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Skin. Teeth.
Pressure. Exerted.
Tense. Held.
Push. Downward. Sunken. Underneath.
Retracted. Released. Resurfaced. Regained
(C) 2022
Trigger warning: non-suicidal self injury.
PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT IN A SAFE HEADSPACE. THIS PIECE DOES NOT PROMOTE SELF INJURY. IT'S AN EXPRESSION OF HOW IT FEELS. I AM NOT BY ANY MEANS PERSUADING ANY READERS OF ANY DEMOGRAPHIC TO ENGAGE IN THIS BEHAVIOUR.
My Dear Poet Apr 11
I am the quietest whisper
crying out from
the loudest chamber of my heart
Shades of them
Shade of me
And then
For a reason
There
You're

And less is more

Maybe
Just maybe
Where there
Is Art

There you're

For all to see
Theme: Soul Feeds
Ren Sturgis Jan 21
It's been so long since I've felt anything. I've closed myself off to the outer world of me.
My inner thoughts speaking quietly, trying to understand the freedom of speech and the right to equality.
The world full  of so much inequity, my goal to just bring together the diversity.
Blacks, whites and every other minority.

Well I suppose that I've been opening up ever so slightly.
Showing the world how I can shine brightly.
Past the land and sky, beyond the line of trees.
If you believe in thinking justly, you can feel as far as the blind can see.

I'm feeling the emotions rise within I, like a storm I am becoming calm within the eye.
Watch the truth unravel into lies.
Still I'm screaming ....

WHY?

Is this what it's like to feel?
I may not comprehend it right now, but it will be alright.
I have expressed enough of me anyhow!
A 16 year old me
Wild eyes
hands-to-cheeks
mouth wide open—
we know the look
it's so cliché
those ******' marauders
in Hollywood stole it
from the realm of
authentic expression—
yet there she stood
as if rehearsing for
a midday melodrama
patiently awaiting
the studio lighting,
the face powder,
the camera, the action...
but no set crew was coming
there was no show
nor lines to rehearse...
there was only a frozen moment
in which the life she knew
and the life she could not
have foreseen existed at once,
bound together by an
over-played expression of horror.
That pen was not just
another pen like,
Was close to his heart
soothing moonlike.

He bought that pen
after paying huge cost,
That was one reason
he liked that most.

For sbowing status for
showing the fame,
What he had achieved  
position and name.

Pen was a symbol for
flaunting repute,
That he was on top this
no one dispute.

It reminds him also
reminds the all,
He reached at the top
after many so fall.

But one day in office
that pride was lost.
It was that pen that he
liked the most.

He doubted in office
workers and staff,
At times in office
abruptly he laugh.

He had suspicion on
ally and friend.
Driver & sweeper too
themselves to fend.

One day in office clerk
found  that pen.
Was hidden in file and  
lying since then.

He wished to say sorry
and  admit the guilt.
His ego but came in
his way as a hilt.

Ajay Amitabh Suman:
All Rights Reserved
In many cases, a man is willing to apologize for something he has done wrong, but his ego stands in the way. What could be the result of this, except regretting the mistake?
My Dear Poet Dec 2021
one more poem
if I may try
just one
more
before I lay
down
and die
for I have cried
some silly words
to rhyme, recite
rewrite
the absurd
I’ve barely been able
to live with myself
let alone
with my thoughts
and no one else
I’ve wrestled
and fought
most of life in my mind
now I empty myself
of my final line
one more written
last one read
so you can bury me now
alone
inside my head
Leocardo Reis Dec 2021
It takes me
perhaps a few minutes,
at most,
to write a poem.

In the brief instant
between
creation and publication,
I am convinced
that this poem cannot be
improved.

But note,
it is never the claim,
that the poem is
any good.

I write
so that I may express
what I had genuinely felt
for a few moments.
Mysterious Mind Nov 2021
What is poetry?
A form of self expression?
A release to the emotions bearing weight on your soul?
A chance at hope in the most dire of times?

I find myself asking these questions as I stray towards words during my visits to rock bottom. When life has once again wronged me, and these emotions are brewing into an unforgiving storm. There are no expectations here. There is no room for outside judgment. It is just me, a pen, and an empty sheet of paper.

So why is it, that through the thunder of this storm, as the rain pelts me to my core, I find myself met with expectations of my own self expression? Trying to mold these feelings into something presentable, acceptable, beautiful, even.

These emotions know no boundary, they feel no sympathy toward the rules of the world, they only crave release from being locked inside for far too long. They are messy, angry, chaotic, uncomfortable. There is no perfect format to present them in. There is no time to mend them into something pleasing. There is only expression.
My poetry has always been a form of my deepest expression. If you can even call it poetry. This site has given me an opportunity to release these trapped emotions in complete anonymity, which has been a great gift. Even despite posting non-poetry on a poetry site.
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