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The walls you have confined her in

She could crawl out but they will trap her back in

But someone would surely notice her escape in this place

Plus she would never do that in the first place

Because her pride stands up straight

And she has no ability to walk out of these confined walls up straight

So she can not walk away

So her mind will stand up straight and walk away

And You may never see her true self again

So what.

if you did you would just take it away again
- Tylar Carroll
A world confined to only black and white
is wasted of all the diverse, flowing shades of gray in between---
the areas that aren't so easily or willingly acknowledged;
the variety of tangled truths and in between slips of moments that paint life on an individual level---
all hidden by an outer layer of generic black and white,

whatever the color people decide to assign me---
the way I live my life;
everything that encompasses it---

it will never do me justice in representing
the entity of the person of who I am.
In response to those who tell you things like:
"You can either be this, or that; there's no in between."
"You can either be happy or depressed; there's no in between."
"You can either be grateful or unfulfilled, always needing more; there's no in between."
"You can either be successful or a total failure, embarrassment, and a waste of time and investment; there's no in between."
"You can either live or die; there's no in between."
Ashley Kaye Aug 10
skip-leap through the blinds
ride on the moonbeams
But dear doll the porcelain in your skin
hasn’t set yet
Madisen Kuhn Jun 24
i want to write about you
but i think it might be too soon

i am stopped on the cracked cement
next to a small but necessary park
in the middle of it all

there are hundreds of thousands of windows
shut tightly to keep the cool air in

the only chickens for miles
are being served up on plates
between college roommates
and lovers who find the city
more romantic than any
vague resemblance of a kiss
exchanged quickly on a narrow step
but still, i carry around my wicker basket
packed with old egg cartons
and carefully folded tea towels

i memorize the feeling of tired eyes that won’t look away
of how warm it is inside my bedroom with the door closed
tracing your outline in the dark

until the soft orange light of morning
paints every shadowy corner

until i have found myself feral
deep in a dark blue thicket
somewhere between you and the trees
does this make sense to anyone but me
Osiria Melody Feb 23
Gray, lifeless desk of blank vastness
Reserved for papers scattered
across its cool surface,
Like a disarray of blankets, leaving
unsuspecting feet neglected


Writing utensils yearning to
engage in a race of writing,
Cannot take off from a jar of
confinement: mini-prison
Liberated from their incarceration,
I pick up a writing utensil and write
Freedom, at last, to write without the
worry of apoplectic judgement

Writing is conversing with yourself,
No fear of judgement except from
your own doing
Lingering for hours like a tree
that's  trying to pull itself
out from the ground

[writer's block]

Black coffee envelopes the room
with a smoky touch
Atrocious LED lamp light glares at me
hard enough to hurt my eyes
Dissonance resonates beyond my
window, a border of security from
letting my creative thoughts
wandering too much
Car music blaring with
Doppler Effect (dissonance)


Frustration, more wary than my
stomach growls, signals that
I've been "out-of-it" for too long
Thought that my work
would be appreciated,
Only to get blank stares as lifeless
as the deceased that repose beneath me
(I hope that I've made them happy)

writer's block?

'Tis nothing eccentric about
being a poet, suppose I

i write in SOLITUDE

My eyes are like camera lenses.
in solitary confinement -

with the key to the exit
in your reach -

with nowhere to go
and no one to meet -

with nothing to do,
besides watching seconds,
evolve into minutes,
evolve into hours,
evolve into days.

would you leave?

- v.m
i'm honestly not sure what this is.
i have nothing to do so yeah
Jennifer Mar 2018
fingertips tapping upon
translucent glass.
blurred skin on the opposite side,
pink, pressed up blotches of
arm and leg,
lip and ear,
hair and head.

alone on the other side,
lack of colour and lack of light.
watch them through the see-through wall,
just the swing of a bunched up fist
could break the fall.

the fall of light within the room,
the dim sound of laughter
from the other side,
the lack of voice that resides

on this side.
waiting is silent,
solitary in a cell of glass confinement.

an hour, another,
more time slips past,
when the room gets darker
so does the glass.
Haley Tyler Feb 2018
And like that
my voice has been stolen away
Anxiety barricades like invisible steel walls
Trapped, I’m left banging with clenched fists
A prisoner within my own head
My brain a chemically imbalanced warden
My mind in solitary confinement
i've been denied bail | h.t
Dirty Word Nov 2017
The prisoners do not speak
Their jumpsuits scream in orange
Help me
The color so flamboyant

The guards do not speak
Their uniforms scold in blue
No talking
The colors are true

The warden does not speak
His prison mumbles in gray
But the colors have already died
Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.

Stoic fingers as rusty girdles,
Grainy textures as the bare calluses of our hands.

The Sun.
Our lovers hearts.
Within it’s moral confines.

Casually unlearn the truth that
confinement leaves it absent of light,
rid of it’s senescent glow,
dead to grow.

Our hands shaped like cages.
Cages shaped in the deformities of our hands.
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