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Edward Dominic Nov 2019
It’s hard to find the words to fit the days
When the dominant feeling you embrace is apathy
Poems do not flow out of grey areas
Despite the vast wedges of time sandwiched in between the good and the sad

It's a middle class working life’s unseen style of ennui
Suffering in no kind of silence but the unarticulated tedium that forms from routine

And even so, even in the same act of writing that seeks to gain understanding, it mis-sells itself.
Glamourising or problematising these white lies
Churning them into tides of the fine and the good and the comfortable

How horrible it is to yearn for more struggle
How privileged
How touristic

And still, I want to find a valley
A distance upwards to strain my neck and beg for
Leaving nothing but an aching beat strumming across my body, overwhelming my senses
An indescribable primal urge that reduces me to a single thought with only one adequate course of action that I could bear to live with

That would be... nice
Would be.

As ever, everything is possible
So nothing gets done
Moving into big city life
Shadow Nov 2019
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written in octal code
Isaac Nov 2019
walking down cold streets
with colder faces

i am unnerved
as my own cold face begins
to crack and fall apart

i am not surprised
when i shatter and collapse
their cold faces turn colder

i am pleasantly shocked
as their frost freezes me to the ground
and i become the soles of their feet
now that’s what “freeze to death” means
james Nov 2019
i dont feel a thing and i cant lift a finger

look me in my hollow eyes and tell me, how can i be considered alive?

in the midst of apathy i am nothing more than a dead man,

and in its wake i am merely a ghost
some days its business as usual in spite of that chasm inside,
but some days, the hole fills itself with liquid lead
and you cant move. and you cant think. and you cant feel.
what is the point of living when living as though asleep?
my personal answer:
the point is that i cant be bothered to die

[US National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255]
[for those who need it]
james Nov 2019
I WISH I COULD SAY
THE ABSENCE OF PAIN
IS A PAIN IN ITSELF
THAT A COLD VOID
BURNS LIKE EVERY FURNACE AND FIRE OF HELL
BUT THE COLD VOID
IS NOT COLD TO BEGIN WITH;
IT IS MERELY THE VOID
AND IT IS NOTHING
AT ALL
james Nov 2019
My body moves from room to room
My mind thinks, unobstructed
I eat and drink and wake and sleep
I work and play and work again
And yet
I am completely, entirely, pathetically,

idle.

I walk and talk, and scan with my eyes
As if they weren't hollow inside
In truth, even if I had life enough to run
I would still be consumed by a stillness, because

Dear friend, I feel precisely
                                         nothing
                                                  at
                                                      all.

Don't be deceived.
I am as empty as i have ever been,
And ever could be.
ive written a lot of poems about apathy and this is my least favorite by far but i really like the phrase "emotional comatose"
Dominique Nov 2019
Dehydration will
Crimp and squeeze you
Wrinkle your bones like paper fans
Lacerate your doily throats
Won't you package water for it?

Starvation yearns to
Yank and stretch you
Flesh out the pitfalls in your face
Coax out your cabernet ribs
Won't you import produce for it?

Exhaustion could
Squander your crystalline minds
Flay you right down to the core
Burn you out like your kings of Denmark
Don't think, build homes for it.

Apathy will tenderly itch at your lips
Plaster your eyes, emblazon your ribs
Pepper regrets in your Vogue cigarettes

But let you live, collect your pay
Be a friendly face, at the end of the day.
taking care of things
Sean Thienpont Oct 2019
Cold sneering leaves stick through frightful roots
Green shatters droplets of desire looking to ensnare views
A crescent wind sticks through circular layers ripping with bitter apathy
Yet paying to days of grey
Ackerrman Sep 2019
A desperate, burgeous experience,
Warm red light sneaks through the flimsy curtain
With briefcase and notes, no interference
From reason or conscience, not too certain
About scaling the walls of nihilism
And entering the warm head of dead-space,
Expanding my languid realism,
Rushing the end like a three legged race.
In the dying ashes of apathy
I accidentally caught a glimpse:
Dark and degenerated, flayed clarity,
Depravity... Empathy... Caustic rinse,
To the bone, the skeleton is not white,
I relate most to women of the night.
Must read more Oscar Wilde, or less.
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