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Mikko Mar 2021
It leaves its handprints on all that I see,
and tarnishes all I touch with poison
Feeds depression like a maggot, to deepen
this cursed mire that is my place to be
It snatches my thoughts away from all glee,
and I wish I would vanish, be hidden
And alone long for a secret Eden,
for a decade it has tormented me

It told me: ”You will never have a hand
to hold, nor starry eyes to madly love
Alone you'll stay, you're too broken, cautious
Your spirit forever burns with my brand,
there will be no olive branch, no sweet dove”
Thus spoke the cold, dead void called Loneliness
Written sometime in October 2016 after an all-encompassing, amazingly crushing sensation of loneliness.
Toothache Jan 2020
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence
We are wasting away in a paradise of my creation

Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.

We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and empty daydreams.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little pieces of drug soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pool.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Synthesise two bass lines and slow drip coffee and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide I desired out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.

Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked romance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.

Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac

!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
four letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning

Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite all our efforts
The days waste away
Deep Mar 2021
Melancholy lingers in this city
like some deadly virus
lying sluggishly,
waiting to touch the passersby.
N Dec 2020
The rain knows
only how to fall heavily,
and still remains beautiful

But I know only the
loneliness of December
Adonis Yerasimou Oct 2020
He was just a simple man
Who was trying to find his place in the world
In times where everybody felt
That they didn't belong here
A four line, one stanza poem, that represents my desire and somewhat my longing for the last few years of my life.
Daniel James Sep 2020
I woke up in a huff.

Things I should have done already,
Came back in a flood.
Too many things,
Everywhere I looked,
I closed my eyes.

She scratched my back a bit.

"That's nice." I lied.

I wait for everything to pass.
Just stop, don't think.

"How are you feeling?"

Don't ask that.
There's something vicious in my mind,
Always on the attack.

"Wanna talk about it?"

No. Or else I would.
And now I'm thinking about it.

I let it go. Slightly tense.
But unanswered questions
Don't quite disappear.
They build up.
Every intervention is
Another pebble in the pond,
Another splash,
Another ripple.

Time to settle.
Take a breath.
Roll over.

Everything's all right.
It's fine. It's going nowhere.
One step at a time.

I could
Slide up to unlock
Perhaps I've gone viral in my sleep.

I haven't, but that was hope -
I think - just a glimpse -
Somewhere in between the homescreen
And the last
Past the apps I didn't choose,
And the one I did but never use,
To the ones that I don't want,
But am addicted to.

"Coffee?" She asks,
Taking a white towel
From the hook
On the back of the door.
That's nice, I think,
She doesn't drink coffee.
I make a sound that means
Something either way.

"Escape!" is what I want to say.
Run. Before I scar you with my grey,
Grey thoughts.

I count the steps as
She goes down the stairs.

Alone again, at last. I breathe.

My phone won't let me down.
life on our globe has turned
truly ‘complificated’
and many struggle to maintain
a semblance of the ordinary
in our daily goings about town

face masks, regulations and prescriptions
have changed how we can interact
if we may at all
with each other, friends, family, or strangers

physical distancing may rise desire
for at least digital social closeness
yet in its wake
emotional remoteness seems to grow

hanging like a shadow over
occasional live meetings with old friends
children, aunts, uncles, grandparents etc.

we watch them with veiled suspicion
they somehow look a little less familiar
since we met them last time
who knows what they might carry

strangers watching strangers we have become
growing more alienated from each other
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
Alone here
In dark, impenetrable power

I'm named after my faces

"White light into seven colours"

Written directly on this
Prism wall

It follows a rhythm of my heartbeat

And yet I feel
I don't know me at all
V Aug 2020
I'm an open book in a society that can't ******* read.
I give too much, love too much, say too much, do too much...
...
I hardly know if that's more a blessing, or a curse.

Also given I also have D.I.D, I try my best to help others understand, just to feel not so alienated in life...
But often I still feel silent.
Tatiana Jul 2020
I don't believe in bad omens.

A black cat crossing my path isn't a bringer of poor luck,
otherwise I'd trip down my stairs far more often,
or get whacked by a stealthy sheathed paw
with more dreadful precision when I ascend them.
It's just a game this cat plays,
as if they guard the upstairs to keep intruders out.
I live here, this is my house.
A flock of crows doesn't bring me to fear the day
as old warnings say
they're just dark birds gathering together.
On Autumn days I pretend
they're investigating their ******,
casting wild accusations with their raucous cries,
and the final judgement, no matter the distance,
reaches my ears with clarity
like a church bell tolling when its time to pray.
"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"
And what of breaking mirrors?
Mistakes happen, reflective material shatters.
If I let my mind run with that one time
I knocked a mirror over, well I'd
never let go of the damage I caused.
Pieces of an old reflection live within me
embedded in my skin like shrapnel from bombs
dropped on my head,
doesn't matter if I saw them coming.
I could only shelter; never dodge.

No... I don't believe in bad omens.
©Tatiana
Or maybe I do
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