Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i hear your waltz, dear bird.

the soliloquy,

the melodies that pull at the strings holding what’s left
of my heart evermore.

i listen, to the shuffle of your ruffled feathers,
your light feet
dance to the creak of hardwood.

a sonical prison.
as this intrepid cell guard is
fueled by my schizophrenia,

and van gogh like delusions.

none of grandeur.

so here are my ears, one sliced from reality,
the other searching for its vibrations.

each majestic, and just as much
consequentially miserable, piano strike
marks a new set of steps for you.

and although i no longer feel,
nor see, i still hear exactly how you carry yourself.

and from that i draw insane conclusions.
from there, upon just listening,
i can imagine what your ****** expressions are like,
and from your laugh as you dwindle around this penitentiary
like a loose branch amongst gusts of wind

i can tell you’re free.

free to fly. free to feast.
free to find a new mate.
free to watch the world burn
from a bird's eye view.

just as we used to do.

free at last, most importantly from us,
more specifically from me.

and although i no longer

feel, nor see.

i still hear exactly how happy you are.

and that isn’t the most heart shattering aspect of our ordeal,

or should i say, my ordeal, to live with, alone.

because the part that really allows me to carefully and diligently pluck single strands of hair from my head as if i could somehow string out the memory of you out from my infinite depths,

is the fact that i can hear, clear as day,

another bird’s chirp,
another bird’s laugh,

another set of feet, on this waltz you’re on.

and when i say heart shattering,

i hope you hear it break, as the sounds of it
reverbs across this room’s vast loneliness.

oh, where are my van gohg like delusions now?

i’ll continue my search, since now i fully know that

you’re just gone. with the wind.

fly, my dear. and leave me, here.

to die amongst your waltz.

-melancholicreator
this is a very personal piece for me and it emanates the fabric of this very niche and specific, yet broadly experienced, sorrow within heartbreak and/or moving on.
hayden Oct 2023
I can't stand myself. I'm scared that if I let myself think, I'll spiral so far down that I'll never come back up for air. I don't want to be crazy. I don't. I don't want visions from God. I don't want to see the cameras, check the locked door six more times, shake when the tires veer too close to the curb. I don't want to scream every time I see my reflection blink. I don't want to see my reflection blink. How do I convince myself that I still have time to build a life worth living when I lose myself every day in my delusions? Will I one day stop returning to reality? Will I still have time to build a life worth living if I don't? Do I live in the rot, let it consume me and wait to forget, or do I make something of myself, just to lose it the next time I have an episode? I lose hours talking to myself. I lose myself in the hours in between. And I'm terrified to lose everything. I religiously keep receipts and old packaging, mementos of every average Tuesday evening, because what if what if what if? What if I reach thirty and do not remember being twenty two? What if this is all I have to remember that I had a life before I lost it? What if I don't reach thirty and this collection of memories is the only thing left of me? Does a person's potential die when their mind begins to lie, or when they begin to believe it? I don't know if I have psychotic episodes anymore. It's more like episodes of lucidity to break up my average day of hiding from the NSA or my landlord or my neighbor or the ghosts or the devil or God or my mother or myself. Will I ever be a real person? If I build a life worth living, will I have my mind long enough to settle into it? I look to the future and there's a fog I can't quite see through. I'm afraid when I get there, that the past will look the same.
fear of losing my mind
(first thing ive written in years be gentle)
Francis Oct 2023
Cornelius,
Cornelius,
I’m tired,
Want to sleep.

Cornelius,
Cornelius,
Stop laughing,
As I weep.

Stop hiding,
In the corner.
Stop lurking,
Like a creep.

The only way,
To rid of you,
The only way,
To sleep.
I’ll draw you,
‘Till the crack of dawn,
To satisfy your needs.
This takes me back to a time in middle school when I caught my best friend (at the time) compulsively, discreetly drawing this eerie, disturbing doodle face on the bus ride home. I asked him what he was drawing and he said that it was this kid named Cornelius that comes out at night in his room. According to him, Cornelius said that only way he’ll leave him alone is if he draws him a lot. To this day, I can still draw the face he drew, and wish I could share it with this poem. This unfortunately made us drift apart, as I was too disturbed to remain in contact.
newborn Mar 2022
sometimes i write to no one
nobody is filling the void deep in my soul
so i make up fantasy men to take up the space
to fill in the cracks with their vibrant smiles
cheekbones accentuated
i instruct these prosthetics to heat my freezing
cold heart
stuck in a plain old reverie with kisses and children dancing in a ballroom
these fake and imagined life forms leave behind a vestige of fantastical beauties
these creations are flowing like water in secret caverns
dancing around my empty body
healing my blemishes but they still return to the creations’ surprise
they lift my limp limbs and lower me over the ancient greek pond
letting me drink the rich and luscious stream
filling my body with water, weighing me down
more mass and a bigger center of gravity
btw i am almost dead by the time they finish these rituals
these fantasy men care for me day in and day out, but they are sculpted from my mind
not real, this is not reality
they make me feel “happier” and “fuller” in my eyes but i know this is all a façade
naked and no one shall know
that the girl who waits here for fantastical sculptures to touch her and clothe her is a deep and dark disappointment
some say, “what an ingrate.”
some don’t even bother to care
nobody truly cares
and i figured this out many months ago
i am finally letting go
and as i turn to these creations i have created inside of my head
they blow and dissolve into the wind
therefore i have virtually no one
so i weep into my pruny hands
then draw the conclusion that i will never be loved
at least i know one thing for certain  :/
i want to fall in love. i really just want someone to be my other half. i want to be tied at the hip to someone. chasing rainbows and happiness and fulfilling memories. someone to share moments with and laugh at our own displeasure.  i wanna ache for somebody other than me. i want someone’s compelling fire to burn every inch of my skin. ****** but on fire and engulfed in the flames. let me be with someone. let me heal with someone. let me hold someone. it hurts too much to be alone.

