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sushii Dec 2019
admire the blankness:

now feel the loneliness.

welcome to my heart, dear girl
it is blackness and blankness
please, send someone quick
to fill it
Rahul Dec 2018
The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.

On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.

I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.

I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.

On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.

Poetic Eagle Apr 2018
Heavy heart
Eyes filled with tears
Thoughts swimming in the uncertainty of tomorrow

The fear of loosing
The pain of befriending loneliness again
The Feeling of being neglected
Are slowly drowning me

Dont want to break another heart
My silence already broke mine
It cried in silent tears
Pleading to be freed from the heavy burdens of the unspoken words

"But he caught my tongue by the neck and left me speechless"
Last line from tsiie. Idk just wrote my heart out
Jonathan Finch Dec 2017
I sat under the quiet trees all the restless afternoon,
Dreaming of what had been and never more could be:
Bitten the clouds, the declining canopy of air
Weary with insects weary with bats.
Black days black nights.
The benches of the dead set out, the dining dead.
At eight I rose, bitten the clouds,
A dog barked dead and long
Down the river of dead sights.
The thistle over which the dead goldfinch dreams of seeds;
The crimson road that marks the accident.
In courts, in currencies of plenty, wherever you are,
Do you hear the frogs croak, “Katharine”?
Reem Luna Apr 2015
I never could quite imagine the day
When a creature quite as wry and presumptuous
Would break so serendipitously.

She lay ruptured in the desultory plantation
The Stygian colour of her fur rebelled against the sage of the contiguous earth
And her eyes mimicked nothing but the pain that consumed her current thoughts.

Her body was transfixed in an inert trance
The fur on her hunched spine quavered in a subdued zephyr
Quiet insecurities were hid well in her tranquil pained state.

The moon intently watched me
Waiting for me to alleviate the agonized entity
But solicitousness was blank in my frozen psyche.

The moonlight pierced the fox with intimacy
I grimaced in the realization I had failed the universe
With my perennial void mind broken in vain.

The fox gathered some stoicism
The blessing of the moon granted requital
As the fox proceeded to maul my perception.

I accepted my retribution with ratification
As I was the soul who violated the creature
A skirmish that clung to grandeur.
I hurt somebody today, I wish I could have shown more affection x
cv Apr 2015
God, God,
if you will,
please tell me
of the things
i cannot understand.

what does
the melancholy
in my heart

what does
the wrath
pulsing in my veins

this strangely peaceful,
nostalgic feeling...
what does this mean?
(i want out.)
Frank DeRose Apr 2015
A raging fire before us,
That lit the spark,
Between us.
The spark was kindled unto flame,
And died for a while.
But was relit.
There was a blank page before us,
Our story written by some other.
The page was slowly filled.
Ink ran blood-red.
Blank spaces.

Our story is an odd one,
Still being written.
There is ink in the other's pen,
And life in the characters' veins.
The naive,
Emboldened by you,
The enigmatic.
And I can't quite figure you out.
But perhaps the other can.
Our story has not ended;
There are blank pages before us still.
Rana Ayman Jan 2015
Put a bullet through my head
Cuz I'm alive yet I'm dead
I'm sick of everything and everyone
I see no moon, I see no sun
All I see is a gun..
So I'll take it and put it to my skull
But all I feel is null
I no more feel a thing
Not the joy of a swing
Nor the pain of a sting
So give me one reason to why I should fight
Tell me the story,  what's wrong and what's right
They said at the end of the road there will be light
But all I see is the dark black night
I'm on the edge of darkness
Some may think I'm heartless
And all I write is artless
But all I feel is blankness, and it's driving me to madness..
Daylight 4U2C Jan 2014
A wicked woman told my love, "**** him and you will be free."
My love paused, and the wicked woman's old twig of a finger pointed off to me.
Love walked to me with tearful eyes, as if she had no choice.
I smiled wryly and told her in the softness of my voice, "Let it be done, and be free.
No sword is long enough to show my love for thee. No dagger, short enough to match my heart's beat.
So please my love, take your choice of my death. Choose what would be fit."
She didn't hesitate, just cry. She, slowly lifting a mirror from the dust.
I don't know why I felt I must, but I wiped the tears away just to savor her touch.
I looked into her sad blue eyes, just for one more glance. Then I shut my own.
I could feel her lift the mirror, this was her chance, let it be known.
A crashing blankness came down on me, soon after the last things I heard.
"I'm moving up, and you're moving down." These were her last words.
I didn't understand them then, but now I think I know.
She will one day be in the warm light, while I'm still stuck in the cold indigo.
I'd always run up the down escalator, like a crazy kid.
She always said, one day I'd trip.
And now I finally did.

— The End —