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s Apr 2021
my shorts stuck to the back of my thighs as I walked up the brick steps. I hear the brakes of the bus sigh as they are released.
I grab the rusted door handle and look through the spider-webbed window.
I step in and the cold air stings my face and seeks into my nostrils and travels down the back of my throat.
I see you passed out face first on the couch.
I envy the feeling you have, the sweat being dried against the cool black leather. What relief that must be
Like a cold bath after a fever breaks.
I know your fever is rising but you won't say it.

but your silence and opened pill bottles tell me everything while you're asleep.
Fiel Jan 2021
There's nothing left to say
Everything felt hollow
Like empty glass bottles
Left lying around the corner
Waiting to be shattered and thrown

Time passed and I saw shards scattered
All over the place, this unlikely image
A phantom of what was once a lovely figure
That painted smiles to the faces of many
And served as a crying shoulder
To those who were broken and hurt

The image echoed through my head
As realizations dawned upon me
I took a glimpse at the mirror
And what I saw on the reflection
Was a figure of an empty glass bottle
Standing in front of me
It's been a year, I finally took the courage to write again...
vonny Apr 2020
the glinting, shimmering bottles on the shelf seem to be glaring at me
their penetrating stares create a twisted knot of guilt in my stomach
my friends come over, asking and asking for the invisible secrets in the clear glass
I deny their knowledge, another layer of guilt befouling me
a few of them have watched me unscrew my bottles
and they ran from me, as far as they possibly could
but one day,
he comes over to my house
my house with my shelf of glass bottles and quiet old me
he isn't interested in me or my bottles
but I am intrigued by his innovative, analytical presence
so loud and harsh are the colors surrounding him
but they are hiding something, I am sure of it
and suddenly,
a bottle falls out of his aura of light
he reaches down to pick it up hastily,
and looks at me, for my hand is on his fallen bottle
he looks at me with those secretive, manic eyes,
and then looks at the bottles on my shelf
he picks one out, and I let him open it,
for I am gently unscrewing his glass
the secrets fly out of both shining bottles
and enter the jars of our mind
I look at his face, which mirrors my own
the intensity of our understanding gazes is why I place my hand on his
and neither of us run away
Poetic T Oct 2019
Plastic seas
               suffocate oceans..

Bottled apocalypse...
maria Oct 2019
empty feelings didn't make it to the list but they could.

Written on October 20, 2019
alexya Sep 2019
I've try my **** hardest to feel loved, accepted.

I lead people to fall in love, and leave them because I can. Even though I promised them different.

I complain about boys, but the boys aren't the problem it's me. I'm the one who makes these problems for myself because it's easier to push everyone away and deal with those consequences as they come, rather than to accept my forever fate. I say it's because I'm young, I can't find the one. I know all the right things to say, so they'll stick around, even after i've left them in the dust too many times, but I do know not to say love. It confuses them, and me.

I know love isn't in my heart, never has. Heartbreak started before I was born. When my father didn't want me, my mother couldn't have truly wanted me, after all she was 16, everyone around me was burdened by me before I even opened my eyes.

I hear it a lot, "you look, remind me of your mother" "You remind me so much of myself" "My mini me" You have the same issues, depression, bipolar, trust issues, and failure to commit, it's pretty insignificant, but it's lurking there, in my head. Scratch that it all races through my veins, and I'm surrounded by it, as everyone I know is infected by it too.

It commitment even real? As far as I know, it's something I couldn't even imagine. I have these people trying to get at me, claiming, "Let it be just me and you baby" but every time I fall for those lies, I can't help to start chasing a different one, more and more.

Picking up that bottle seems like second nature. Along with my issues, I was blessed with addiction, that's racing through my veins more than commitment isn't. I'm told not to let it get out of hand, after all I've seen what it does to people. But I can't help but find myself longing for the next time I can feel the warmth of that liquid as it slides down my throat. Longing for the next time I can place that skinny piece of paper between my fingers, lighting it as the smoke slithers down to find my lungs, inhaling to insure it's doing it's job, then exhaling to see the smoke dance around the air that's consuming me. Longing for the next time I can feel happiness. Longing for the next time I can punch something to release my anger, because we all know I can't do it creatively.
adriana Aug 2019
i drink cause i keep it bottled up
and another. and another.
I write poems about the thoughts
and I draw flowers from the scars
I turn bottles into vases
I call this damage art

I send the feelings to the hole
where used to lay my  heart
so I can pretend
me and my "problems" are a world apart

I know these thoughts do not rhyme
and on my skin, the scars will lie
i know to hold all these bottles is not wanting to say goodbye
i know this damage is real
but then so is this art
so I will continue to write
as it tears me apart
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