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Three flights of stairs and two lefts,
And there she’ll be,
Waiting for me.

Her lips, chipped.
Hips, dipped.
Scars from rough hands,
Of careless, foolish men.

She lacks eye contact,
Seems detached–
Marble skin,
Cold like her kin.

Reliably imperfect.
My muse.
Adhara Sygnus Dec 2020
His favourite game,
Is waking butterflies and breaking hearts,
Tearing them apart.
Why, I don’t know.
Amanda Kay Burke Dec 2020
Dark words distorted
Cold careless chaos crawling
Same sound. Morphed meaning.
They don't sound different but I know you mean something else this time
Cyndi Dec 2020
I use my illnesses as an excuse to not do what needs to be done, to not do what I want to be done.

I spent hours and hours on a project I love, but will likely never finish.

I went the whole week without finishing a single assignment.

I leave my hundreds of abandoned projects by the wayside, despite wanting to work on them all.

I dream of creating so, so much, but don't ever commit to something because it's not instantly gratifying.

I wrote a poem about how awful I am for friends and strangers alike to see and pity me over.

I told my parents that I did homework when I just lazed around all week.

I waste money on food when there's food in the house.

I woke myself up too late at night with this poem in mind.

I want to **** myself sometimes.
I don't know if this is similar to any kind of previously defined poem, but I followed a clear pattern in my word choice and stanza structure that I haven't seen elsewhere. Sometimes, you just want to define yourself, even if the definition isn't really always true.
I think I'll call this kind of poem "Défini via des Mots," because it just seems right to name it in french, haha.
Prince Adofo Oct 2020
You loved him that much
He loved you that less
You knew his heart
But you still couldn't care less

You walked into burning flames
Just to be with him
But he made your light dim
And you still couldn't care less
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