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I never really succeeded at anything;
not even suicide attempts,
not even anything memorable.
I've just been unfortunate enough to be unlucky at everything.
I just want this horrible feeling to go away.

my ceiling broke once again. I just want this to stop. To end everything.

Why can't I?
I've read the letter but I'm not really impressed
the words used aren't from the heart expressed.
It's very likely an attempt to say what you think
rather than what you feel which makes it stink.
You haven't seduced me by what you've just said
and I will never come around to lay in your bed.
I'll remain at a distance to wonder at the thought
how anyone could ever with you now be caught.
You must say what you feel, mean what you say
time passes quickly and moves into another day.
When that love in our hearts has fully awakened
only then will we know that both of us are taken.
We could easily try to find some other reason
but the flower of love blossoms in due season.
__________
Written early in 2018
I tried suspending a heavy object
from my ceiling,
testing a hook screw I found
lying around in my room.

As soon as it fell,
I took some superglue
and squeezed it onto the screw's threads,
hoping it'll stick into the ceiling well.

Superglue advertisements often endorse
their superb sticking ability;
let's see,
can it properly hang me?
I should be studying but these nasty thoughts are consuming me.
Rox Jul 28
Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.
Ammar Jul 2
You've done this before
and all that came from it
was hurt & regret
in the end
the only place left to go
is home
and you know exactly
where that is
so don't burn the attic
or the walls
the hallway
or the lounge
there is fear
there is stress
but beyond that
is success
so stop
pause
and breathe
there is a mountain of troubles
left to defeat
time isn't your friend
and health isn't mine
so there's no time for games
and no energy left to drain
and so you stop
STOP RUNNING!!!
there's misery where you're running to
there is grief
there is sadness
there is hurt
there is regret
there's a life where you run from
there are troubles
there are solutions
there is happiness
there is love

but if you run
you'll find yourself far enough
to never find the way
that leads back
home
you've been taught to run
but who showed you to fly
The Dybbuk Jun 15
Part of me died when I lost her.
Part of me died when she wrote the first poem. It's just so much pain.
Part of me died when she looked at me and said "YOU can't take anymore?"
As if the thought that I was in pain was foreign to her.
I am broken.
Part of me died, with a noose around its neck.
I was in the garage, a rope to my left and a hook above me.
There was no time to think.
That part of me will never return.
I don't think any of them will.
I will always love her. Perhaps she will always feel the same.
But,
The part of me that has the strength to push on,
Died.
Choking
In
The
Air.
Shoot for the moon
miss and land among the stars.
Aimed for your heart
missed
and never got a chance
to restart.
Erica C May 29
three times
one: i sit here on my friend's kitchen floor with a bottle of pills and a throbbing headache 'just take a few they're 200mg each you'll be fine'
i smile and nod, she walks out
i begin counting '200, 400, 600, 800, 1000...' all the way up to 2600
"what will 2600mg of ibuprofen do to me" i wonder
and i down the pills
hours later im fine
nothing
im not hurting
just numb once again as always
and i eat
then like usual, go puke it


