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Blake 5h
He’s here again… just waiting by my door, waiting for me to let him enter.
I tell him to go away, but instead, he demands me to listen.
I try to block out his voice, but it gets louder and louder until it's too late.
Now he's here and won’t leave no matter how hard I try to get away.
I start to go numb from the fighting and the yelling.
I try my best not to give in to these plans,
Hoping for it all to disappear.
He's always waiting for his time to break me down again.
Until he decides that I’m old news and moves on to someone more worthy of this pain.
John AD Apr 26
Ama
Nakakasawa din pala magpanggap maging masaya,
Nakakulong sa kasinungalingan , Marami na rin ang nagtataka,
Diyos-diyosan ka ba ama ? bakit hindi kita makita o madama,
Walang ginawang paraan nakinig sa mga hindi kilala.

Ang daming balita , Nasagap ng aking dalawang tenga,
Nanatiling Pipi , ngunit matalas ang aking mga mata,
Puno ng galit inggit sa sarili ang aking mga nadarama,
Hindi nyo ko tinutulungan , hinayaan nyo lang akong mag-isa.

Kailangan ko bang saktan ang sarili ko para sa atensyon at simpatya?
O Mamamatay muna ba ako para lang mabuo muli ang aking pamilya?
Iiwan ko na ba kayo para lang tayo ay mag kanya-kanya?
O Baka may paraan , para ibalik ang masaya.
Sayang ang Panahon
Hannah Apr 19
I did not believe,
standing on the bank of a river
which was wide and swift,
that I would cross
that bridge plaited from thin,
fragile reeds fastened with bast.
I walked delicately,
as a butterfly
and heavily
as an elephant,
I walked surely
as a dancer
and wavered like a blind man.
I did not believe that I would cross that bridge,
and now that I am standing
on the other side,
I do not believe I crossed it.
Shifting shifting
Into gear
I'm driving without fear
Vroom vroom
So far I go
Where I do not know

Chit chat chit chat
They all speak
Without them I am weak

Swirling swirling
My Brain is fried
I let out and cry

Nic NAC nic NAC
Give myself  a slap
I need to take a nap

Plic plac ship lac
I need a whicky snakc
For I am not a bat

I'm losing my mind
It bellows obscenities
Can I still follow the rhyme

I lost track of time
I have no dime ?
Save me save me sir mime

It makes no sense
Too much suspense
My body is too tense

I want it to stop
   Please God
Let it stop
I'm tired
It's screaming
Tens of voices
New ideas
So many choices
I forget them
Before I start them
Then I'm off exchanging myself
For a new shelf
I'm talking
I'm dancing
I'm cleaning
I'm
ScrEAMING  
It's creamy~
Words words
They don't add up

Help me help me
god above
Help me help me
Ones I love
I'm losing my ****
I'm losing all of it

Am I bipolar
Or just ******* nuts
I cannot contain my lusts
I want it all
I want a nap
I want to fall
And run a lap

La la la la lee do da da
I sing a little song
La la la le do da da
I cry a little long
La la la le do da da
I scream hahahAHAHAHA

I am not an Artist~
I am not a talent
I am nothing much
But leftover lunch

Molding and burning
In the evening sun
My end has begun
I am in need of savior
No chance with my flavor

Throw me away
Let me sleep
I am a jumbled up mess
Trying to count too many sheep

Peep peep little one
I am insane
I took your brain
And set it on a plane
It'll never return
The same

You are to blame
Who are you
Who am I ?
Maybe I'll know
When I die
Just a jumbled up mess of what's going on in my mind haha
I am lost in the memories
Of what my mind did to me,
Trying to take an accounting,
So I can unravel the mystery.
I am searching for answers,
So I am not a casualty,
Hoping that this heart will keep beating
In a body that once tried to **** me,
Demanding that there's a different ending
To this accursed story.
I am terrified of what I may do to myself if I let my guard down.
It's not that I don't want to be happy.
It's that at my core,
I do not trust myself.
Alice Wilde Feb 17
I carried in 20 pounds of groceries today...

Food I'll never eat.
Crawling back to bed I think
About the 20lbs I'm missing.

Everything is fine.
Going to the grocery store was...
Almost passing out

Weaving in and out of people
Staring. Why are they staring?
The metal under my hand as hot as my face.

It's suffocating.
This metallic taste.
I'm so hungry.

Everything is fine.
Is what I tell
Friends and family.

But nobody knows
I go straight to sleep
When I get home.

I want to die.
But I'm too scared.

So I silently cry under my sheets
With no energy to
Get up or eat.
An experience I had during an episode.
The Highs taste like Lemon Heads
Before burning my mouth like Cinnamon Red Hots.
The Lows go down like soup of ash and cold water.
I am forever trying to find a balance between the flavors of mania
And the blandness of depression.
Often, I find myself hungry in the wee hours,
Dismayed by both options.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that blood speaks in run on sentences,
Slick syllables flow out of damaged veins like rabid speech
And end in ellipses promising that more will be forthcoming.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that antibacterial soap could never wash the sins out
Enough to make me the saint they always hoped I'd be,
And I am steeped in "nice girl" expectations that never came to fruition.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that my brain went to battle with my body at the age of 12,
And now my eyes have seen more than my heart can hold,
So I keep my emotions locked up like prisoners of war,
Hoping that solitary confinement will lessen their ability to contuse my soul.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that guitar strings leave calluses but release heartache,
That music and poetry are borne of the same cloth and stitch the same wounds.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I've been trying to stitch my own wounds
Since I was a little girl,
Confused and afraid in a world that tried to **** all that was beautiful and different about her.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that this body loves to twirl and flap and rock, and shimmy,
That I am a perpetual motion machine designed to move with the tune of my own feet.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you I've made some ugly scars and beautiful art,
That the line between the two is proportional to my pain threshold.
Sometimes suffering demands that my hands commit crimes against my skin,
But I've learned that I can bleed ink instead of blood.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am often overwhelmed by the darkness of the night sky,
The way the blackness encroaches on the moonlight,
But there's no eloquent speech to convey the way the stars ignite hope in my chest,
Kindle optimism in my heart.
I am desperate to hold on to it.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am sometimes so human it cuts me,
But I am learning how to exist within that humanity.
If my hands could talk,
They'd end this poem in a semi colon
Because there's still so much they have to say;
I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.
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