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Mel Kay Mar 28
And I think there are just too many things that break my heart, I fight too hard to stop from falling into pieces that I can't be spoken to, not even quietly.

There are too many people I've seen thoroughly, I can't separate myself from anything and I can't be looked at, not even briefly.

There are too many oceans, too deep to venture, no explorer will have courage enough to dip their toes in this water, and no one can touch me, not even kindly.

There are too many things that scare me now. I never leave from the bed I lay in and I can't be danced with, not even calmly.

There are too many ways to break my heart these days that I can't be moved, not even gently,

Not even at all.
It's not good but it's a poem.
Jeremy Betts Feb 13
Stabbed in the back
I never bled
Heart ripped out
Not one cracked rib

Contorted and twisted trying to fit a mold
Almost did but didn't break
Absorbed every physical blow
Not a single bruise did it make

Took in each syllable of every verbal assault
Still I stand tall
Blamed for trust and abandonment red flags forged by others
Still couldn't crush my spirit at all

Opened up and bared it all just to have it used as ammunition
Refused to clam up completely
Kicked repeatedly when down
Tried to prove it's deserved, couldn't convince me


Greyisntwell Aug 2021
You rearrange,
You change all the pieces
To make them fit.
Just like a crack in the mirror
those broken pieces still shine.
I didnt understand
Didnt know
I was broken
Because Ive never known
What it means to be whole
maybe never will...
Brewomble Oct 2020
Bones-Let’s let them be dry and ******
As if that be the way they were found
Let them crack and fracture and bruise, amongst the concrete ground
Let them have their space to break and wither away-
Let’s turn the other cheek-while behind us they quickly decay
And then let’s use their fossils for fuel, weapons or laddels in every size
As simply as to stir the ***, and smug at their great demise
If not ashes to dust, then what'll be of our bones we fast to give away-
Sewn better than not, twist an arm for play-

But simple pleasures wither too, bones we toddle but dare not fix
Let them wonder how we toyed our hearts- like a feverish game of pick-up-sticks.

-Bre Womble
Strung Apr 2020
I creak in this cold.
Calm, china-doll-like purple hands
Icy veins
Fingers Frozen
To my zipper,
Of my teeth reminding me
Of my callow views
My doll-like skew
On everything.
— if I broke, i'd shatter,
And I could glue myself back together
Full of cracks.
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