~the summer before 7th grade~
just a little more dead inside than before
Frances May 26
With anvils for feet, the snails may have moved faster, for their noose of anxiety wasn't pulled so tight. They may have covered more than to that of which I see, though the entire existence of their species  may have been as long as I may had been looking. I would shoot arrows of curiosity without knowing where the target be.
  Just as another fairy tale, relief on my feet was seemingly unimaginable, far fetched and unattainable. Like old change, seeds of a variety filled my pockets. The soil and sun were the only things I trusted. Reaping a sow would be a blessing unto me. After years of crawling, discovering, and disappointing wandering with wide eyes, the hills and peaks had shown as a distraction from the lessening softness of my now calloused hands. The necessity of rest was as strong as the need of a newborn baby's mid afternoon nap, but before the seeds are nestled, work mustn't cease. By every stem, petal, fruit, and butterfly, in the center of the valley of a vast bed of wild flowers would I hope to carry this heaviness no more. The desire for this comfort and caress lead me to find a sweet place to rest. For uncountable hours of wandering, only this would be gratification. I came upon a large patch of dirt as dark as midnight. With every handful of soil wriggling of worms graced my hardened palms. Only the ground saw me enchanted by the romance of its potential. The seedlings would be sung; "As you cuddle in the soil, remember that's where your roots will prepare, unto you this watering will fall, as you are all so loyal, I will be loyal to you, the air will give you care, let me lay eyes upon your beautiful hue, as the sun is what you will see, don't leave the soil bare, set yourself free". In the troughs like dried moats, each seed received a adornment of a kiss like that unto a child by their mother. Every hole doused like that of a spring sunflower, and burrowed into the sleeping dusk of dirt with the expectation of an awakening of a blossom. There, as one expects the rising of the sun, I would await the flowers arrival.
I lay suspended by the freedoms of a remote forest. Within the untouched, unadulterated altruistic scene of remoteness, the skepticism let drained. Knowing my skin may not be slaughtered by reaching thorns, I undressed layers of tattered threads. Most of what would freely escape from my lips were the enticement of belief motivated by bliss and enjoyment. Where my skin remained blushed and dewy from the days after the solstice of summer, to the later days of leaves saying good bye to the trees extended arms, and grass frosted by the baker of autumn, like a lightning bolt strikes at random, as did a stagnancy. The seedlings were viewed upon as the old dark witch from the town: cursed. It was as though they had stage fright and the sun was their audience.
I ask, "why, Lord? Has though forsaken my field? What must I bestow?". Concealed, like a feral cat, was the reasoning for this. As ritual as the church goers Sunday excursion, was my ritual of prayer.
Clouding in my mind happened with contemplation of a new pioneering. I knew this to be only a sliver of land off of the plank of fertile country side. Simultaneous  to this fantasy, a shadow danced in the corner of my eyes. Usually trust worthy was my vision, though it became a mystery. Fear not did I, as I turned to follow the darkness, I saw nothing forthright. It's reappearance came as a spook, but as one would in a sword fight, I followed the elusive figure within my eyes. It was as though there was an unsuspecting solar eclipse at high noon. The figure didn't remain hidden, and the dancing ceased. As a knight removes their armor to cradle a loving partner, he opened his cloak to reveal a man with the most poignant essence of freshly mowed grass, smoldering ashes, and a thanksgiving meal. These things were the quintessence of my childhood. His eyes, not beating, but, like a baby's glare, soft and forgiving, unlike the folktales my father told me. Did my eyes deceive me? Ensorcelled, I had succumb to this. Uncontrollably my eyes repeatedly vertically gaze upon him. I met no gaze, but darkness. While the remembrance of evening tide pull you further if not in recognition of its power, without choice, or fight, I had succumb to this. Weighed down by rocks you couldn't see, as though I was called to my knees. His presence eluded to a parental guide. When I lay there, as I become sunk in the soil, He advised me. "This acreage will be your ball and chain for entering this land. With out excavation, Intentions of leaving your possessions have inhibited exiting though you desire continuation. You must water it with your tears". My golden hair became brown with dirt, and my pale skin so dark, as I wept till the sun grew cold, and the moon graced me like a lullaby with soft illumination.
As a once saturated sponge goes dry, by every last drop, drained dry were my eyes, and the ground enriched. After the clock hit twelve for the 10th night, The reaper spoke again. He said "This land was mine. I set it aside, so those who have evil in their heart may not reap what they sow here, so it may not be robbed of its nutrients for something unwholesome. Within it's enchantment, the soil may only be fertile by those who will enrich it with passion. If you wanted to leave you wouldn't be confined, but if your heart remained, as would you. You will stay until you may leave with something beautiful. This priceless soil belonged to me, as this is where my betrothed had lain. The tables have turned because it has been sowed by a someone who has surrendered to me. Your patients serves you. My dear, The wealth is in your heart." His encompassing gratitude, and cherishment remained, as he had left. The grandfather clock sung to the flowers, as did I.
I was always told only the sun could bring beauty in life. I wore a black veil of naive belief. The garden appeared to always have been misted. The sun kissed my plants so gently, their blooms were welcomes to this realm, and the wind would make them frolic together like a colorful oceanic wave, but instead of dolphins peaking the dense surface, you would see the makers of the garden. Relentless pollinators made the perimeter buzz. You could see the twinkle and flutter of every dragonfly, lady bug, butterfly, and bee as their fluorescent wings caught the sun. Almost as though my life depended on it, like a bear in a cave of constant hibernation, I would nestle myself in this secret garden. Leaving here with nothing but flowers intertwined in my hair, and around my heart.
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