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ConnectHook Sep 2015
۞۩۞

Offended by your victimhood
while victimized by your offense,
you hurt so bad that I felt good;
my guilt was sweet – your pain intense.

I lacked your lack of self-esteem
yet shared your sense of wounded pride
while sleeping through our waking dream -
the Inner Light left on outside.

Your suicide invades my space –
your death insults my lifeless life.
Your omnipresent cryptic face
beams forth, as dull as any knife.
su·i ge·ne·ris
ˌso͞oˌī ˈjenərəs,ˌso͞oē/

adjective: unique.

۞۩۞
a Sep 2015
And I'm sorry about that.
My wrinkling fingers have gotten
Sore.
They are periwinkle and fat,
Like pigs before ham,
They are tired and numb,
Like those who work under the thumb,
But I'm back now, though honestly,
It seems to me that
That is only so when
Good turns to bad.
Cause in reality,  poetry
Is for the sad.
Poetry is for the sad,  and I'm sad. Hello again, poetry.
my heart is made of scattered stars
glowing bright with their intent.

the constellation beautiful from afar
until the darkness comes.

Collapse is all there is.

the sweeping desolation.
shadows of once-brilliant celestial bodies
buried deep inside a shell with a
devastated soul.

my heart is made of scattered stars
that fold under pressure of
Love. Passion. Finality.
but when one star dies
the rest burn brighter
in the absence of its light.
Pseudonym Sep 2015
To my dear friend
I wanted to say that I miss you
I wanted to say that the rain feels colder without you
I wanted to say that life truly isn’t the same
I wanted to say that I just can’t find the beauty in small things anymore

But I can
And maybe life isn’t the same, but when is it ever?
And the rain is still rain  
And I don’t think I actually do miss you.

I wanted to say so much
I wanted to show much more
I wanted to fight for you
Die for you,
But how can I do that when I’m already dead?
And everything is ****
Because I expected more from myself
But when do I ever deliver?
Can I even deliver?

To my friend
I’m sorry.
Arfah Afaqi Zia Sep 2015
He died ages ago,
She was depressed,
Waiting for her body to be taken away,
He left behind only memories,
Every night she sleeps in his bed,
She can smell his scent in his pillow,
The clothes she wears,
All bear his scent,
He may have left nothing but vague memories,
But his scent diminishes his absence.
Cori MacNaughton Aug 2015
Hello Poetry!
Hello poets.
Sorry I've been gone so long.
Life intervenes.
The rain drops land on the dark window pane,
And are frozen into diamonds scattered on a black felt baize,
By the room's yellow reflection.

I watch the few that break free, run, downwards,
Tracing irregular paths past their cohort
Until they vanish, behind the cold grey alloy finishing line.

In this silence,
occasionally broken by the sound of rolling rubber on wet Tarmac
I read of villains and heroes in futures and in pasts.

And once again,
As my breathing becomes shallow and my pulse becomes slow,
I put the cap on another day, without you.
thegirlwhowrites Aug 2015
distance
is not so much
as space,
as it is absence.

*081415
Meg Aug 2015
Absence
Makes
The heart
Grow
Fonder...

Really?
Since writing this poem I have come across the following quote by François VI de la Rochefoucault:
"Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire."
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