and i wanna stop making up fantasies inside of my delusional mind. i wanna start living and loving in real time.

3/12/22
newborn Dec 2021
he was crying in his hands. the tears were dripping like little gum drops. i stuck those tiny suckers into my mouth. they dispersed. it tasted like adversity or my beach house in Virginia. i miss Joanne. oh, no. these small little candies are reminding me of her. of her radiant smiles. but right now, he’s the only thing in my view. i can’t feel fear when we are locked together. locked together in the gates of a presumptuous heaven. he spoke to Michael. i spoke to Raphael. because i saw my cerulean clothes move. that’s the color of Raphael’s dreams. and Raphael told me that i shouldn’t worry my mind thinking about what could be. he said that u, Joanne, are a lost one. he also said i shouldn’t miss anyone that doesn’t miss me. what Michael told- let’s call him Jesse- he told Jesse that sobbing on the street across from an abandoned building is disappointing. he said that Jesse should cry with someone who will lick up the candy from his watery eyes. i overheard that part. and i grinned wisely. ‘he can cry with me. he can dance in the strawberry lighting of my doorway. he can shrivel up like an onion and then grow a tree the next day. he can catapult like a rocket or become a successful astronaut for n.a.s.a.
i will remember to delegate my legacy and make him squeeze it in between his loyal fingers and spitefully hug him goodbye when i know i will see him later. yes, Michael the archangel, i will make sure to sweep up his salty inquires and not let him climb over the fence to strangle the neighbor’s cat. i will moisten his dry edges and put him beside the wallpaper of my living angels.’
Michael smiled ressurantly and took my hands. I smelt the grape wine snug below his tapestry tongue; i knew God wasn’t too far away. but i didn’t want to be a bother. and both archangels flew us back to muffin earth where both Jesse and i sat in silence cause we had just been talking for hours and coming up with fantastical stories about the archangels. oh, find you a person who will be delusional with ur illusions and drink cranberry cider combined with vinegar and say that it tastes “nutritional.”
This is just a little short story
To no one in particular.
I wanna feel this type of love with someone
Someone who I can talk to at any part of the day about anything

(It’s also not that good lol)
Moon Wright Nov 2021
my family believes
in demons and angels and spirits
but not mental illness

they think that seeing Shadow People
are a religious thing
and is something to be prayed about

but when I complain
about my delusions and hallucinations
they call me crazy and say
that I'm making things up

everything has to do with religion
in this **** house
and everything bad
is something to be prayed away

a made-up construct by humans
is more believable in my family
than realist illnesses of the brain

i'm tired of it
I'm sick and tired of this ****
David Plantinga Aug 2021
This sleep has sunk to catacombs
Where dreams are dreaming of themselves,
And where they slump to deeper shelves
A dim and voiceless banshee roams.  
Interlopers jostle memory,
And pressing on his signet ring,
Take on the seal of realer things.  
Truth’s rejected for hyperbole.  
Delusions stack in strata, drowned,
Lives never lived, in parallel,
That puzzle sleepers who can’t tell
Where waking lies, so lies confound.
Raven Blue Jun 2021
Refuge from loneliness.
Thought it was love,
But that was just kindness.
I should not have hoped,
To have those delusions.
I should not have confessed,
And just kept it as a lonely love.
Aryan Notani Apr 2021
Delusions, Delusions, Delusions...

An exotic perfume out of her fleshy lips
Glistening teeth with a slight fringe of light yellow
Hair messy but perfectly done
Eyes, a bit far off but as true as the moon
The smile as beautiful as a rose in a thousand nettles.

The greatest treasure for mankind is a perfect soulmate and nothing else...
Next page