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To feel a lot
is to write nothing.

Emotions too intense,
as if it's at its peak,
that no word is enough
to describe
or deserves to be well-written.

I feel a lot,
but I write something.

Vague, baffling, puzzling,
like the stars up on the sky—
certainly it's there,
millions, hidden by the clouds,
too precious, too deep
to describe
or to be even seen.

I feel a lot,
so I write this.

Each word is encoded
with a heavy heart
and weary mind.
I don't really know if this makes sense but I feel like I need to at least make something to lessen the emotions rushing through me. Plus, I can't think of a title.
...
I miss you so much
If
What if I kept it all bottled up,
Like it didn’t hurt?
And what if I chose not to write,
As if it didn’t linger in my mind?

If it wasn’t a pen I held,
Would I have grasped a blade instead?
Or would a piece of poem like this
Take the place of a suicide note?
I opened my eyes,  
Searching for light in the dark.  
A nightmare had bound me,  
Cold as ice where I lay.  

I blinked once,  
Then a few times more.  
There it was—  
Light, peeking through a distant door.  

My legs, weak from frost,  
Urged me to crawl.  
I needn’t open the door to see—  
A man stood outside, waiting for me.  

Tears fell, uncontrollably,  
Like it had been stored  
In a reservoir of longing and affection,  
Yearning to be reached.  

The familiar stranger smiled at me.  
His eyes looked sad but entirely happy,  
Like he'd been waiting for this moment,  
After years of life in torment.  

He held out his hand.  
I lifted mine.  
The moment they touched,  
I woke—and he was gone
thoughts
He fell first,
But she fell harder—
Twice, thrice, even more
Than he ever did for her.
I’ve shown my body
more times
than I’ve ever received flowers.
The strange thing is,
I hate my body,
but I love flowers.
from "Save Me An Orange"  By Hayley Grace
I traced my lips,
until I felt yours press against them.
Fingers brushed my neck,
then your touch lingered there—
as if you were here,
so close, so near.
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