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The pain rots and sheds,
as it smoulders her bones
and burns her skin third degree.

Loss and jealousy enwrap
her scorched heart into ashes,
while lava flows off her tongue
as it promises vengeance.

She becomes a vortex of emotions
engulfing her own life,
dwelling in the
merry go round thoughts.

Until she picks up the pen
and tucks the rage and ache
within the 26 alphabets
stringing words,
to sentences to paragraphs.

Ashes and embers stain the paper
as they ebb, blot and flow,
crafting the cathartic relief
until the paper stains darker
than the shades of her mind.

The blues that would pour,
become the budding flowers
in her chest.

She remodifies
cobblestones into steppingstones,
amplifying her narrative.

She tosses the losses
into words
and crosses beyond the horizon.

A candle flame burns deep
inside her solar plexus
as she transmogrifies the shards into a mosaic;
the strings of the web she was entangled in
weaved into embroidery to embellish her soul.

The cries and lies,
made her wise
as she built from the same sorrows
she was drowning in.

She put her ache on cadence
and turned up a brain wavelength.

She finally found her salvation
from abandonment
a dive deep and wide into
the depth of introspection
pulling from the cronies and nooks
the parts built and undiscovered.

She armed herself with
empathy fueled passion
as she has burnt, learnt
and learn to yearn the better
while she steers forward
with a transfigured mindset.

For the people who came,
now leave as poems.
Sailing the guilty-seas
as regret trickles down my spine
and unloads
its over-thought-husky-murky-thoughts
upon my shoulders.

My daily rations are here:
shame, regret and guilt.
They’re brewing me to the bone;
into a rotten broth.

My thoughts pace
backwards and forwards
from guilt —
for remaining stagnant,
one of the past.

For being recycled
in this unhealthy cycle.

It is a cycle
of forget me nots;
such vile fetters.

But no dose can
reverse the abused time,
the stutters-and-mutters
the time that slipped my grips
and the sins
that swallowed my innocence whole.

For remorse, guilt and shame
only anchor us back
unless we were to morph them
to fuel and experience
to propel us forward.
Niki Gray Jul 7
The water will rise,
let it.
The fire will burn,
fuel it.
The darkness will come,
light it.
My strength won't quit
so I fight on.
Thank you to the incredibly talented Christian Love and my big brother Todd Hoover.
Max Apr 20
Is love the fuel of our hearts?
Because maybe we should switch fuel.
Because our hearts are polluted.
Having some difficulties with leaving bad people.
Amanda Mar 16
We loved with careless enthusiasm
Your touch cooled my burning chest
Out of melancholic monotony
Embraced flaws and silent distress

Warm skin the ultimate compliment
Formless bodies seeking relief
Yet the mind mine was so connected to
Overflows my thoughts with grief

And I see the mess I've made of us
Cry because I know it's my fault
Pouring darkness into your body
Leading you into assault

One moment you were everything
Couldn't stop love I felt
Next found myself wanting space
With time passion began to melt

The feelings I relished dwindled with grace
Rehearsing lines of the part I'm trying to be
All that's left is only a trace
Of the magic once fueling our love story
Written 9-25-18
Stark Feb 13
huddled beneath the *****, dark alleys of the past
there's a girl
rubbing her hands together
for a semblance of warmth

the cold bites deep
through bare clothing
chilling her to the bone

as the frost flurries through
and bright Christmas trees
set her eyes alight

she shakily pulls a small
from her pocket

with a breath,
she mutters a prayer
and strikes the match
to watch it burn
one last time

the flame wavers
but continues to burn
'till there is no fuel left

just as the light dies
she, too, dies

and the ghosts come
to take her hand
to a safer place
where it's Christmas yearlong
and warm embraces await

for the little match girl has left
for somewhere, something beyond our reach
little match girl
annh Jan 23
Your thirst
Now quenched,
Fuels the fire
Of my regret,
A post-****** paradox.
A failed katuata - 5-7-7 poem. **** those syllables! :)
Watch the silent fire,
Watch me scorch my battered heart,
Ashes cannot burn.
Naoki B Dec 2018
Gifts of belief, the fuel for power
Old men bicker while the young suffer
Defiled minds march their society to slaughter
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