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Markus Russin Jan 2018
the noise /
absence of voice /
despondency in increments
/
i am
a lost potential /
born from a keenness
unrequited /
a torso of emotions
below an aching smile
/
the tarnished know
my story well
they dwell
in caves /
inside my thoughts
/
they left a bitter aftertaste
and then erased
the rest /
/
i atrophied /
/
my scraps
were not desired
Markus Russin Dec 2017
shout
a pointless warning
as if
time could contract
and i return
to hear me
shout
          a pointless warning
          as if
          time could contract
          and i return
          to hear me
          shout
                    a pointless warning
                    as if
                    time could contract
                    and i return
                    to hear me
                    shout
                              a pointless warning
                              as if
                              time could contract
                              and i return
                              to hear me
                              shout
                          ­              a pointless warning
                                        as if
                                        time could contract
                                        and i return
                                        to hear me
                                        shout
                ­                                  a pointless warning
                                                  as if
                                                  time could contract
                                                  and i return
                                                  to hear me
                                                  shout
      ­                                                      a pointless warning
                                                         ­   as if
                                                            ti­me could contract
                                                        ­    and i return
                                                          ­  to hear me
                                                            sh­out
                                                             ­         a pointless warning
                                                         ­             as if
                                                              ­        time could contract
                                                        ­              and i return
                                                          ­            to hear me
                                                              ­        shout
I wanted to write something about the feeling of being trapped in a loop for too long…
scorpiothought Dec 2017
quivering hands
grip this blade

invisible to all eyes
soul annihilated
ash descends
slowly

muffled abyss plunges here

apologies stifled
lick, diminish
****, collapse
swallow, ruin

quivering hands
clutch this crushed heart
i love you.
Markus Russin Dec 2017
same window
still
a gaze beyond
the windowsill
it could have been
it could have

seeps through
my time
like rain
i cling to pain
it knows me well
it knows me

what stays
inside a drop
a dream on top
a shiver
but nothing else
but nothing
scorpiothought Dec 2017
you drift over me, a gust of fresh air
resting gently onto my bones
but even your feather-light touch
digs like a thorn into my side
your comfort rejected, smothering stultification
mutual love exiled, favoring isolation
apologies i whisper as i lower myself into the ground.
even if someone is in such a state of depression that they can't properly respond to your attempts to reach out to them, please know that your efforts are deeply appreciated.
scorpiothought Dec 2017
swallowed by the tempest
thrashing in the waves
harboring self-destruction

swept away by the breakdown
ravaging the vulnerability within
intensity unmatched
aimless passion blinds

light devastated by the dark
desire never-ending
jaded by the pounding hopeless flow

**** just to see the glare
of the distant sun
For anyone who's ever felt like an outsider just for existing. I may add more to this piece at some point.  I'd truly like to hear any thoughts you might have!
Markus Russin Dec 2017
what light can never capture,
i carefully selected.

what kindness never lingered
made seconds harsher
than intended.

you made a home
with open windows

inside my weary heart

its furniture in cobwebs now
and empty frames in dust

i wonder if i'll learn to follow

while filling them with smiles
that in the darkness
i invented.
An earlier version of this poem was published on Medium on October 18, 2016.
Maine Dela Cruz Dec 2017
Forgetting is an act of human will
An animal does not forget the scent of a blood trail
Nor the track of lightning through the trees
It’s the smell of survival
The sound of another day existing.
What is thicker than water
But the blood of our brothers and sisters
Who had forgotten too soon how
We were weaved into a common thread?
The bloodline we shared, forgotten, taken in vain
They have conquered from us the land of our ancestors
Centuries old, stories left untold
They shoved the life out of us
Leaving us indelible marks of shame.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we have not forgotten how to blame
So we blamed the gods,
We blamed our fathers and the fathers of their fathers
We blamed the books
We blamed the espresso machine
We blamed all that was to blame
We blamed because we were helpless.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember. We do remember how we spoke
To faces with perfect set of teeth
They showed us the rooms of dark wood floors
They stood on the doorway. They moved when our
Eyes passed them. Showing us one corner
Like every other corner.
They showed us how to turn on the water,
Where the light switches are,
Which door would lead to another.
They took our money. They smiled.
“Here is my face,” they always said.
Some hollow, some swollen, some sagging
Flesh and bones. “You will know me by this face.”

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we remember how we mastered the language
Of the wild
A jungle with no trees, they call it “metropolis”
Where streetlamps shone brighter than the stars,
Where shadows aren’t made of animals
Meant for bedtime stories
Where men’s faces, pink and stained
With camouflage, shined with the sweat of the hunt
Their dogs knew us by our accents
The plight wasn’t over after all.

Forgetting is an act of human will
But we chose to remember
We’ll never forget.
"Promdi" is a Filipino slang word derived from the English phrase “from the” which is short for “from the province.”
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