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outside, amid the rubble, stands a mound two
soldiers high, made of bricks and mortar, and

cement and steel twisted up with everyday life,
where tables and chairs and beds and blankets

tumble carelessly, askew in the hot sun that beats
ceaselessly against a refrigerator toppled on its’ head,

and upon on a sewing machine halted mid-stitch,
the needle poised above the hem of a flowered dress
muteD May 20
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.
Jade Apr 20
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down

Perhaps there shall exist no
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac


her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.


I always thought
myself to be the
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of




have shuddered to

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.
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Beckie Davies Apr 19
I created her with passionate  love
I destroyed her with enraged wrath
I mourned her with remorseful grief
I remembered her in languid dreams
i created you only to destroy you
Why so much violence
Why can't we find peace
Why are you protesting
causing so much destruction
is that really better ?
Breaking windows
spraying hate upon
these walls
Your destroying
people's lives
your turning our
city into a ugly ****** up
How does that get your message across ?
Grow the **** up
and look up protesting
see it's meaning are you reading the meaning ?
It's about using your voice and standing up
Your all acting like brats
hurting others
acting like bullies
that's not protesting
your not getting attention
Your getting us *******
I hope you get to feel the
damage your causing
You belong in a cell
Where you can't destroy
and steal and throw
temper tantrums
Where you can't spread
your ugliness
and we can find peace
and find our way ahead
It has to stop
your not proving anything
I know you must be stopped
it has to end
it's no longer about
race or hate
It's about adults who are
acting like children
You need to learn
the meaning
of protesting
You need to build others
up and help people see
there is a way forward
So stop just stop
We can handle this
You need to be taught
a lesson and karma
will handle you soon
I just hope sooner
not later
© Jennifer L DeLong 🦏
Gabriel Apr 15
I wrote a love letter. This is not it.

But it existed,
you’ll have to take my word for that.
Existed being past tense,
because on the eve of adulthood
I took a glass jar
and my parents’ matches,
and I burned the **** thing to dust.

Which raises a question,
I suppose, of whether
things destroyed become ghosts.
Unnatural death sparking
life again in those same ashes,
a postal service with no return address.

How long before
the subject, unnamed,
would miss what never came?
Or does that even matter?
Yes, I’m asking you
to clarify so far what you think all this means.

Three years later,
I watched as everything imaginable
took shape in the picture of a flame.
Slight movement, repetition, almost,
against a television screen,
but the world became so, so wild,
and then everything was an oil painting
and I was Dorian Gray.

Slow, murmuring, hapless rubble
taking baby steps across my mind,
an experience of imagination
that says, I brought you a love letter,
once, and you crafted that into dust,
so here, take form from ash;
get up and be what you cling to.

I wrote a love letter. This is not it.
But I sent it to fate, to burn.

The fire, artificial, loved me back.
From a collection of poetry I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in second year of university, titled 'Spiral'.
Jay Apr 12
A dense mist hangs over the ground
Spreading tendrils over flora and fauna.
Clouds begin their quiet weeping.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.

A young girl hops along, splashing in puddles.
She trips and scrapes her knee...
Red liquid oozes through freshly ripped jeans.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.

After some time, the girl is all grown up.
A casket is lowered under the soil.
The girl, Tiffany Clear, walks home sobbing.
Soft, gentle drops fall on the pavement.
Estel Apr 11
If you stand back far enough
You might just see it shattering
A broken world beneath your feet
The glass always cuts right through
To me and you
It burns up in flames
As beliefs collide
And minds collapse
It slowly drifts away
Who knows when it’ll be the last day.
I found myself in a cave
   That was not primal,
   That was not home.

The walls were all squared off,
The corners sharp and threatening.
A mechanical buzz emitted in the background,
Dull and incessant summer bugs suspended in still air.

I found peace in running from it -
Laced two cushioned shoes and hit the pavement,
Traversing the black tar path to the nearest cul-de-sac
Where the houses all look the same.

Behind the houses is the woods -
A narrow, jagged sidewalk with a few trees.
That's where you'll find me.
Laying on the concrete platform
For the sewer drain along the creek,
Face to the sky, eyes on a tree,
Happy as I can be in a world that's not for me.
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