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Rene Arreola May 2019
The constant reminder that our loved ones are gone.
Visiting their graves and placing flowers you bought on Amazon.
Realizing past problems that people never put their focus on.
It’s just an excuse to remember someone that has been withdrawn.

A physical phenomenon that keeps opening past wounds.
Feelings that people try to keep in, but still get loose.
Its repetitive and sad to tell you the truth.
Will it ever go away?

Ding, ding, ding. The alarm in my head rings.
Caution ahead. Dangerous feelings.
Prepare to get hit by sadness and other emotions.
It will end soon. Your mind is in the process of erosion.

A woeful fate with a caustic tone.
The mortality paradox without a doubt, well-known.
The charming idiosyncrasy of our loved ones,
Carved nicely in their granite gravestones.

The focus of death at all, ruins the day.
Exacerbating the situation, digging a grave.
Warning signs popping up like ads. Stop. Stop. Stop!
Just please stop and go away! Everything is better without it, okay!
I am writing a poem book based on a young man whose family was teared apart by a fiery plane crash. His view on the world is full of pain, anger, and fear. Hope you enjoy.
Zero Nine Jun 2017
I'm confused by the caustic whispers
What I do, I do for love, they say
I'm profane.

Of course I'm atheistic,
I'm under the dome
of this upset city
with my badge and gun,
what do they expect,
my broken home?
I of all the answers,
answers, I have none.

I know their caustic whispers well
because I am one of
the inimical voices
spraying my name.

My name is in lights,
while I wanted this, I never asked
I never asked, but
now my brain is awake and I'm profane.
Marcus stood in her kitchen
sink to the face
hearing her name,
seeing the little girl.
Knowing full shame,
a person of poor success,
falling from grace.
Gabriel burnS Jan 2017
your words are razor blades
and I have seen you
shaving others
enough to know
I'd never let you be my barber

for if your mind,
the hand that guides them,
were as sharp,
you'd see that Occam's razor
is not a proper tool of art
A bored Poet Nov 2016
A battle always fought
To my heart's content I lost
My brain would rejoice in defeat
I would gather strength to retreat

Divided, I fight
In a pitiful plight
That no one even cares
Not a single cheer you will hear

Like a jester I joke
About my caustic yoke
I make light out of the matter
And every one replies with laughter

Proud of my achievement
I wail in disappointment
But still smiling I weep
For this to myself I keep

My last hope shattered
No where to be found
Like tattered cloth i'm worthless
Just some *** lying around

Clenching my face
I don't know what to do
I can't do anything
To stop this wound

Like migraine I kneel
Pray to stop the pain
A wall was my answer
Streaming blood my gain

Tired I lie
On the ground while I weep
But laughing comes life
With a deal that I must keep

To forever wander
In this forsaken world forever
To bear burden for no one
And cower in fear of others

Hopeless I accept
the terms and agreement
To lock myself forever
In this caustic life of terror

— The End —