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ekelhaft Jul 2020
rue
the walls have heard:
things you haven't,
the scars tell
more than you could ever speak.
the bruises know
more than you could ever muster;
how i cried without tears
and screamed without a voice.
i kind of regret that i found poetry to rid myself of emotional baggage; i wish i found it when i was at a happier place.

i'm kind of losing how i write, and at this point i don't know if there is anywhere else i could return to.

and it scares me.
ekelhaft May 2020
what transpires here
are things that have just arrived;
none of them kept baggage,
or maybe some.

might i be given
the benefit of the doubt?
why must i still hear
the very same demons?

saying too much
or too little;
or both,
different on each ear;

why must the dark
feel like soothe,
when those who i call home
fear it?

maybe time will yield,
and to good things, tell;
what there is to triumph,
what stars are there to align.
Hi, it's Nes.

It's been a while since I've actually written anything.

I'm finding it hard to say at the very least the right words.

If anyone can read me, tell me anything. So that I feel like there's anyone who listens.
ekelhaft Dec 2019
I guess, it's selfish:
Not going back where it first began.

So I shoot blindly, in the dark,
Hoping that anyone would remember.

I have never been complete,
But i feel like a part of home is here.
It's Nes, trying to pick up the pieces. How is everyone doing these days? I hope you all are doing well.
ekelhaft Mar 2019
i overthink things;
my head gives me
no other choices.

what is silence
can be a murmuring
only i cannot understand.

what is darkness
can be a monster lurking,
waiting for me to fall into bait;

what is accidental
can be a scheme
that someone planned, and planted.

...

what was a missed reply
due circumstance
can be just avoiding me,

what is a glance
can be a glower;
someone scheming.

what are words
can be disguised
as something sinister;

what are things
can be triggers
pulling more than the other,

what are things
can be painful
can be my death

i overthink too much.
it's sad that i see poetry as a venting for pent-up, ******-up feelings.

i'm sorry.
ekelhaft Sep 2018
A coward;
A weakling,
Unable to stand on his own,
A sorry mess of a poet,
With nothing but lies
To tell and feel;
A scapegoat,
Without a soul to lean on,
One that confides solitude
In the few people he cares about,
And that leaves him about;
A restless ******,
Without strength to be alone
And an eye for uncertainty;
Yet he hurts by himself
And hurts himself,
Yet he says he's fine
With a smile close to crying,
Yet he speaks not to others
And not even to himself
What he feels;
He still stands
But he thinks not for long,
Not for long
Until he tries again.
And fails;
A defect,
Useless and better off dead
it's getting too much of me
no matter how much I scream for you to save me
you don't hear it
the world may have eyes
but never, will.
ekelhaft Aug 2018
all i can do is write,
words that tell how ugly truth can be,
or so i choose to think;

all i was asking for,
was another soul to see;
but i guess it was otherwise;

now it's clear,
it was never friendship,
but rather obligation;

pity that eats from the inside,
a guilt that never tires;
a guilt that you don't deserve;

it's hopeless praying to the stars:
they might shine even if they're dead,
how would it reach the heavens?

is it my selfish cause,
to ask for one broken to stay,
even if it cries to leave?

is it my cowardice,
to think that there's no way;
but the easy way out?

maybe the angels are deaf,
or better yet, blind;
unless the light shines, it's nonexistent;

how i wish the ground would swallow me,
but i'm guessing,
even the ground would gag on my choices.
I do hope I get killed already
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