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inutilpaacas Mar 2
ince ou eft
I ave voided eginnings
perhap fo fea of th endin
Archer Feb 13
You can stand up to your fears
By making them
Incorrect.
Mark Wanless Feb 11
i let crime seekers
into the building because
i coward afraid
A girl, made of paper
She blows in the wind
All her thoughts, written on her pages
Creative and calm and curious and careful
She sings, shyly, softly
In the middle of the night
She doesn't want to be heard
She wants to be heard

A girl, made of stone
She stands steady in the storm
Her face, emotionless, expressionless
Strong and stony and stoic and silent
She writes, fluidly, fearfully
In the middle of the night
She doesn't want to be seen
She wants to be seen

A girl, made of light
She shines in the dark
Love glistens in her eyes
Luminous and loving and lighthearted and loyal
She glows, boldly, beautifully
in the middle of the night
She doesn't fear being seen
She doesn't fear being heard

Girls made of paper
And girls made of stone
Hurt too many times by those who claim to care
Hiding from the world no longer
Girl made of light
Hope is her name
Burns like a spark in their hearts in the night
Whispering softly, gently
It's ok to be seen
It's ok to be heard
Found this SUPER old poem, pretty sure I was 12 when I wrote this. Randomly unearthed it when going through a box of old stuff (I'm a bit of a hoarder), and decided it wasn't terrible.
Bhavesh Shah Jan 29
I waited for your wish
how foolish was I
Spent days buzzing off
for you to reply
Till my sun sets in and it was night
I better prepare for the worst night
clock strikes 12 and I was afraid
My heart breaks throughout the night

~Bhavesh Shah
Ellery Jan 20
So many days before
the warm-wind is back,
and I am looking for angels
beneath the dirt of my lawn,
where I sleep and dance and pray
in June;

I open my mouth and scream
into the ground,
so only the bugs and dead things know
what I am afraid of:
   that tomorrow I will be older
and still know nothing.

-Ellery Rose
Jeremy Betts Dec 2024
Dear Lord,

Hi,
Hello there
How are you?
Actually and more importantly,
Who are you?
Who am I?
Why don't you ask how am I?
Don't you want to get to know me?
Why don't you come down from the sky?
On some devine rescue
Where's the compassion?
I'd settle for pity
We're all blind from an eye for an eye
Why can't we meet face to face,
Eye to eye?
You must know I don't fear you
So it must be you who fears me
What kind of father are you?
Most figured by now
You'd have come through
But you seem to be afraid of anything new
Of course I've turned on you
Well,
Turned from you
But that's on you

©2024
Freedom!
I scream for it,
a desperate cry against the expectations that binds me.
I’m suffocated by the facade of relationships,
the hollow cackle of deceitful souls.

I am enraged!
Fuming at the system that seeks to define me,
at the degradation that clings to my skin
like an unwanted shadow,
a constant reminder of my insignificance.

I’m weary of pursuing aspirations
that crumble to dust in my grasp,
unattainable visions that lead me
to the edge of despair.
I yearn to exist without ambition,
to dissolve into a crowd
where my identity vanishes,
where I’m a specter,
unseen, unrecognized,
lost in a realm that remains indifferent.

I long to flee this cursed present,
to leap into a tomorrow
that remains a cruel illusion,
where no one acknowledges my presence,
no one cares,
no one trails my footsteps
or feels the pain of my sorrow.

I am drained—
exhausted from the humiliation
that gnaws at my core,
tired of everything I once held dear,
weary from dreaming
only to fall and fall again.

In this furious pursuit of liberation,
I don’t merely wish to vanish;
I seek to obliterate the chains,
to shatter the delusions,
to discover a place where I can breathe,
where I can be whole,
untethered from the past,
and finally reclaim my reality
with a fury that cannot be contained.
This poem is to all those individuals struggling to live their dream due to the expectations of others.
onlylovepoetry Dec 2024
the best time to realize
when
what
causes one to experience
the meaning of to be
deathly afraid
is
exactly
when
you are not


joy purifying
enfolds you, envelops, indeed,
you
are subsumed, a sense of being
secondary
to the unusual flooding of the
dry riverbed in your head that’s
been dry since you can’t remember

when

when you understand
that one cannot truly
write only love poetry
to precise excess
unless
admittedly you love
to excess,
otherwise
you are incapable of making
good
love poems

when

you are not
within that
rare off the beaten yes trackless meniscus curve,
in
country
of first love
  of
only
true love
537 pm deez 6
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