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in the deepest and utmost corner of my heart
the pain is being hidden

and on the outside
you will witness
my sweetest smile

if only
you will catch a glimpse
behind those eyes
is the loneliness that being kept

if only
you will stop and stare for awhile
you will find out
that i am in despair

i was wondering
if the saying

"in the eyes you will see the real feelings of a person"

is true

because why can't you see?

that i am






the twin of love is pain
Mercurychyld Nov 2015
I feel lonely
when you sleep.

I find myself walking
and pacing,
plagued by thoughts
and worries and
feelings of doom.

Wired yet empty,
as if some part of me
is missing or
ripped away.

Where did it go?
When will it be back?

Displaced, I am
obliged to search within
the trunk of memories
in my mind
and pick out a few
memories of you,
of us,
dust them off
and play them like
snippets of favorite

and for a little while
I can ignore the flood
of tearful melancholia
that creeps and stalks,
just waiting to drown me.

For a little while
I can think of you,
our silly laughs and giggles
and mutual goofiness…

and for that little while
I can smile.

(Ode to my beautiful sons)

-by Mercurychyld
Copyright 23 Nov 15
  Nov 2015 Mercurychyld
Isaac Peña
This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.
Mercurychyld Oct 2015
the words drop
from fingertips,
climbing over each
other like playful

the words flow
quietly, gently,
like soft waters in
a whispering pond.

the words burst out,
roaring like mighty
sparking the sky
like brilliant

the words spill out,
like scalding lava,
scorching and setting
aflame all in their wake.

the words latch on
with fangs,
suckling the life
force from its
intended victim.

the words infuse
thought and passion
into the bloodstream,
like a ***** *******,
euphoric bliss.

the words sit back,
silently observing
for the need
to birth the cries
of the heavy heart

releasing an ocean
of emotion…

and drowning
the world.

-by Mercurychyld
Copyright 16 Oct. 2015
Mercurychyld Oct 2015
My heart never stops
breaking, caving into
I’m often so surprised
to have any pieces left.
I never wanted to
be like “her”; like my
mother, yet here I sit,
thinking, feeling,
full of guilt.

A guilt that never wanes
or ever could.

I read many books,
many genres.
Some truly make
me face what my heart
knows too well;
this deep sense of guilt.

As I read of characters;
multifaceted, complex men
who step up and love
and raise their sons
and daughters,
I am reminded,
time and again,
that MY sons do not,
or ever will have,
that kind of blessing.

No great male example
to learn from,
to spend time with,
to show them how to
become good Godly men.

Those moments cause me
to question and doubt
myself, as a mother.

I never wanted to be
like “her”; my mother,
with her revolving door
of ****** men
for one reason or another,
yet here I sit,
thinking, feeling,
reminded of how I too
have failed.

The sins of the parents
shall be visited upon
the children…
for that I’m so
very, very sorry
My sons.

The hot tears fall
and the heart disintegrates,
and the anger-sadness grows…
anger mainly at myself.

brought us all to
where we are today.

Culpability overload.
I wonder, does God
blame me?
Will my sons?
Not that I would ever
blame either if they do.

If I could go back,
if I could begin again,
what would I change?

This is the question
as the familiar pangs
of guilt grow like weeds,
and never subside.

To my sons,
for all of my mistakes
and wrong decisions,
both before and after
your births,
decisions that leave
imprints on your
lives as well…

I am Forever sorry.

-by Mercurychyld
Copyright 12 Oct. 15
I notice what my sons missed out on, as I did; the true love and devotion of a good father, and it's a huge burden that does now and will always haunt and torment me. : (
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