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Jeremy Betts Aug 7
Eye to eye with a two faced mirror
Stern threats stated towards this duplicate I see
"I'm warning you, don't ******* in there,
You know you don't like it when we're angry"
Though, my mind and I both know I know better
Fully aware I don't have a victory on it's territory
A half baked example of what makes a quitter
There's a lose on every flipped page of my story

©2024
louella Oct 2023
through salty hazy eyelids
there is a passage of time.
high-rise buildings towering over
yet no surfaces of words appear soft
on my uneven teeth.
have there a remedy for this banal wording
or for this dread?
come to my wedding
the nonexistent death of my nonexistent cowardly heart.
there will be no groom,
just empty pews and the priest who will mourn for me.
foggy windowsills with a disillusioned soul inside.
good poetry shouldn’t have more than one metaphor
i shove them all in just for good measure
and that’s selfish.
aren’t we all just living hedonistic existences?
all bound to chains and fire breathing dragons
all firm in our decisions to remain exactly who we are
but i don’t want to be who i am
and i cannot articulate that any better.
i wrote this awhile ago, but i haven’t had the inspiration to post. idk. just how i feel about things, that’s all i can say right now.

written: 10/1/23
published: 10/22/23
Madison Greene Apr 2020
I miss you in ways I'm still learning to articulate
like maybe the sea misses it's purity
or your sweater misses the way my shoulders held it
the grass misses the sun's light when night falls
and in the same way the dirt on the ground wonders if it will ever feel warmth again
I miss you as though you're never coming back
annh Sep 2019
Neither to imagine inarticulately the moon,
Nor to articulate unimaginatively the sun,
But to scan the celestial sphere for sublime inspiration: the poet.

‘I think our lives are surely but the dreams
Of spirits, dwelling in the distant spheres,
Who as we die, do one by one awake.’
- Edgar Saltus, Poppies and Mandragora
Nolan Willett Apr 2019
I wish I could find
The correct words and sequence
Of them to explain
myself.
V liv Nov 2018
Yearning
to be something i'm not
to be someone i'm not
Artistic
what does that mean
does it mean I can articulate my feelings  
beautifully
does it mean I can sing
or dance
or rhyme
or cry
or read
or breathe
or love
beautifully?
I don't think I can
how sad
that i'm not artistic
how sad
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
I can't cope when my
page stares at me
White, soft and gentle
Empty, dull, lifeless
And the burden to fill it
becomes so heavy
My quill in the inkpot
Pen and pencils, unused
And I feel so flustered
when I am unable to
tell my truth

Words I think wither
Creative juices dry
My mind becomes a
disastrous chorus line
And I feel so trapped,
unable to talk with
my pen

I'm taken back to the
days where my soul
was heavy with pain
That pain was soothed
when I stained my page
with words because now
I had a medium and I
could go forth, confident
and free

When I stare at the canvas
I remember that little girl
who found a way to be
seen and still be unseen
That's the feeling I have,
was born with, that gives
me so much comfort
I can protect myself and
guard myself from how
the world wants girls to
be seen and how I don't
fit the mold

I find I feel more at peace
to be part of that world
that draws it breath
from the words
on my tongue
drawn onto the
canvas by my
right hand

But the words, I find hard
to pour on the page in new
verses. The page that is
empty and free, is
somehow grinning
at my misery
Writer's block *****.
Seriously. I have never been so flustered. I hate it because it reminds me of when I was little. Long in short, I did NOT have a happy childhood. The cause - the man my mother married. The man who was no father to me or my siblings. Long in short, it physically hurts when I can't write. I end up emotionally and mentally strained, and my body aches. Like I feel the years of aching pain pulse through my body.
It may sound dramatic but it's true. This is how I feel.
I can only ever right how I feel, even when I find it hard to really articulate it.
Anyway, thank you everyone for 92 followers!
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Izzy Jul 2017
Endless void of articulate delusions and vicious delirious,
Dark thoughts fills crippled lungs;
Calling, screaming, find the truth,
To society shadow, the putrefied soul.

Wicked mind, weeping life,
Monstrous thoughts, haunt the mind,
Depression, misery, sees me right,
In this depraved time we call night.

Nefarious illusions of weak land;
Weep, beg, for the execution of men;
This articulate delusions hold the hand,  
Of the black torch of burned plans.

The archetype of flawless man,
See the day of the mystic shine,
Created by love of bright schemes,
And Annihilated by the thought of wicked minds.

Such Reapers haunt the barren lands,
In search for one, true light;
Mist riddled, hidden in sight,
It transforms the mind to unparalleled cry.
A poem I made a while ago. -Izzy
Like so many of us, surrounded by binaries and cold concrete,
he finds it hard to say what he feels, and I found it hard
to understand, for a while, that he loved me just as I did him,
when he never vocalised his feelings completely, and I did.
It took me some time to realise he shows them instead, and maybe
that is all the more eloquent than anything I could ever
materialise on a piece of paper filled with smeared ink.
His love manifests itself in lingering gazes and the lightest touch,
in private smiles and the softening of his eyes when I laugh.
Like a child resorts to pointing at things they cannot name,
he ends up holding close what he cannot verbalise he needs.

- “You make me happy,” I tell him. He looks vulnerable and smiles. c.s.
Janine Jacobs Oct 2016
i pray for silence.
a quiet moment from the storm.
my mind possesed by unwritten lines
burdened by the weight of life.

i am unable to feel
beyond the thunder and trashing
of my own mind.

slowly losing myself.
chaos breeding inside my head
of words that are slowly dying.

my battle has always been
between overwhelming thoughts
accompanied by poems,
versus... not feeling anything at all
with pages left blank.
i prefer either the scorching passion
or the cold numbness.

this is much worse!
with each thought not articulated,
i'm missing pieces of myself;
which i can only find
in the calmness of writing.
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