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muteD May 2021
Agonizing over you is what I’m best at.
The memories of us scream through my mind
during the times I should be sleeping.

You’re all I can think about,
even though I’d rather forget you.
You’re all I want,
even though I know you’ll never want me..

I wish I could forget you.

But, instead I’m ablaze
in the memory of us.
While you simply wander through the streets of life,
I seem to be streaking.
Every street consumed by fire,
I miss your heat.
Your warmth.

but decay and destruction are all I know now.

Who knew that it would be your love
that would burn me alive?
late night thoughts are the worse, but they make for great poems.
Gracie Macdonald Apr 2021
To love is to fall
Fall like shooting stars

To love is to forget
Forget the pain I will regret

To love is to remember
Remember my souls request

To love is a poisonous game
A game I simply love to play
What does loving feel like to you?
I was a piece more or less,
Unfit in the puzzle of society,
Framed and judged,
Broken and scraped,
Torn to the base.

I stood to be the thinker,
With thoughts as the mate,
As the wife is too a husband,
I kept courting with anxiety,
Maybe sometimes with fear,
Or with shame that world-acclaimed,
As the flaws of being me.

I stood there many times,
Neither to be oriented,
Nor to be included,
Just to be accepted with love,
As a poison is to nectar,
I was the toxin to them  
I was discarded and treated,
To purify the viciousness,
An be a part of the deprived fellowship.

I can't stand anymore there,
With the crime of resistance,
To not oblige with the rules,
As a cage is to the bird,
Statutes were the prison,
To my solivagant soul .

Shredded with the conclusions
I was qualified as an outcast,
Neither a human,
Nor a living being
All it was a prolonged-term
As a slave is to the master,
I was chained to the phrase.
To be always smashed,
Under the debts of acceptance.
From expecting to accepting.......
Kai Dec 2020
An art more than words painted across pages,
am I still a poet if I do not write?
Sounds and rhythm embedded on the papers,
am I still a poet if I cannot rhyme?
A canvas of colors or daubing of doom.
This a gift, or of pointless literature?

Way of words plays into our brains,
infects us with emotions-
to break a wall or stand up tall.
Take a trip down memory lane.

Fill the world up with saddened tears,
make the ground quiver and quake.
Maybe all of these intertwined,
now that is a great poet’s mind.

Tales and stories of limitless outcomes.
Like a maze leading to a blind alleyway,
or a simple serene stroll on a nice day.
And a little bit of everything combined,
sailing without routes, no captain to decide.
The path I chose just happened to save my life.
A poem I submitted for a contest, why not put it on here too?
Sidharth Suraj Dec 2020
A dead soul matters the most,
as there's no one else that
can force you preserve and cherish memories better and truthfuly.

You hesitate to erase them.
Even if you lack the visuals,
you'd create some mirage joining the
missed and uncovered notes.
You'd tell stories from the
almost unexisting backyard of your mind and with all the more excitement,
which probably you never shared,
when they were still breathing.

Those you plan on to create,
have the spark of undefined.
You might surpass undefined,
that'd be the extent of your love.

If dead man looks back,
he'd be proud and smiling,
You think alike those irrational dreamers.
Don't you ?
You talked about existentialism and vagueness in things like how
intransient life and death embrace closely,
with warmth and shivering pain.
Times when you had cease to exist
you'd not think about them
and they may not recall you anymore.

Perhaps everything beyond life is irrational, sliding the thoughts in your
subconscious carefully,
not with a hint of expressing the urge of exploring.
The taboo between you and them
why not in life you seek the same comfort
of randomness,
you wish but you fail to organise the terms
And patterns.

Just now I think what a corpse would feel when it reads my Art, probably
The dead man Smiles back and says
"I may fade with time,
my flesh may blend with soil
but I keep on living with those who know my story ".
Conscious of a dead man, is maybe the only mystery we could never explore.
Cole Maxwell Apr 2019
When I was 15, the world ended.
And it wasn't as spectacular as I thought it was going to be.
I had always imagined the sky tearing open and flames of fury would rain down upon us all,
But instead, it was my heart that was torn in half, and the fire only rained down on me.
It took 45 seconds for me to destroy everything that I knew,
and create an entirely different world,
Not only for me, but also for the people that knew me.
I was born again, bore the sin, more than anything horrible I ever felt, I was torn in ten.
Had I put a knife to my throat? Or fell in love?
What's the origin?
And nobody could ever understand it better than the horror itself that closed me in.
But she destroyed the bin,
With me in it and I was never ever sure again.
Like paper shredding under fluorescent tubes, my skin was thin.
Let demons in and they took shelter and then horrid soreness manifested within.
The eyes of the Lord looking down upon the men and women,
And all he could see was that my darkness had surfaced again.
I swore to Him I'd never resort to that sin,
But more than expected I was short of the win,
And lost myself with hopelessness,
My unfortunate friend.
Scorching torture forced me to pretend,
Over and over I retorted the fib with a grin;
Smiled as the lore spread like venom in skin.
The door to the end was open.
Therefore I went in,
And premonitions filled my core,
So I was forced to give in.
Over the course of a decade, the source of discourse caused me to see a red shade of anger.
For what felt like 4 million days I endured the rage,
Simple and plain I was psychotic, in danger,
ignoring the ways
To force myself to have a smile on my face.
It remains insane to me how the blade, when it penetrated,
Gave my skin goosebumps,
The doctor made me feel humiliated.
Sickness in my brain wants to put me in my grave,
OD was the second time I attempted the same.
But the fact of the matter is
The facts are a shame.
And the way that I felt this day,
Brought hope of finding a way,
To rid my head of the voices that haunt me,
Spewing disdain.
Third time's a charm I suppose,
Or at least that's what they say.
Apollo Hayden Sep 2018
Trace these lines with your fingers and close your eyes,
and feel this map that'll lead you to treasures deeply hidden inside.
A challenging trek but nevertheless, valleys are worth the journeys through, and mountains are worth the climb
to find me patiently waiting here at the seat of my soul, I'll know that you've traveled far and wide.
If you make it here I know you've been sent by the heavenly divine
spirit that resides inside of you, and inside of I.
Remember the soul contract we signed at the beginning of time,
and lets move these constellations out the way until we feel our stars align.
Yeah, we're still living our lives but just know that I'll be waiting, until you find me here inside.
Grace Spellman Apr 2018
i believe i get left wherever i go
little bits and pieces of me
are scattered all over the world
a segment of my heart in the ocean
became one with the water and with the sand
so now whenever the big blue body engulfs me
i feel found again
some pieces of me floated away in the breeze
of my favorite forest
so now when i am barefoot in the dirt
sprawled on the grass
i feel connected to myself again
nature is a place you can always go
its okay if your soul whispers into the gravel
because you can always retrace your steps
and be found there again
but what about places you cannot return to?
places that are not places
but people
lost lovers, lost trust
how am i supposed to find myself again
when you've buried my most crucial piece
within yourself?
could you give it back, please?
Juverine Wan Mar 2018
of better things
of lovely things
of saddening things

of Him who I wondered
ever really loved me
or did it mean no more

of the life that was not mine
the life I left behind
the life I could not find

of something I do not deserve
yet yearn for
with no reserve

of things so harsh and deep
the ocean swallows me whole
and into quicksand I seep

of the life I thought I desired
of the life I was inspired
but never became reality

of better things
that became worser things
That became dangerous things

Of things I don't understand
Yet yearn for
What nonsense, I am.
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