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My permanent mental state is an odd battle between paranoia and self-deprication.
Are they laughing behind my back or am I not worth a mention?
Ceyhun Mahi Sep 3
Had your thoughts been more pure like your skin,
As bright as the diamonds on your soft wrist,
Had you been more away from fault and sin,
Or giving each action a cunning twist,

And had you been more noble than fine art,
More modest like a meditating monk,
From desirous fame and names apart,
And not on an uncontrollable lust drunk,

Your style would have been much more prettier,
And pleasing to look at – without a doubt –
Both the inside and the exterior,
People would not see you as a washout.

But you'll not change until you see that rules
Shape prettiness right, like forms do to jewels.
nja Aug 11
She worships you. Your sinful indulgence and all.
She laps up your grey blood
and nourishes her flab on your staleness.
On her weaknesses and confessions you elevate yourself.
The altar cracks.
She darts to heel your splinter but her limbs are broken under the collapse.
Upset at her lack of agency and engrossed in prayer she drowns herself in her own tears unknowingly.
In the end your ***** amassed.
An unexpected end to a story of fatherly shepherding.
See not every story has a Noah and his Arc,
most end with the egotistical on the altar, and the saints martyred in the gutter.
Sacrifice is still bloodshed.
Criticisms of the Church.
Aa Harvey Jul 5
Bee-ing rejected

The path to love is a long and winding road
And the road is in 3D when you fly through the air.
You can bee left behind so many times,
That you think that it will never go right,
Until you make it there.
There are so many ups with love,
But without love you are only ever let down.

Humble was no different, he wanted to bee loved like everybody else,
But sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you try,
You always end up at the end of the night going home by yourself.
Humble was a trier, he would ask out every bee that he liked,
But try as he might and as much as he would have liked,
It seemed nobody would ever love him
And he was alone most of the time.
He had been rejected so many times that he decided to make a list.
The first one said this; the second one that
And this is the story of Humble B. Bumble and his love-life…
Ain’t it sad?

You’re always crying, boohoo.
You’re too happy; I am nothing like you.
You are just like me, because I like nothing about me.
We don’t think the same; you’re not fun, you’re a pain.
You are annoying me, buzz away little bee;
You have my sympathy, but you will never bee with me.
You’re too quiet, you talk too much.
You’re too weak, you’re not tough.
You’re too slow to make a move;
You’re too fast with your response to bee telling the truth.
Your clothes are bad; your hair is bad.
You’re far too sad to bee a bad boy.
You’re just having a laugh, you’re never serious;
You must bee delirious.
You’ve not cool, don’t bee a fool.
You’re too nice; you’re not nice enough.
You’re too far below me, you are not heading up.
You’re not ambitious, nor smart,
You’re never victorious and you are no work of art.
You can’t sing or dance; you wear the wrong kind of pants, no bling.
You live with your ‘rents, but you don’t pay rent.
You have no honey, I like honeys.
You ain’t funny; you are far beneath me.
You’re not pretty, you’re too silly.
You have no style, you are not unique
And you don’t have a perfect smile, **** bee.
You think you are great, you’re always late,
I don’t like your face; we’re just mates.
I like him, you will never win.
You are such a loser; who is gonna choose ya?

So many times Humble searched for love
And when it was good it was really good!
But when it was sad, it was real love, I guess;
We will never know…
Do you think Humble will ever bee truly loved?...

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Words could not describe the aching in my
heart. The silence roars an anxious song like an
eternal sea crashing the waves onto the shore,
never looks at where it came from. Nobody knows.

Heavy breaths blow my frizzy baby hairs in
every direction and they touch your nose,

longing for the affection my depression begged you for.
Everyone tells me that I should never beg for love.
Fools they are for thinking
that I couldn't go on my knees.
This is my first attempt at an acrostic poem as a part of a poetry prompt to try writing in a form/style I have never tried before. THIS IS A VERY ROUGH FIRST DRAFT THAT I NEED CRITIQUES ON - PLEASE LEAVE CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISMS. My intent for the piece was to convey the heartbreak the speaker feels when all of a sudden their partner leaves and the speaker is left begging for love.  I really want feedback and critiques so that I can move this "dead" poem forward.
“Your poems are too short,”
Or so I’ve been told

But it’s the few true lines
That really touch the soul
Do you prefer long or short poems?
Nomkhumbulwa Mar 8
Why is it that we feel so fundamentally flawed? We are never good enough, never enough, are never understood, always bring about anger. We may be educated, but we feel so stupid....we are looked down on as the "stupid" one. The one who talks *******. We are somehow ALWAYS wrong. We are wrong. Its so tiring, trying to do good, and yet always failing. Failing somewhere. Trying to help others, we fail eventually. Stuck like this, feeling like an imbecile, who needs to be avoided. Hiding in this house, a prison. They look down on us. We might write, poetry, stories, music, no one is interested, no one wants to hear, there is always something wrong with it. Can never be heard. We are ignored. Perhaps by the ignorant, yet ignorant people can make us feel so weak, stupid, and irrelevant. We may feel overly sensitive, to protect those we love (not related to us, yet have become adopted families), and in doing so we are met with anger from our own. We are a disgrace,. A disgrace to society. Deserve all the pain. Nobody wants to hear us anyway. Nobody really cares. You see, they think we are "doing it for attention"...attention seekers.....out to hurt everyone else. Thats what they think. If we dare speak out - they ignore. They think to ignore is to teach us a lesson, it is to stop us from speaking about our pain. That we need to learn to stop talking about it. To keep it to ourselves, because we do not matter. It feels we do not matter at all. We are fundamentally flawed. And always will be. The good we do for others, is never enough. Its just NEVER enough. We face criticism even for WANTING to help others. Nobody understands. And maybe thats because we are fundamentally flawed. How can we ever be understood.
Its not really a poem, but I was encouraged to share it as a piece of writing that I had shared in a group of people faced with narcissistic abuse. As they could all relate to it :(
Brian Yule Feb 28
Side-eyed into silence
She settled for a sour stare
Tongue-tied defiance
Alle Jan 27
as a child, my parents’ comforting
words washed over me like
wave of the ocean, soothing
the wounds left by harsh,
immature names, and i marvelled
at the difference mere words
could make and how they
could change a life

as a teen, my parents’ grating
criticism and unthoughtful words
about the mistakes i make and
the grades i bring home
rub me the wrong way
like dry sand between my toes,
and i try to be the bigger person, i try
to walk away, but with every step
the blisters fester, and soon enough
the wound is too large
to be healed anymore
— how faith and trust in parents disappears
NM Jan 10
Everyone is full of opinions about
What I should do,
Where I should go,
Who I should be,
And who should I talk to;

When they can't even look inside their own bags to clean their dirt.
Old vent.
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