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Kennedy Sep 16
In the throes
In those transposed
In my mind
through the murky
Stolen waters of thoughts

Blurted out,
Probably obscene
Cut. The director yells
Who is the director of my life?
It doesn't feel like me anymore.

Ian Mar 30
There's no reason to try and sugarcoat my feelings,
You hurt me.

The weirdest part about it is you convinced yourself,
By just not saying anything, and keeping up a facade,
That somehow, just maybe,
It would hurt less then just ending things finite.

Instead, you kept up the dream, the idea in my mind,
With hints, here and there that maybe things were different,
Taking up space in my bed, my mind, and against my body,
Tell me truly, how could I know that your feelings were a mirage,
A mercy to my own, by your admission?

Looking back it, with how much it stings to think,
That when I awoke with your limbs,
Draped around my neck and waist,
I smiled, and nestled into your embrace,
Only to know just a while after,
That it was meaningless in intent.

In fact, what cut me so deeply,
Is your anger that I kept you there, after the fact,
Cornered you in my presence,
When the reality of it is I laid in my bed,
Believing you wanted to be there,
And the fear you'd leave at any moment.

Reflecting on it all, it's peculiar how you speak about me,
I never knew that things never clicked,
Because you held me in your arms and kissed me so deeply,
After we broke up, and we're sitting in your car,
Or when you tell me how you want to run away together,
Start anew, in a place so foreign to us.

With each moment of intimacy my hope soared,
Surely that kiss, surely that desire to leave it all behind with me,
I dreamed so desperately that the fall in responses to my calls,
Must surely be an issue of conflicting time,
But it was an issue of conflicting interest, in the end.

Maybe most of all, the most simplest of all,
When I say I love you, and you say it back,
And I tell you how much I'd love to keep you in my life,
Only for you to tell me, months after our split,
That there was nothing really there,
And that you could never love me.

That's what really hurt me.
Maybe I'm too sensitive of a soul, maybe I put too much of myself into someone too quickly. I don't know how to feel about all of it, but I'm trying to get through these feelings.
Stark Nov 2018
Wish upon a star that falls
Dying, as rays of light leave it
But is it really death
To go out in an explosion?

To the witnesses below:
A beacon of hope is lost
A source of light
A guide for those long gone

To the sky above:
A sibling has left them
One less star left behind
As they wait for their time to come

To the dreamer:
Death is beauty
Even as the darkness washes over
The remaining light

To the planets:
Once bathed in its light
They cherished its warmth
But alas-it is gone

To the star:
As the last of its embers
Flickers out
It wonders
What will become of it
In the afterlife?
Anya Sep 2018
I’d rather honestly
Spill my feelings
With my words
Rely on
Ambiguous actions
my raspy
voice is
euphoria but
revere sole
of she
that rejoice
with spontaneity
and invariably
my unrehearsed
vocal is
flutelike always
depict its
comp as
discretion with
a valet
in Wodehouse
novels indirect
A song with soul
Mane Omsy Mar 2018
Said that never give up on people
I kept looking through the peephole
They wouldn't change, unless I do
I hesitate, but what should I do?

Think straight like it's the only way
Side by side, pretending to slay
What offers me a lasting pleasure?
If it only leads me to the treasure

How can I be the only person?
To stay and direct my own life
Change God's will, is it a treason?
To rush out of here with a knife
Ken Rafiñan Jan 2018
Language is a tool of tension.

It is simultaneously abstract and direct.

It is precise and also ambiguous.

How we interpret and respond to this tension is an idiosyncratic incident—very much an individualistic phenomena.

It is a biological signal.

An imprint made ad nauseam.

The seamless union of the physical and metaphorical.

An auditory artefact turned ode to the moment whose existence echoes beyond time and space.

A feeling as well as a thought.

An ephemeral touch that penetrates consciousness and burrows into the unknown.
Mary-Rose H Sep 2017
satisfying, glorious purpose
swells my heart
until it's

and begging to
onto a page.
do I do?

do I start?

do I direct this
bundle of
raw motivation?

do I mold it,
shape it
into a helpful,
useful format,
point it in
the direction

How do I
"I prefer to make love happen,
                              than talk about love
                                                        and waste my time."
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