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Nigdaw Sep 24
Afraid of our own shadow, but
yearning to be free, searching
for our utopian ideal

life's a beach
gravy, easy street

scared to loose the chains
with which we bind ourselves
break free from obligation

our 'destiny'

into chaos

open the door of our life cell
of order, routine
step through the veil
live the dream
but all we can do
is complain and complain
Nigdaw Aug 5
A room devoid of life
no less bland
than a hole in the ground,
but with a little more light
functional, bed, chair, table
and an intangible fear
of something it has (in abundance)
time, and plenty of it
Chris Jun 30
Everyday someone enters.
Everyday someone leaves.
But not me.

I've been here for 12 years now.
The pain I feel gets better with time.

Or so I'm told.

Isn't it ironic?
Someone tells me what it's like
But then I experience it.
Tell them otherwise.
But I'm wrong.

As usual.
Enjoy.
jacob charles Jun 30
An enemy to myself
a ******* up book fallen off the shelf
God please help me, save me through hell
my plea, I plead, I need all help
seek shelter from shell
this vessels a flooding jail cell
my fate unassisted destruction foretell
this world's a system, I'm lowly rappel
repelled from the flame up top as well
not dismissive of mission to pass through natural
or worldly but the worry has me shaken but desensitized stiff
mistaken, surly i can't, won't adrift
off course, of course not
The blanket of the calmness involving me inside.
I am in soft, drunk, clear haze.
Around me birds of silence soaring.
They singing beautiful songs about love.
They calling me in world of dreams.
They are inhale a life in each the cell of mine.
They are inhale deep breath inside my lungs.
The birds of silence.
The birds of mind.
The birds of mine.
N E Waters May 21
I wear my scars like diamonds
piece by piece
collected
from every place that I've been
mindless,
lost, blind, unable to find this
compassion
for fellow man
to help
myself, because the way
we treat the world
is the way we treat
ourselves,
and it's hell
out there --
but in here, just kind of warm,

in this home I've built
from scar tissue
to clothe me
when I'm homeless
because home is
where your heart is

and we fool ourselves
and romanticize
our drug abuse as art

from every start of
this sad little song;
the tiniest
violin
and we all can sing along

yeah, we all can sing along

and we sing:

me in my mansion
of scar tissue
I can't love myself
so I can't love you
(and) it's true
we're all lonely
lost
and if you could
only see me
remember just to breathe
just to be,
and then we
could look our reflections
in the eyes
and then me and you
might drop the veil
and finally realize
the spiritual
connection

to build bridges
even when we're helpless
if we could only be
just a little bit less
selfish:

take my plate
it's for you
I can't feed myself
I'd rather feed you--

But here in my mansion
of scar tissue
a phone call is like
a gunshot, please--

don't steal my diamonds,
don't
steal the only home
that I've built to
reside in

my vast hall
of vast walls

I'm afraid of December
but,
eager for the fall

this is all I've made
all these years
and if it all would
disappear

m a y b e   s o   w o u l d   I
well then maybe I
could grow you here
a garden--
wall to gravel,
great for drainage

to keep out all the rot
of the rotten cell the self built

I'll topple down
I cut meow-t
I'll bring the fall
and find my diamonds
made of skin

oh--if only to be free
of these walls
I'm living in,
to only excise myself
from my prison made from skin;

would you be there?
would we be there
together?

could we finally lie
eye to eye
breathe deep in
the rebellion

breathe deep,
break free,
of this cell
wall we've cemented
ourselves in to

this is me,
I want to sing

I want to sing with you

we'll swell well form
the start of one tiny violin

to a whole orchestra
of the whole world's song
all these cell-ves
all alone
but together
sing along

and we'd sing:

me in my mansion of scar tissue
I'm learning to forgive
myself
so that I can break
through

and it's true
we're all so lonely
and if I could only
see you
remember just to breathe
just to be
and then we
could break the glass,
I to I

and we'd all be free.
I mean like, **** it, right?
Poetoftheway Sep 2017
she gave me her cell #,
in a crowded bar
inked upon my forearm,
"in case in my drunkness, I dare forget,"
a common come-on technique,
that reeks of all good things to come

but I failed to see,
in the little letters,
"@ your own peril"

a warning, poorly heeded,
inflaming my now unimaginable
needy neededs,
just a **** come on,
or a warring warning of tumult,
vampirish blood *******?

with cautious haste,
her number I did paste
into my contact list,
'in case of loss, call,'
when sudden notifications galore,
came unbidden from everywhere:

Are you really sure?

these digits seems were posted on a
Do Not Call list,
maintained by monks and bro's,
no, no, not a list of
what-rhymes-with-bro's,
but of fallen angels,
who knew the secrets of heaven

the price extracted for their revealing,
could cause you life long
arthritis of the heart,
per the Surgeon General,
for which the only cure,
endure, endure, endure...

the prize?

endless wonderful new poems, freely given,
but with one strictest of restrictions,
if published,
it meant your slow extinction!

that is why the world calls me
Poet of the Way,
forever trying to find a way,
to away these treasured glories


then one day,
he laughed and laughed,
when he first he read the magic key,
your poem, successfully saved on
Hello Poetry!


and now the poet endures,
even possibly, self-saved,
quite happily
Star BG May 4
A person attempts to speak
perhaps from a child
a lover, a friend.

They speak hearing a “aha”
or nod given without deviating
from their focus.

Response...
No!!!
Listen with your whole face.
With the ears born with.
Your intention to relate.
Your eyes to match mine.

Put DOWN the cell phone.
CLOSE the lab top.

A person deserves your
respect.
And interaction fulfills a soul.
I am in the middle of an emotional sea,
Where I look up at the birds up high,
And wonder if I could be as free;
But again, freedom is just a lie.

There is a chasm between what I know and see,
Do we really need wings to fly?
So concerned about what to think, what to be;
Struggling in a limited sky.

- [ ]  I don’t trust the thoughts inside my head,
- [ ] I’m a prisoner of my own,
- [ ] I guess I’ll never see the land.
- [ ] When will this cell be gone?
s Willow Apr 23
Late at night in my dim lit cell
The man standing the corner
He’s all I have left.

I want out this hell.
Happiness is a foreigner
This is the story after my arrest.

Living shameful
Swallowed by the dark angle.
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