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Gary Cuming Feb 2
Behind the lies and painted smiles
Lies wounds that cannot heal
The tormented ache of a forgotten world
And a heart that can no longer feel

The outward laugh, a forgotten touch
Defy the darkness inside
The horror of a mind debauched and lost
In a pool of tears, uncried

A quick embrace and wanten love
Beleaguered by apathy and grime
A soulless mess, a repulsive truth.
Evil lingering in an languid mind
Ceyhun Mahi Oct 2020
He is a soul who doesn't know the world,
    Yet sees with his own two eyes its rules,
While his body is by his sadness curled,
    Counting his tears, who look like dewy jewels.
The crazy wind goes through his glossy hair,
    And its sword does almost strike his pale throat,
He's in a twisted state beyond compare,
    In his shaking hands the fine poems he wrote.
Viewing the Mystic's path, sometimes the frame
    Of life appears, yet all it secrets are
Still far away from him, he knows each name
    Of saint and poet, but still is far, too far.
Will the meaning of his life come true?
That brooding poet, he sometimes has a clue.
Inspired by a poet from two centuries ago.
Daniel Mashburn Mar 2020
I think I’ll just sit here
brooding so quietly
in contemplation, 
indifference washing over me.

I've  been sitting
on cracking pavement
all **** day.

Bored to tears, but I’m just full of being empty.

I won’t feel this. I won’t feel this sting.
I’m not feeling much of anything

And I say “Love is just a lie, formed to get us by.” You said “Its too soon. It’s just too soon to trust you."

And as I look up
to this skyline we no longer share,
I can’t help but to feel like
maybe I just no longer care.

Maybe that’s too easy.

But I’m taking the easy way out.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s nothing left to care about.


Things aren’t the same.
I don’t feel pain.


I’m just not feeling a god ****** thing.
I like taking old poems and rewriting them in a different light. This is a rewrite of sorts of Cracking Pavement; Broodish
Andrea Nov 2019
I get tangled in the brooding nets of my mind
And drown
Colm Sep 2019
Just let me sit neath the wild blue yonder
Brooding like coffee on a quiet thought
With eyes full of horizons
I’m found in the lost
Brooding like coffee on a quiet thought
A stolen fragment
Of me turns into
A whisper.

Black, envious, engulfing;
My texture too watery,
So I turn into mist.

Entwined by the moon,
a charming shadow
Soft to the touch.

The sorrow in me
Melts quickly
Into the dark.
Bobcat May 2019
I wish the abyss would stop looking back at me.
I look in the mirror and I swear that's all I see.
Not a monster but a void I cant escape.
I was born with a heart but it seems mishaped.

Someday I swear I'm going to leave this place.
Find my way to the light that people praise.
But for now I think it's better if I hang my head.
Bite my tongue and drink until I just forget.

I don't know how my story will end,
But I'm starting to think I can rip out some pages.
Skip the middle and get right to the very end.
Where you lay me six feet deep and reminisce on the things I said.
Chris Jan 2019
I found a pretty apple tree and dug myself a grave,
In it I've left my body, words and a sad mind,
All those things in life to whom I were a slave,
All will in the end be gladly left behind.

On every face I see, the same old tired smile,
That always hides a riddle, a story or a myth,
Always full of secrets, always full of lies,
That turn around the smoke o'er the fire pits.

Through rainy eyes I see the dawning of the day,
I admire sun in its morning glory,
I feel its healing beams carrying me away,
And the final darkness- the end of my story.

I picked a snow white flower, and saw in it my death,
In every petal written the end to my pain,
I've crossed this cursed field the path to my last breath,
My soul thus has left me in the light of day.
I found a pretty apple tree and dug myself a grave.
Inked Quill Dec 2018
The woods ring out

For the songs
Echoing around

Of #unabashed song birds
That throat their love
Brooding of vast uncertainty
There's nothing in my pocket
but for a smile and the hope
that it'll last a while.

Hiding from my depression
in the space between dark thoughts,
I watch the trees lose their leaves,

and thinking of the struggle for joy
that has plagued my life since I was a boy,
I dry the tears on my sleeves.

Yet all of this is soon forgotten
as the seasons change along with my mood.
Brooding is worth nothing in this floating world.
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