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hannah Aug 2019
It's me
It's the bitter ache
Watching the leaves
Move on trees
It's the deep rooted
That pervades me
It's the sickness
That's growing
Little sprouts of doubt
Littering my bones
It's the saddest melody
That she sings
It hits me
Flattens me
It's me
The hardest part is realizing that the part of my mind that won't let me be is the one who's wrong. It's not the world. It's me.
George Anthony May 2019
used to sing along
sleepless, sad boy
flatsound’s sullen symphonies
“i’ll go to sleep at a decent time
when i find something
worth waking up for”

these days i like to close my eyes
just gone ten at night;
wake up with the sunlight
caressing my cheeks
just the way you used to

because even though
us became you and i
you’re still my something
worth waking up for
Unknown Jul 2017
pleasure over your soft voice is everything to keep me sane
but you'll be gone for days
i'm afraid
i'm afraid
i'm afraid
your haunting smile constantly in my messed up brain
my blood runs cold when i see your pale face
you're going away
going away
going away
to the rubber room
full of melancholy minds in grim walls
you said don't worry
don't worry
don't worry
you'll be okay, you say
you say you'll get better and smile
and then you kiss my neck
my girlfriend will be leaving tomorrow to a mental hospital.
I needed to express my self.
Unknown Jul 2017
Stuck in Limbo, an eternity  of rain and coldness.

Puffy eyes, runny nose are how I look everyday.

Empty void.

I lose passion for strumming melancholy rhythms in this guitar .

I lose passion for creating and alternate reality were I play God and create my nature and arts.

I lose passion for creating stories with better worlds.

I lose passion for waking up in the mornings with no purpose.

I lose passion for breathing.

Lose passion for speaking.

No passion for living.
No passion at all.
I've been listening to flatsound and dandelion hands a lot.
George Anthony May 2017
it sounds like planes taking flight,
like foreboding,
like a hoard of wasps,
and then it breaks into melody;
it went from storming winds
to a spa reception
inhale, exhale

dull these sharp edges,
take me out of my head;
i can see you
laid out on white cotton sheets,
your dark hair fanned
against the pillows on my bed.
no, i don't want to
do anything,
other than lie with you,
feel your warmth and...

i look at you and
tears brim these tired eyes.
insomnia's an artist
painting shadows on my lids,
but you reach out
and brush your fingertips against my cheek;
suddenly i'm alive,
your watercolours vibrant on my skin;
i'm overflowing with emotion
but you make it feel okay
to drown,
to let it in.

you'll never have any idea
of how much i think about you
i think, maybe, i would feel guilty
if i knew how to
but i don't do remorse,
just as you don't do...
well. this.
any of this.
try not to, anyway

things don't always
work out
the way we plan;
but it's okay,
we can make more plans
together, somehow
because you promised me you'd live
and i swore i'd do the same.
bleed of consciousness
this isn't a poem. this isn't some well written piece of literature that will be quoted underneath photos of our depressed youth of America. this is me jotting down my thoughts at 9:26 p.m. i sit in the darkness of my newly decorated room (i needed a change of scenery, so a make over was in place) and i wonder why you don't like me. maybe i'm not specifically upset as to why you aren't interested, but more so why half the guys i pursue look the other way. I'm sitting here, dear reader, and i realize that it isn't the sad songs that make me cry, but instead the dead silence that crowds my empty room. I wonder why you didn't take me when you had the chance, didn't sweep me off my feet. I've annoyed my friends with the constant talking of you, it consumes me. i don't understand why my own two legs are strangers to the rest of my body and why they can't hold me up sometimes. i passed English 1101 with a 99, and yet i can't seem to find the right words to string together and form a sentence to utter out of my mouth. my mouth won't form the right shape to pronounce the few words i can muster. when someone asks me if i'm ok, i cry. I'm in mourning, i hate the snow that packs the sidewalks. you weren't mine and that's hard to process. it's like i have found my soulmate, but my soulmate doesn't return the same affection. sometimes i feel that i am seen as only meat for boys of all ages to circle around and toy with before they viciously devour. I am eye candy, i am known for nothing other than my appearance. when i write, i am my words. today i went to an abandoned house and i felt sadness surround me, along with the scent of musk and moth *****. i bought a goldfish and it died because i over fed it. i care too much about things and they die.
sincerely, someone who is lost on you.
an L for the longing
I for the "I'm not sure if this is where I need to be"
M for the minutes of waiting
B for begging the stars above to let me have you
O ; the single letter that escaped my lips as you turned your back
and walked directly into the next willing participant's embrace

I look at you, I look at her
I run
I run until the air in my lungs evacuate when my bare feet kiss the gravel
I run until I am unable to see you in my head
I pause
I wait
and I continue running, for you are still there in my head
I run
my arms punch the breeze that fights back at me, I punch as if it were the environment around me that took you away from me
I run until night divides the day
and drapes me in velvet black
My hands on my head, I spin around, pulling out my hair like a mad man
out of breath, but knowing it's not from the running but instead from the absence of you in my heart
I crash to the ground
I keep my eyes shut as long as I can, but whenever i'm met with the darkness surrounding my thoughts
I see you, my soft light
I keep my eyes shut until your image forces me to open them
and look up at the empty night sky
and all I ponder on
is why the stars have abandoned us.
I'm small, insignificant
Unfamiliar to the feeling
not entirely sure what's wrong,
but knowing that there's something missing
from my once wholesome life
and it's like i'm finally discovering myself
a period of rebirth
but now the clock has warned me that it is 12 in the morning
I am reminded of how you are out there
and how I don't know you
but how I desperately want to
and why I am a writer and all I do is constantly write or think about what I want to write about next but all of a sudden it's midnight and I can't find a way to string the extensive words of our English vocabulary together to somehow
expound upon why the simple touch of a stranger has left me feeling so empty, but how at the moment when I reached my fingertips just far enough that they could brush against your side,
I felt wholesome again
I don't know what makes humans yearn for another human to complete them and how we feel lonesome when in the company of the bitter silence that meets us at the end of a partnership
Or why I have a million and one things I could write about
instead of focusing again
on the loss of someone I never got the chance to know
and yet I choose to torture myself with seeing you in dreams
smiling at a girl
that is not me
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