Lily Mar 30
The darkness around me is impermeable,
Gloomy, funereal.
It weighs down on me, and I imagine
Atlas holding up the sky,
The unbearable burden on his shoulders,
And I feel the same pain.
I struggle to breathe,
Each breath tears at my throat,
Rips its seams and sinews
Until I can barely speak.
My tattered wings flutter uselessly,
My muscles losing strength every moment,
My vigor being drained by the darkness surrounding me,
Until I can hardly stand.
Suddenly, a brilliant ray of light shines from
Somewhere in the darkness,
A beacon, directing me somewhere.
Warmth, hope, joy, peace, and relief flow out from
The light source in a everlasting stream.
A river of light, a torrent of happiness, that
Drags me out of my stupor, injecting new
Life into my veins, causing my wings to flitter with
Renewed aspirations.
I fly haltingly towards the light, drawn to it by
An almost supernatural force.
However, the closer I get, the harder it is to see myself;
My wings fade, becoming almost transparent, and
A piece of the dull ache returns, a remnant of the darkness.
The pain gets closer as I get closer to the light,
Closer to you.
You are my light, and I am your moth.
Everything good, everything true, you represent,
But I can’t touch you, can’t truly know you.
I can’t lose myself.
I can’t be your moth anymore.
Find yourself a butterfly.
Lynx Mar 14
I'm tired
yet here I write
beneath the bright light of my room
too tired to move the trash off my bed
writing in hopes others will understand
will resonate with me
will be happy
for some reason, or another
I just want everyone to be happy
but I know it's not that easy
and I wish I knew that when I started out
because I wouldn't have painted myself in this corner
with no way out
now that my mind has had itself firmly planted
in that frame of thought...
Anixety and depression is a bitch, man. So is trying to make everyone else happy when you can't even make yourself happy.
Mystic Ink Feb 26
At dusk the tired Sun asked,
can I set?

I felt asleep, before reply.
Theme: When, simplicity is sophistication.
Erik McKee Feb 19
Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,  
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.  

Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.
Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.
YH Feb 10
"You have such a beautiful way
with your words;
It's almost as if they are laced
with melancholy."

You see, the word beautiful
has been told to me by a lot of people.

Appearance-wise,
how I speak,
how I form my intricate thoughts;
the list goes on.

Their words would elevate me,
and then pull me down like a sinking weight.

It grows like cancer.

Am I enough today?
Must I go on with 'this'?
Why was it given to me when I hadn't asked for it?

And this burden attacks me so viciously
it rips me of my courage,
my interest,
myself,
and who I am.

I feel like an empty shell.

Is this what it means to be beautiful?

If so,
don't let me be.

— Y.H.

beauty,
gentle fervor.
"Beauty fades over time," a man had once said.
"They wilt like flowers;
never stay, never eternal."

And in a way, those words put me to rest.

I was grateful.

(c) Y.H.
Skia A Jan 28
It is truly a devastating thing to know that the sun rises every morning,
Only to wake up each time to see it set.
I am fighting suicidal thoughts daily.
Lately, nothing seems to help.
Not people, friends, professional help, medicines...
Or the relase found in poetry.

I haven't left the house (or even my bed really) for months.
I see no point.

Yet, still I write.
Polly Jan 15
I never thought it fair
The way we have life given to us
When maybe
The truth is
We were never meant to have it.

If the choice had been mine to make
I would have chosen a thousand skies
Trip across oceans and
never
Lay my feet to Earth.

Chained to an existence
When maybe I was never supposed
To be...
 Anything.
And now like a fallen bird who's wings are clipped
I can neither stay
Nor can I leave.
Johnny Noir Jan 10
When I go in search of meaning
I go blind instantly
so the search never begins
until I can grope my way out  
into daylight where
I can see the sun shining &
staring like a fool
I'm blinded once again---
& if at night, I see the full moon
over dark streets  
hidden by a sheet of black
& I'm blinded once again &
w/o looking for anything
I grope my way back to
where I can't find the switch
& so sit & ask myself
what does it mean to stand or to sit
Graff1980 Dec 2017
There is a
feverish swell
of warm pain
suffused with
lots of mucus.

I grab a book
of poems
and read this
verbal twist,
longing for those
words
to break the thick mist.

But the poetry
does not relieve me.
I am so sleepy.
My nose is dripping.
My throat is scratching,
and I am not catching
any sleep.

I fumble for
any thoughts that
came before
this nasally
flemmy storm.

The words will not come.
My mind fog
becomes a hot
brick wall
that blocks
all deep thoughts.

I can only cough
then shift
and hope
this shit
finally passes
after a full day’s slumber.
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