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mark soltero Aug 3
excruciating disgust boiling inside
push down into my wounds
bleed myself dry
because i am but a weak man
with no spine
looking above
spit dripping down my lip
salt excreted out of my pores
gasping for the strength to melt away
i cry at night
rotting away because i’m not right
misused and disregarded
i am the rotten apple
when you picked me
you were mistaken
because you didn’t check the other side
I stood in the meadow
Looking towards the window
A picture emerged
I knew what it was
Yet I couldn't decipher
I moved towards the window
The picture did grow
A painting of a lush green meadow
It was hanging on the wall
No one standing
At the window
No one standing
In the meadow
Cows were missing
Birds were missing
In the meadow
She was missing
At the window
Missing were so many things
I was on the fringe
In the  middle of the meadow
Dry and burnt meadow
Looking towards the window
She was missing
At the window
Merlie T Jul 26
I need not use full sentences
I cannot if I want to express
The structure confines, represses, degrades
the integrity of the cries
Help me speak
My throat, mouth too dry
so dry, I do not have tears

Salt crystalized and formed the rock
mounds glowing orange
in the dessert sunset
my spirit rests, crushed to rubble
like ash
Shofi Ahmed Jul 13
The Sahara seeing me
sigh in the desert
asked me why I cry?
I am left alone, I replied.

'I see, but you got tear,'
it hissed out.
I said, perhaps like me
first, you had an wet eye,
now is all dry!
the well is dry
i cannot collect water
i cannot sustain life

the river is swollen with toxic mud
i cannot cross to the other side
i cannot escape this

the grasslands have not seen rain in many years
the smallest spark could destroy this place
and i am awash in static

i sit under a long dead tree
and try to rest
and try to remain still

for to move is to cause a cataclysm
yet to remain stagnant is to cause my own demise

the wildlife that did not flee the drought have perished
the scavengers that came to pick apart the carcasses are gone as well

only i remain
the monarch of nothing
but bones and barren earth
Lee Aaun Mar 21
i wonder if tears
really dry out,
or we don't care anymore
we don't feel it
Svetoslav Mar 13
Flowers are melting
hands grasping snowflakes
dry wet life from sand.
Snow turns into sand
Kennedy Mar 7
they have yet to crack and bleed,
but,
they have begun to sting with lotion.
Owwie.
I need me that lubriderm.
Maria Etre Feb 26
I think this last love
was the tipping point
between infatuation
and actual emotion
until next time
I dry, you are the rain that flushed my body.
And we are fertile land with loose soil. Then feelings grew in it.
Under the heavens I pray,
that I will be strong enough to hold you back any longer,
so that you won't disappear
or come home at any time.

Love is the harvest of feelings that can make us survive in a bad season, before actually coming,
after we're really cooked.
Indonesia, 23rd December 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
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