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Yuki Feb 13
My fragility is a shared space
in which anyone feels free
to stay for a while
make a mess
and leave.
Xallan Feb 13
my hands are round instead of flat, now if only
my thoughts were stored in my hands
my brains and some motor control
some real talent besides empty words
my hands are similar enough to my mind

my thinking has become soft and flabby
my digits do the same wrong movements
I refrain from stretching out for what I want
my skin is so delicate I fear I may tear it
my cells liable to break under slight duress

my fingers small and deformed, clumsy
always falling short when I reach for the bar
my fingertips live in a numb icy nether
my circulation is clearly beyond subpar
my heartbeat second-rate and slowing

I wonder why my immense sky is so limiting
my body is my graven image I dare not pray to
my manifestation of an inferior mind
my burning bush is barely a flicker
as time oxidizes my single lonely existence
Nic Mac Jul 2018
like a butterfly in the wind,
beautiful, but struggling.
Laura Nov 2018
Your fingers tracing the lines of my body.
Embracing every freckle and all my scars.
Discovering each part of me.
Touching my body and my soul.
gracie Mar 2018
Shake me

Til the sad falls away
Til my heart breaks so cleanly
That you can staple it together
With love or
Some kind of metal
That won't melt in the scorching

Hold me

Til my hands stop
Til warm clouds of
Breath escape my lips
And drift up into the
Smoking atmosphere
Between our

Shatter me

Til glass scatters across the
Til no amount of superglue or
Soft words
Can fix the wonderful
Damage you leave
Qwn Nov 2018
Sadness lingers over my head,
my whole being grieves
for the loss that I've not yet witnessed.
An ache claims my blood and bones
and I am reminded
again of how fragile I really am.
Cambria Andersen Oct 2018
Time is burning like a candle, the flame dancing next to my bed.
And, somewhere in my mind I am searching, 'round the many corners in my head.
And, somewhere in my mind I'm seeing, lovers, ghosts of who we used to be.
And, somewhere in the night I smile, as I rescue moments from my memory.
Somewhere in the night I'm racing, reaching out to catch your falling star.
Grasping at it with eager hands, only to drop my own fragile heart.
This poem still haunts me. Every time that I read it.
It all happened. every bit of it.
It was good that it did. I am better for it.
Danielle Oct 2018
Flowers bloom,
Flowers die.
Sometimes we smile,
Sometimes we cry.
Time, it gives,
Time, it takes.
Love is beautiful,
Love is fake.
The world passes by,
We're born.
We live.
We die.
This poem was written while contemplating the realities of life in the 21st century as a young woman. It's about the fragility and fleeting nature of our time on Earth. It also alludes to the suffering we endure and the joy that exists alongside that suffering.
Kurt Carman Sep 2018
It’s something I think about often,
Do we fully understand the fragility of this life we possess?

And suddenly a loved one is taken …it inflames you to think.
Every consciousness is a precious and fragile gift.

These lives of ours are fleeting, gone in a minute.
When you suddenly understand this, everything fades into the background.

Pushing 70 now… I choose to soar out of bed joyfully rejoicing each morning,
That life has granted me another day above the dirt.

Life is strong and weak…it’s a paradox.
Keep your mind strong my friends, don’t hide behind your fears.

This life of yours is an amazing gift….live it with a smile!
I often think about my ancestry. In my living room hangs a picture of my Great Grandfather Isaac. And each time I walk past it I tell him how much I love him. I look forward to meeting him one day. But until then I refuse to let my death consume me and I hope you don't either.
Isabella Sep 2018
Wan flesh stretched thinly
Against brittle bones,
The flower of youth much
Wilted by the bitter moans
Of winter winds and
Snows, and such;
She traipses through so dimly.

The surface so ghost-like—
Sickly, pale, anemic—
Though she makes the Madness
Seem so vivid, so scenic
Against drab backroads,
Gray towns, and the sadness
That longs, aches, to strike.

And I wonder what are
Those cracks in her skin,
Violet line-art patterned on
The wan flesh stretched thin;
They creep up to her eyes and
Within moments are gone
By a blink, a single star.

Her fingers are shaking
When she tries to speak,
Like spiders spinning nervously
A web that must be solid, not weak,
To carry the weight of several—
Thus, they weave it fervidly
In a manner quite breathtaking.
I feel as though this is incomplete...
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