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Penne 1d
Song of the nightingale
Mixes my ****** ale
Sink faucet water drops
Mirror props
No one to cuddle in these idle hours
My esteem tastes sour
My heart, it shrank
My eyes, they sank
In this frigid dark
It is not pain
It is not lame
View these as plain
For me, I feel like I am to be blamed
How to mouth an emotion
When my mind is not in motion
My body in supine position
****** my heart strings
Can you still hear them tugging, running
Because I cannot
My ears must be deafened by the waves
The only sound right now is the metronome in the monochrome
My silhouette dancing in this lone haze
Touch me, I fracture
How to not be unfazed
When I am born with a daze
Do I still remember the days
When I do not wake up in this blank  gaze
Bypass me as a slate
Think until I used up space
Draws my face
Even when there are a lot swimming this way
I am faltering, fading away
In these invisible blows
That keep getting close
When I want them to be far away
Yet the holes are nowhere
Yet the roots are null
Dew's breath caress through my skull
In what way to lull
Who knows
What tomorrow holds
For I am idling in hours
Bubbles float to the top, perfect crystal spheres
Crushing blackness swallows me whole, nothing to see or hear
I know you’re wondering how I ended up in this deep despair
You see, dying a silent death was never really something to fear
It’s 3:30 am & I’m alone, riding my bike along the seaside
Stars shining brightly in this cloudless night, nowhere for them to hide
Glistening wet sand, being swiftly left behind
The lack of noise, perfect for my cluttered mind
One step closer to the end , and I no longer feel my heartbeat
Cold, wet, sand wrapping around every inch of my feet
No one needed to tell me that the water would be deep
Tears mixing with the ocean, it’s now the water’s secret to keep
Falling deeper, losing consciousness, letting the current carry me
The darkness is beautiful,so soothing when there’s nothing to see
This is it to me, but you maybe thinking this can’t be
But this is exactly what you think it is, this is suicidal poetry
You're hiding yourself
So good
That you don't actually
Know where is it anymore
You don't know what you want
You just need someone there
Don't care who is it
Just anyone
To fill the emptiness
In you
That you actually are the one
Who created it
No one will get it
The emptiness
All the pain
Not emotional

Is it normal
That pain fills emptiness
Is the pain normal

I never knew i had
Others follow

What should i say
They don't get it
I don't either
He's not helping
The emptiness in my eyes,
The truth behind my lies,
The fall before my rise,
And the goodbyes;

It scares me.

The dark beneath my skin,
The light within my sins,
The voice that loudly sings,
And my broken wings;

It scares me.

The scars I can't heal,
The pain I can't feel,
The loss I can't deal,
And when I am real;

It scares me.

The silence in my little talks,
The stillness in my moonlit walks,
The thought of separate ways,
And my numbered days;

It scares me.

The demons under my bed,
The words spinning in my head,
The blood in my sweat,
And my cold breath;

It scares me.
---Poetry by Paras.
Cleo 6d
There are people that hide because they want to be found,
and there are people that hide because they don't.
I don't know who, or what, you're hiding from.
Are you afraid of me? Of God? He can't find you either.

Either way, I stopped looking for you.

I left messages on your machine.
I cried.
Yet I couldn't help but wonder if something bad had happened
or if you just changed your number.

Either way, I stopped calling.

I feared for a long time that you were in danger.
I feared that you were hiding from evil.
I thought that maybe you needed to be saved.
Then I realized that whatever you were hiding from haunted you because you poked it first.
No one can save you from your own consequences.

Either way, I stopped caring.

I was willing to break down doors to find you.
I would've.
I would've traveled the world to help you.
But I feared that I'd find you in Santo Domingo
smoking cigars with your toes in the sand
and NOT thinking about me.

Either way, I stopped trying.

You are either living a life worth hiding for
or hiding from a life worth living.

Either way, you poked it first.
A 6d
I'll give you my fingers,
If I get your bones,
You can have my arms,
If I can take your skull.

You can take my heart, beating, from my chest,
I'll have yours in return,
If it isn't the best.

I'll give you my thoughts, wrapped up in saran,
If I can have your dreams,
The fastest in your clan.

It'll be a trade-off,
So easy you'll see,
So take me and I'll take you,
We'll fill in those empty spots,
That just won't do.
Meredith Ann Jan 15
When we finally got there,
you said that you had never been.
You are wrong.

Because on one July 22,
we all sat in the harsh light,
excited about the coming week.

You had great colorful plans.
You made me laugh.
I wrote about you.
I didn't know anything then,
but I know now that was the first time you made me smile.

But now as we filter in,
alone and in the dark,
we sat on opposite sides of the couch.

I hardly made eye contact.
I wish I tried to read you.
All I know is that you sat motionlessly,
hands in your lap,
for once kept to yourself as I slowly peeled back my cuticles.

I just remember staring at your sweater,
I thought it was funny how much it looked like mine.

Two months ago I just wanted your arm around me.
Today I wish I didn't squeeze so hard.

I realized that for the first time,
I'm no longer craving your fingers dancing across my spine.
I'm no longer craving you.
I'm constantly reminded on how one space can hold such different times depending on the circumstances, and how something as minimal as hands movement can reveal a whole situation.
Juhlhaus Jan 13
I cried and I cried
Such a great pain
My heart's well it did drain
None has equaled since then
And free of tears I have been
kk Jan 13
I’ve kept you in my head so long
That the walls of my mind
Are painted with colors from the day we met:
Clouds scattered against the bluest sky
I had ever seen.

The floor is littered with poetry
Some of the finest I’ve ever written.
On the side is a locked box
With a barely closed lid.
Inside are the words I have yet
Spoken and said.
And they will stay
Unspoken and unsaid.
I  sit across the cold box
With my back pressed against the wall
Reminding myself that it’s time
To let it turn to dust.

Your voice won’t stop echoing
From the record player in the corner.
Dents on its side and
A fire under it
That refuses to engulf
The oil I spread.

The door in the back leads into a room.
Puddles of tears littered across the floor.
The record is barely audible as I approach
The center,
Which despite the pain and memories,
Still beats.
One day, I will be strong enough to paint the walls white.
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