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Empire Nov 2019
Trigger warning: Self harm, cutting, suicidal thoughts


If she drives the blade deep enough
Will it fix her?
As crimson pours out of her skin
Slowly seeping out
She feels... relief
finally... relief...
Like releasing her life force
Setting herself free
She watches as the blade moves
Allowing it to do what it will
It doesn't matter anymore
If it eases her hell... it'll do
Each stroke more desperate than the last
A need to feel
So she digs it in deeper
She draws it out longer

And, as always,
There's this thought
That one so terrible she tries to ignore
The thought.... to make it fatal
Andy Nov 2019
As my family gather around me
I feel their whispers of insecurity
Thoughts of past events racing through my head.
As I lay here dying on my bed
Drifting in and out of disturbed sleep
I hear the sounds of my wife weep
Telling stories of my life events and past
My childhood memories drifting so fast.
Of happy long summers and never ending winters.
My life breaking up into tiny little splinters
Talks of greed and if I made a will.
The only thoughts are the pockets they can fill
Heated conversation and unsettled voices
I am forgotten about while they make their own choices
Someone shouts out where are his deeds
My thoughts and sounds now coming in short feeds.
My breathing now slow as I drift into eternal sleep
Family still talking of what they will reap
As I awake into a glorified light
Away and at peace from all of the fight
To an eternal life away from corruption and greed
My pain and suffering now finally freed
Glenn Currier Nov 2019
In between the chords and notes,
spaces and pauses, can I find rest
for my hands long enough to get a dose
of the muse, a cosmic moment to reflect?

And when a chord is sustained
it carries me in anticipation
of what change or pain
will come, and for what duration.  

From measure to measure
I wait upon the muse
for some small treasure
to dwell, disrupt and suffuse,

interrupt the normal routine
and reveal something splendid,
an artistic moment unforeseen
a miraculous onset unintended.

Do the angels and the divine
intervene in a poet’s affairs,
create miracles in the mind
momentarily suspend daily cares?

Or are we listening to the music and muse alone
save the few who gather around
our lines for now til we’re gone
to embrace wholly ground?
she whispered to him, softly,
and asked to be laid down.
down on soft ground.
on soft soil.

she remained calm, studiously
watching her breath,
slowly pouring out
the life found
within the compounds
of her barren soul.

as she slithered her
fingers through the lively
green that surrounded,
she shed one singular,
embracing tear.

as the heavy droplet
trailed down her face
and touched the dense
earth, something happened.

something so pure and beautiful.

that one drop gave life
to the land around her,
it bloomed the flowers
and the animals rejoiced.

it cleared the skies and
filled the rivers.
it made the world a little warmer
than yesterday, and gave her
spirit a home, amongst
the others who had
done the same.

it was time.
her sacrifice, although in
short scene seemed unfair,
served a greater purpose.
so he let go, and let her rest.
alone and at peace.

she went.
with a smile
at the surface.

he understood what took place,

the exchange, of life.

-melancholicreator
i'd like for readers to comment on what they think this poem might be about and repost if you enjoyed, thank you!
kerri Nov 2019
please don’t go,
i love you so,
you’re not done here,
that much i know.

don’t leave me alone
Radhika Krishna Nov 2019
Here she lies
On the cold, hard ground
Crying to the wind
Trying to make a sound
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
A bundle of rags is what she is
Completely threadbare
The windows are aglow
With incandescent light
The townsfolk in merriment of Christmas night
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
There's no one outside
To neither hear nor care
She lights a match for herself
In defeat
The match flickers and dies
Like the light from her eyes
"Matches to light, if you've got a penny to spare"
Her whispers stir
The chilly winter air
Inspired by Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tale
Jessica Archer Nov 2019
Staring death in the face
For a second
Took me apart
For a moment

                                And I stopped
                                And I breathed
       And I realised just how much
        I don’t want to go
       Not anymore

I didn’t breathe straight away
Actually
First came the butterflies
(but they weren’t of excitement)

                                  Maybe they were moths

And I shook
Like a brown paper bag
You can throw away
Because nothing happens

                After that I went and
                Got on my train
                I went on a protest march
                For what I care about
Because I want to make a difference
Wickus Nov 2019
Dark endless night
Guns flickering light
Bang bang bang
Oh, just another gang

It’s mad outside
Tell me I’m lying

Lying in my bed
Wishing you were here
Your face stuck in my head
It’s the darkness that I fear

I guess I’ll just hide
Until people stop dying
Sydney Nov 2019
Smells like sadness
Sounds like crying
Feels like death
Tastes like depression
Looks like anxiety
pop in the mag
rack the slide
take it off safety
lets go for a ride

pull back that trigger
hear a bang bang bang
another twelve shots
never feel the pain
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