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 Dec 2023 Reshnia crimson
JDK
I could tell you about my life, but that would ruin the mystique.
Poets seem to pride themselves on being dark and deep.

See beneath the surface,
and the first thing you would think:

Here's the epitome of failed friendship -
definitely one I shouldn't keep.
Don't leave me. There's a moderate chance that I may come to miss you.
 Jul 2019 Reshnia crimson
Khoisan
Like all flowers do
Nature gives herself away
To the birds and bees
 Jan 2019 Reshnia crimson
ryn
Are we worthy
of passing eyes

Do we catch
the stealing glances

Will we save
our world from demise

Can we not
be afraid of taking chances
finding no rhyme nor reason
trying not to give into fear
is this just a passing of season
the reason you're no longer here

only faint memory graces these pages
long gone song filled our hearts and our minds
time slipping away with the ages
lost alice...i'm still hoping to find

              ...lost alice
        once stood on this corner

                                   ...lost alice
                                laid open her scars

   ...lost alice
threw caution to the wind

                          ...lost alice
                  do you know where you are

you stood in your whirlwind of poetry
often letting the demons give you a ride
did they come back to pick you up
are they now in the front by your side

"this is what happens when i step off the path"
the last words you tore from life's page
if i knew what door i'd let you out
or are you lost alice...the rest of your days
 Nov 2017 Reshnia crimson
Dev A
What if I told you I was never wanted?
What would you say?
You'd say "of course I was,
We all love you"

But that's not what I asked.
Being wanted and being loved;
You'd think they'd go hand-in-hand,
But a vast abyss, an eternal ocean separates them.
You can be loved and unwanted
Or wanted but unloved.

What if I told you I never felt wanted?
Maybe I wanted to feel more loved, too;
But that would never happen.

What if I told you the boys never wanted me?
They never wanted to play;
They sent me away.
I was too girly,
Never tough enough,
I played by the rules,
I was too fragile,
Never strong enough;
I was too weak.

What if I told you the girls never wanted me?
They never wanted to play;
They sent me away.
I was too tomboyish,
Never dressed the right way,
I liked sports more than fashion,
I acted more like the boys,
Never wanted to shop or gossip;
I was too tough.

What if I told you the older kids never wanted me?
They never wanted to play;
They sent me away.
I was too childish,
Never mature enough,
I talked to much,
I was too excitable,
Never acting the right way;
I was too young.

What if I told you the adults never wanted me?
They never wanted to play;
They sent me away.
I was too innocent,
Never doing as I was told,
I butted in when I wasn't wanted,
I was too demanding,
Never acted my age;
I was too naive.

What if I told you that you were wrong all along?
You never wanted to play;
You sent me away.
I was too good,
Never breaking the rules,
I tried to do what was expected of me,
I didn't need reprimanding,
Never knowing what was wrong with me;
I was too quiet.

What if I told you I never felt wanted?
Would you still say I was loved?
I wanted more but never knew of what.
I was too different from the rest,
Never acted my age,
I tried to be more;
More mature,
More understanding,
More...
Just more.

What if I told you I never felt wanted?
I tried to fit in,
To be like the others,
The ones I called friends.
But try as I might,
I wasn't invited out,
I found out about the parties days later,
I was the afterthought when everyone else was busy.

How could I feel wanted?
My friends,
My brother,
My cousins,
They never wanted to play;
They sent me away.
Always alone,
Always left behind,
Never feeling wanted.
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Suffering from depression is like:

biting your nails
when they're already too short

picking at your wounds,
and not allowing them to heal

living in your past,
because you're afraid of the future

feeling lonely,
yet being afraid
to burden other people
with your presence

wanting to get things done,
but being too unsure of yourself
to even try

you want to be happy,
but being sad is what you're most familiar with

you're afraid to live,
and afraid to die,
but you never know which option is worse
Is there that big of a difference
Between both Love and Like
When I Like the way you Love me
And how that feels just right

Where Love in all its Likelihood
Calms the restless heart
Love as Love always should
Like the place you are

I Like Love as the answer
And Love the questions that it asks
And I Like Love twice as much
When it says to go ahead

I Like that you can combine the two
Which helps Love rule supreme
Straight on course for all it's worth
Like the Love between you and me
I'll be honest, the thought of death nor dying scares me. Or never knowing what it's like to be famous, for people to know the greatness I brought into the world. Getting in a car accident doesn't frighten me either. What scares me is those last seconds when you realize you're alone. No matter how much love or attention you're given at that very moment, you're alone. Your life flashing before you, everything you did wrong, hurting people, pushing loved one's away, just wishing you could take those moments back. Those moments where something went wrong for you and you sat in tears for hours wondering "why me?".  Truth be told that when everyone is around you, they begin to fade. You loose your hearing, everything gets fuzzy, and you can't hear anyone, just counting the seconds away, waiting to greet death. Seeing a black void in the distance, there's a latter somewhere but you can't see it. Can't crawl your way out of the void. As the void is seeping in, everything is fading. Right before your eyes when you finished saying goodbye, and hello to a cold dark place to call as your new home.
                     Truth be told
I always love being in the mountains. Ever since I was a kid I couldn't stop thinking about them. The fresh clean air, out away from the city. A peaceful place where you can go and get lost in the beauty of the scenery.
The scent of pine trees and pinecones is rather sweet, like the earth after a thunderstorm. The soft crackle of twigs breaking under your feet as your walked the miles beyond miles of trees. Birds chirping in the distance as you reach the top of the mountain to overlook the valley. Off in the distance you see an eagle feeding her babies in the top of a tree. Hearing their sweet chirps calming your sharp breaths. Nothing holding back, as the wind gently blows your hair across your cheeks. This is what it means to live the dream, to feel no one to weigh you down, understanding that this is what it means to be truly free.
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