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  Oct 2016 Makenzie D
anonymous
I'm not an option
Or a second choice
I'm in your life or not
I don't want to be a hidden voice
My friendship was a gift
Not a game
From then, you'll meet fake friends
But i warned you, what a shame
They'll replace you
The second you put a foot wrong
You should've of stayed with me
You should've held on.
Makenzie D Oct 2016
I'm tired
But not from lack of sleep.
No,
I slept quite well last night.

It's sometime deeper
Something eating at my soul.
Something confusing my mind.
Something draining all my energy.

My exhaustion is one that can't
be cured with sleep.
Not with a day,
Not with two,
Not even three.

This is because I'm not exhausted
From the lack of sleep,
I'm tired of people,
Tired of the noise,
Tired of the silence,
Tired of the empty rooms,
And tired of the full ones.
But,
Most of all,
I'm tired
Of being
Tired.
Makenzie D Oct 2016
First you see the
“Bright light”,
And then just as
Quickly as you see it…
You don’t.
What you see is complete
Darkness.  
Black all around you.
No noise.
No wind.
Darkness is all you see,
Hear,
Feel,
Touch.
But let’s not forget the
taste,
The taste of an eternal longing.
A longing for love,
Affection,
Friendship,
Company.
But in return…
All you get is an eternal darkness…
And
The
End.
Makenzie D Oct 2016
mind racing
foot tapping
heavy breathing
hands trembling
fingers dancing
heart pounding
eyes watering
ears ringing

*welcome Mr. Anxiety Attack.
  Oct 2016 Makenzie D
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)

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