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Hunger May 14
Hot tears stream down my face and burn my skin,
Hot flames consume me is i burn for my sin,
Living itself should be i crime,
Just barely scraping by on the dime,
I guess hell would be better then being alive,
In this world how do so many survive,
Suicide rates have never been higher,
As peoples need for help becomes more dire,
But so many screams will never be heard,
So many people ignored every word,
Mind like a cage that keeps me inside,
Id ask to be free but I already died.
Hunger May 12
O' what I would not do to live in my dreams,
My mind is filled with voices and screams,
My head it feels as thought it will burst,
When I try to be happier it hurts the worst,
I try to be silent and sit in the dark,
But my brain just shorts and continues to spark,
The fire it lights consumes all it can see,
My mind is a prison and I will never be free,
It hurts like hell is only in my head,
Most time it flares up I wish I was dead,
The things they say it makes no sense,
I can be completely alone yet feel so tense,
I used to be loud and crazy,
Now I am sad and lazy,
Why cannot my mind be
Bella Isaacs Feb 26
So, what's your downfall, he asked?
And I tell him, I'm not tasked
With losing my hopes in a flask,
Or tangled sheets, or to bask
In false lights of powders foreign,
Though it would seem my creed, I know,
By much my brethren showed and show;
I am an artist, I plead guilty to the crime,
Of being here to ask you to waste your time
To try to understand my ramblings on my pain
And then to waste and waste your time again
Hoping you can see something more
Of everything that comes before
Your eyes when you're not wasting time
Upon this crazy pantomime
I place before you: I bleed, yes,
And hope to give you life in all this mess.
I told an acquaintance of mine "I'm doing well, enjoying writing my novel." And after approving he asked, "What's your downfall?". I think he thinks writers are like Hemingway. I'm mostly OK, I think.
Bella Isaacs Feb 9
A quiet getaway for two, a co(a)st,
Yeah, but how about, we skip the other?
And, if you "love", why don't I let you roast
With the other marshmallows, and wither
In your blissful lack, blind lust, busy life
Of red velvet and dollars? In my chair,
All the "love" I need to know is the strife
Of strings and sticks and synth and sliding air;
Give me Skull Candy, and my own fiddle,
Give me my view across the painted sky,
Give me my freedom to be a riddle,
Give me the chance to dance and still defy.
I'm not your pretty girl, nor femme fatale,
And if you fall, know you will really fall.
Bella Isaacs Oct 2022
Why should I seek to redeem myself through
Redeeming you?
I'm arrogant enough to know that it's true
And believe me you, please
That teaching the plainly obvious
To the incorrigible ignoramus
Is a labour for Hercules.
And I deserve champagne for my effort
And a smack in the face by reality for desert
The more fool me
The poor fool me
For thinking that my contraption to make fish climb would actually
Work, and it's thankless, you know you should offer
The scribblings you make to the dead lover's altar
Do you think you could live this long
Beating your heart out, crucified and strung,
For the irredeemable,
And polyphemable,
People you thought weren't wrong?
But revenge is no answer, I'm too bold
To make cold
The lie once again that keeps being told
And believe me you, please
That fabled coldness or sweetness
And that cannot-be-beat-ness
Comes along with yet more guarantees.
And I'm a decorated casualty
For my all-too-late good memory that mortality
Is too for me
Not new for me
The cause-and-far-reaching-effect has no good reason to set me free
From the darkness, you know you should offer
The vows that you make on the dead duellist's altar
Did you think you could live this long
Beating your brains out, sanguified and hung,
For the irredeemable,
And polyphemable,
People you thought weren't wrong?
You have a greater capacity to no give no d*mns to this
You have a greater rapacity than to make dams for this
From where I sit, I know I should offer
My wisdom and fears into the dead ******'s coffer
Did you think you could live this long
Beating your soul out, petrified and wrung,
For the irredeemable,
And polyphemable,
People you thought weren't wrong?
A reflection and reasoning written in an emo style on unrequited regard, letting how other people treat you or think of you determine your self-worth, and why trying to prove yourself and revenge are not options.
Bella Isaacs Sep 2022
It is literally only the cold now that bothers me:
I can hug my knees, feel warmth of the bowl of curry
That I warmed up for me and my girls. You fall in love
And I fall behind, I fall back. Move on and move
In and marry, sweet and twenty as you are, sweet and loving
As you are, who don't listen to Infinity on High shoving
The irony into the backseat, gazing at the lyrics' memories
Like a postcard collection on a corkboard. Ryan Ross could have cursed at me,
And I could have cursed like Kellin Quinn, but these are dead times now
To beat down with a combat boot in moving, as I row
With my personal indifference to the candles and the wedding bouquets,
To the political matches passing me by, the parties of croquet
That I decline to program, combat boots ever on the road,
On the road to being Her, a still concept without a goad
Towards what the fairytales say I should be - I'm a pop punk song:
I take no prisoners: Your definition's wrong.
Jasmine Jul 2022
that I find peace,
   a sort of push-it-away
   and give-myself-space

I am tired
of trying to compete
in a one mans race

My mother never taught me
how to he happy alone
she taught me that disossociation
  was peace.

this peace would eat me
I am a composting wasteland
the seagulls peck at my brain--
--I never knew such pain
  than doing things
   the wrong way
  I still pay
Ant Feb 2022
how many more can i spill?
maybe im better off drowning in them.
R N Tolliday Oct 2021
So, you’re the only victim of boredom
I’m sick of these days of frustration
Your face doesn't make things better

I’m trying to get something out of this routine

It’s the same old sun again
Being tired is your identity
You’re only pushing yourself to the edge

I’m trying to get something out of this routine

One day you see the light
The next day it’s gone
It’s up to you, in the end.
GaryFairy Sep 2021
an obituary page
used aluminum foil
whiskey bottle
glimpse of a shadow
shadow of a man

forever stuck there
orange and yellow leaves
crumpled breath

aching heart
aching feet
wandering nowhere

tuesday songlist
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