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its 4:30 am...
im awake thinking, living, and breathing...
but somethings different..

my heart... its breaking,aching and shaking...
all because of a guy..

my minds racing, chasing, and raising..
all the problems of my life..

and im slowly fading, wasting, and breaking..
because i dont know who i am..

not anymore...



© Copyright Tyler Atherton
Isn’t it funny
How poets dramatise everything
“An ocean of depression”
“A death grip of love”
We just can’t help ourselves
It’s who we are
It’s part of being a poet
Over analysing life
Deeply contemplating death
“What is the meaning of life?”
Everything is philosophical
There’s always a lesson to learn
An issue to address
A heartache to confess
I couldn’t even resist a little alliteration in the title.
Be gentle with us.
please.
or not
it's your call
but keep in mind that we as poets
we feel too strong
which is not to say that that is wrong
we don't ease into love, we quickly fall
we love like we're dying
we live like we're small
but in our minds.
in our minds we are flying

we feel everything at once
you wouldn't think it by looking
looking at our normal fronts
a disguise, a charade
but prey don't believe a masquerade
a poet can be but anyone
existing silently
a poet can be but everyone
existing violently
we all make up stories
we're all acting to a degree
so things aren't so different
no not so different you and me

we notice the quirks
we notice the nothings
if you meet a poet then you should believe
you should know that we
we love what we see
and appreciate all forms of beauty
for to us imperfect is lovely
perfect doesn't exist
we have those markings on our wrist
of all the awful places we've been to we kissed
we've kissed the devil when we went
to hell and back again

so now that you have been informed
that a poets heart is easily scorned
knowing we feel deeply
knowing we feel more
more than we really should I've warned
we don't just love a person when we fall
we love their whole world
we love it all
and when we're hurt it is hard to trust
and thus
please.
Be gentle with us.
We can't go backwards
But if we could it would be
To that very night

Holding each other
Time standing still
And a blissful,
Extremely tender
Loving innocence
Surrounding us

No passion
Just simple love
Where a simple touch
Can sing a hundred songs
the girl
she makes the world so beautiful
she had come to rule
but she was never given the chances equal

she was forced to silence
forced to smile
give those people another glance
even when she will be overlooked this while

the girl did it all
she made big from real small
learned the smooth and the rough
but she was given another bluff

her, she was thrown around
laughed and joked about
but she smiled throughout
her tears for herself when she drowned

she went ahead, even behind at times
she fought for herself at every step
her thoughts evident in every line
well thought, did have a bite.

the girl,
her success was a victory
not hers alone, from all bulls
she rose to make a history
.
I’d rather write than speak
My pen is always responsive
My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes
My paper doesn’t argue
My lines never cross me
My sentences never disappoint
And my words will never leave me
You deserve someone who gives you
More than a shoulder to lean on--Someone who gives you
Their right arm,

Someone who protects your heart,
Nourishes your soul,
And keeps your spirit
Away from harm.

You deserve someone
Who brings out the very best in you,

Someone who appreciates
All that you are
And all that you do.

You deserve someone
Who wants you to be
Nothing more
Or nothing less
Than the real you,

Someone who will never
Extinguish the light
From the fire
That burns deep within you.

By Lady. R.F. (C)2018
 Jul 2018 Nick Durbin
Lily Mae
From the turning point on~  John Patrick Robbins

It's like a season and so must they all pass.

We tie ourselves down with burdens best left with another then somehow placed upon you.

None of it is easy or becomes less in time, our shoulders slouch, the smiles fade

and we hide our pain inside the next drink or popping of some pills.

There's a reality here though, nothing can make numb feel better or take away the ache that takes up residence through our pain.

Life has a stench to it that makes me wonder if we are all walking the dead road of hell.

But in spite of the situation I would probably light cigarette and laugh just the same.

A switch blade nature and less concern for you than others serves us well at times it seems.

I wonder can you view anything flawed as long as I, and not take some of that burden upon yourself.

Age doesn't teach **** it merely exposes the flaws.

Mine are many now what about yours?

Ironic isn’t it, how far stretched some of our answers will be.

Extracting truth can feel like an aborted spinal tap

then the grin…as I strike the match against the calloused heart and inhale deep…just to feel the burn and lie like I always do.
People lie...sometimes...some people are the lie... mirrors don't lie
In nights like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll tuck you in and
read you stories
I'll tell you about the hills in Scotland that
devoured people on rainy days
and the grey rabbit that
deceived it and snapped its heart.

I'll tell you about the battlefield in
places we cannot touch
the origin of rumbling thunders and
forked lightning.
I'll tell you about the sacrifices to the old gods
as their decaying bodies sway in the wind
and crows and ravens circle the canopy of the old oak trees.

In times like this
I wish to be near you.
I'll make coffee and
get us a couple of apple pie with cinnamon
Then I'll tuck you in and say I love you in unusual,
remarkable ways.

By telling you peculiar stories until you fall asleep, perhaps.

And if you want to –
if it comforts you –
I'll do this night after night.

I'll bring you marvels from arcane knowledge and
forgotten myths and
I guarantee that the unwavering cruelties of this inane, mad civilization
will only make us stronger.
My social life is
basically filled with
cats.

A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.

A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.

A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.

A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.

I will answer you truthfully.
To Mazi, Pinwheel, and Fishy Morgan Le Fay. for being my lead Also, to Kiba.
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