I've never had a fistful of love,
because my fist is too full of dirt
from digging graves.

And the greatest fist I've ever known
is the one leaving bruises all over my insides.
But that fist has graduated
and been granted tools to be used as weapons.
And my insides which were once diamonds,
are now nothing but sawdust.

And I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

And stab me just for kicks
because it tickles my fickle chest
and makes me feel like I'm living in a French city
with a quick and fickle tramway system
that can take me anywhere I want to be.

But instead I'm always going to a town
a mere hour away
and sitting in traffic
in a stuffed automobile,
wishing I was where the trains are.

Because the trains that have always sang me lullabies
whisper melodies to me all the time now,
through smoke and haze and swirling lights.

I can feel the knife.
I can always feel the knife.

Call me Miss November
because I'm the first snowfall after the best time of year,
and I cut the world with my icicle sword of a soul.

Can you feel the sword?
I hope you can always feel the sword.

And I will leave and the world will be warm and happy,
and upon my returnal,
I'll give you beautiful sweater weather
and stab you with my icicle sword when you least expect it.

I can feel the knife.
You can feel the sword.
It tickles.

Me and Miss June sing a sister song,
making harmonies with our weaponry.
My icicle sword, her scalding torch.

Just call me Miss Emmy Lou November.
I'll sing a duet with you and depart for almost forever,
and leave with my sister, Miss June.

Wake up.
It's November.
I'm here.
Wake up.
I won't be here for long.

I was born red all over.
Never knowing if I'm meant for love or anger.
But angry leaves fall in November,
getting their revenge.
But nobody listens to anger
when it's falling to the ground so gracefully.

So come to my November house jam
and we'll all be angry and loving
and cold and happy and dreading
the latter end of my company,
and I'll be wishing sister June was with me.

I'm a blackhearted lover.
I'm a blackhearted grave digger.
I'm a blackhearted skinny lover
with skinny arms that'll never be able
to cover anyone from my frigid aura.
Only a year ago, we were all just kids thinking we held forever at our fingertips.
Invincibility was upon us as we stepped on campus for the first time as students,
Beginning our journeys into the unknown realm of college.
Everything was new and exciting;
Classes, food, activities, clubs, schedules, people…
Remember how we didn’t want to go home?
The best place in the world to be, at the time, seemed like it was right there.
If we left for a second, we would miss the whole planet,
Be left out of the loop for an entire week.
High school seemed too close and too far,
And we were stuck in this limbo where we were not sure how to act.
Running around like tweens out past their curfew,
The upperclassmen were so cool, and calm, and collected…
We aspired to be like them one day,
Copying the way they blended into this campus with so many colors.
And slowly but surely, we have…
Without even realizing it, we have matured worlds, and
Realization has dropped itself into our hands where pixie dust sat before.
Isn’t it funny, now, watching the new group of freshmen repeat the cycle?
Looking back, I thought life was so easy.
The only cares I had in the world were attending class and finishing homework.
Making friends appeared to be simple; keeping them did, as well.
Things seemed to fall into place as if they knew where to be dropped.
Now, we make things happen for ourselves rather than sitting back and watching.
Instead of running aimlessly, we stride with a purpose.
For we know our niches and where we are needed most.
Our eyes sparkle even brighter, I believe,
Because we have found a place where we belong and want to be.
I am waiting now, looking at this group of new kids,
And wondering how long it will be before the change happens to them.
How long will it take for them to realize that home is not such a bad place to be?
As a matter of fact, as I sit here in the room I grew up in,
I feel nothing but nostalgia that makes me want to be nowhere but here.
Here, I have no worries, and I can reflect on this past year and how much I have grown.
Growth. Isn’t that something that we forget about?
Assessing how far we have come over the past twelve or so months?
Because I now see with open eyes, where before, I merely just *looked.
Next page