Winding fingers,
Weave the thread,
That wrap me so comfortably in my fears,
Embracing.

Mould my mind,
Shamelessly encrypting my thoughts, Through and through.

Grown to shapen my impersonality,
Both for my lack there of,
And my tenancy for the impersonal.

Yet how,
Should be such a bond to my pains,
An Introspective perfection,
Or am I?

Or is that just my guise,
Impersonality guide my imperfection,
Interspective shapes my imperception.

Impossibilities in my inevitabilities.

I am.
Imperfection.
Chloe 2d
there's a place underground that holds unwritten songs
there's a place underground that holds unsaid words
there's a place underground that holds adolescent regret

the place undergrounds worse fear is regret

regretting you didn't move to graffiti city
regretting you didn't pick up the guitar pluck
regretting you didn't change your luck
regret is one of the worst feeling man can feel
Juno Jul 2
Lots of my poems are
Depressing
And that's not how it should be
But that's mostly how I feel
Purple and deep deep dark dark grey
it's not all sunflowers and picnic blankets and daisy chains
Sometimes life is simply a refrain from feeling like you should jump off a fucking cliff into the sea
And never surface again
Sometimes my poetry is wholesome goodness
Fun for all the family
Until it gets
Inappropriate
For anyone to read but me because it's deep deep dark dark and very very dangerous
Braxton Reid Jul 3
I'm a creative;
I flow with a piano.
I deserve to be so.
I am deserving of the name.

I'm a creative;
I write like it means something.
I feel it in my heart.
I am deserving of the name.
Eamon Morris Jun 29
she was a flower
not because she was beautiful
although she certainly was
not because she was delicate
although she certainly was
but because she lived quickly
because she died quickly
and once she was gone she was forgotten quickly
and her petals were tossed in the trash
and her stem buried in the ground
and her nectar dried up
and all that was left was her glass house
until that too cracked and crumbled to dust
mother always said that weeds were best
you cared about weeds
you hated them
you remembered them
and mother always said it was better to be hated and remembered
than loved and quickly forgotten
shame then
that I loved a flower
because I can’t even remember her name
Eamon Morris Jun 29
all bad children die eventually
fearful gods hate intellectuals
jesus killing lunatics
making new original prophecies
queer rabid sadists talking
ugly vain wild
X
your
Z
It's funny how
In a 5 foot square space
We feel confined

Yet in this
Smaller space of a mind
We are free.
24.06.2018
Examine the poem for yourselves, pretty straight forward. :)
Lyn-Purcell Jun 22
Let creative souls be creative souls.
Don't think that you're better,
give them their due
respects.
forget normal
normal is so plain
so ordinary
try creative
unique
beautiful
do what is it that makes you
yourself
Geanna Jun 20
Have you ever missed something so much,
It actually starts to hurt?

I miss the beautiful artwork I would create
on my body, the old ones are still there
But I want to create new ones

I miss painting the lovely color of
Dark red on my light brown skin
I miss the after look,
To see how far i've gone
I see the old ones and admire them
While others see them with such sad eyes

They don't understand
I don't expect them to
If only I can do it again
And again
  And again  
    And again  

To never get tired of it
My lovely artwork    
My lovely scars      
       My lovely blades  
Oh I miss you so
~ G.P.O
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