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Michael 1d
Glory's who you are.
It's not what I'll achieve.
To be close to you, not far.
Will I ever find you finally?
Though you know what it is to be.
I'll only have one destiny.
Will I keep on walkin blindy,
till time takes hold of me?

Fear lives in my heart.
For my mind sees a coming dread.
My soul still prays to you
through the thoughts of my crowded head.
Please forgive all the bad I've done,
and the things I said.
Most of us wrestle our ball of twine:
the more we struggle to catch an end and untangle,
the deeper our fumbling takes us

for some the fight twists dark,
the yarn becomes barbed wire
and they bleed loose in many small ways

for others the yarn dwindles
microfilament caught
eternally wriggling on the end hook

I call to you now and give quicksand advice:
stop still and calm and rest,
look about you and a hand will come
Its not love on which the strongest Foundations are built,
Its the decency of Merciful Lies,
That are buried deep in our hearts,
Bound! never to peek or pry through our meek
Withered Hearts.
I wish my heart buried all of the lies and contempt that bespoke our love for each other was it more then mere lust and liveliness was it more than what we thought it was, were we kindered souls that found and lost each other  in the precipice of the END, I guess we will never know.
Ten, nine-eight, seven,
Six-five, four,
Three-two, one.
No one questioned.
No one laughed or pouted.
The rain washed away the colours,
And we started again tomorrow.

Seven thirty,
Seven thirty,
Seven thirty,
Seven thirty,
And so on.
We need answers.
We need reasons.
We are stuck in our tomorrows.
Our present fades out fast.

We are locked up in our timers;
Slaves to our master mints.
Our souls are dying,
With nowhere to hide
And no one to seek them.
Time does not stand still.

The chalk was our past time,
The clock is our taker,
And we play ourselves.
Man Apr 27
down falls the old growth
to be cut to pieces

dropped into the ropes draped
towering, it is now laid to rest

the forest floor becomes a new bed
dread before, what comes next
It’s again that time of day
To sit staring
At the blank page
That tempts me to resign
Conceed my opinion and drive
To continue this daily stride
But i get over it
And i press the keyes
And write untill im all used up
And hav e no life left to spend

It’s all dread and drudgery
Life is
The highlights only shine so bright
Because there’s n o competition
Around them to outshinte
I can feel myself change
With every steting sun
For each one
Encompasses me in a tidal wave

Im’ urning into somthing,
Someone i am not
Can you sense it too?
Or have you alread y forgotten
That the winter breeze has departed,
And the lihtg push against you
Is my exhale,
Chilling you to your bones
When did I become so cruel?
30 lines, 262 days left.
Sabika H Apr 12
Is there a feeling worse than regret?
Knowing you’ve done something against yourself and only you are to blame?
What’s more poisonous than being able to live and relive the events of the past?
Than being able to see the rippling effects your actions have?
I cannot imagine anything worse
Than to be stuck in my own body
Than to experience myself so intensely
Knowing what I did
Knowing who I hurt.
I cannot imagine anything more frustrating
Than making mistakes and then knowing
How I could have done better and
Realising the limits of my own cognition
And the stupidity of my own ego.

I ask myself why
But the question only drives me mad.
I spit at my own reflection and
Cower into a corner and long for
A few seconds of non-existence.
I am ugly,
Ugly in the soul,
Ugly in the bone,
And no
These mistakes are not normal.
How can I be my own victim and perpetrator so easily?
And then wake up with dread that I’m not necessarily safe for myself?
I am stuck.
I did know better
But I didn’t do any better,
So what the actual f*ck?!
Most People that say that they understand Your pain.
Do you really understand?

Do You know what its like to be waiting for a call that will never come?

Do you know how to know the end and yet hope for something better?

Do you know what its like to be left alone writhing on all the words that was never said and never heard?

Do you know how smooth her skin was when she held my hand?

Do you know how she made my chaotic world so calm and unburdened?

Do you know how far her absence wreaked havoc in my world  and let me delve right beyond the edge of the abyss that I wish I never knew?
There's a lot of things that I wish I did, but now the time has passed and the only way out is to move forward, will all these scars disappear? will all these feelings get lost in time? Maybe it will and maybe its time that we need to stop living life as in Should've Could've Would've.

Its time to let go of the misery and embrace the pain so that someday we get to lay our scarred heart to peace.
At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.

The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.

Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.

Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are

Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.
Sometimes even the simplest things can sometimes a sense of uneasy dread
JV Beaupre Mar 26
Thoughts of dreads came and went.
I fell asleep to dream.

No, not the infinite intestinal maze
with red, slimy, pulsating walls
forcing me ever-forward.

It was worse.

I was in my own bed with a big snake.
I was tangled in the covers and I couldn’t get away.

Flick, flick, serpent kisses to my face.
Slither, slither, as coils envelop.
I knew it was a dream but I couldn’t wake up.

And then I did.
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