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Pooja Basnett Jun 25
You said you were my knight in shining armor,
I was blinded by the radiance!
I thought you were here to rescue me,
Little did I know, you were here to steal!
Your sweet talk, your blue skies, they were all a lie,
You think I will walk away,  won’t put up a fight!
You might be a wizard, but you will be beaten in your own game,
Truth wins, Always!!
Jade Apr 20
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down

Perhaps there shall exist no
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac


her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.


I always thought
myself to be the
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of




have shuddered to

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.
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Raven Feels Apr 3
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, people are not what we want them to be:>

What makes him so intense

What makes him so mad that the clench of his jaw shapes him

What makes him so stiff that  his gesture of amusement  softens his infuriating rage

What makes him so confused that the irritate demeanor longs for more rather than ease

What makes him so wild that his nerves pace with tire of need

What makes him so boisterous that the favor of calmness portrays his body

That his ice breaks offering her the aspiring warm from his heat

Raven Feels Apr 2
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I think my words speak for themselves;}

tired of the blinded faults

disgusted by the brutal unappreciation

manifested in the untied bonds

to **** the place and fire up the numbs

maybe ending in tons of regrets and flooded ponds

yet my indecisive conscience knows no faked up fonts

and my rage is bored of a game of prison where no fun

just please me with your silence drowned

keep me with your mouths shut down

you call me rage with no bounds

well blame yourselves for the upcoming storm and sounds

Kaley Mar 21
Within me screeches a woman on fire - consumed by a violent rage and doused in a fury like gasoline.
Anemone Feb 1
Embers cold and firey eyes
Upon the wood and sand
Devours anything that seems fit to be weaker
At a glance

Because I am the fire
Burning bright
The fire
burning higher than ever before
I am the fire

Embers burn to a crisp
And leave a mark when they are done
Don’t think I am not strong
Juhlhaus Jan 19
A wise woman once told me
Anger is no trustworthy emotion for a poet.
Thus has my hot heart's spring gone dry:
Pain and fury sapped it,
Soft tissue stripped and bitten from without
And within, leaving only smoldering bones,
Teeth dulled and nails blunted;
Calcified soles to carry me
Through desert darkness,
Where at last brittle, broken
They fail. No more strength
In clenched fists,
But hope in a desert of light,
To join there those equal to anger,
No longer its slave.
Jamesb Jan 5
Fog is a ****** to fight,
You cannot punch it
Or choke it or
Throw it to the floor,
It's just there,
Clammy and utterly inviolate

Like the inner workings of another's soul,
We can reach out but never grasp
Another's soul to our chest,
We can soar across
The wastes of space
Yet never quite reach them,

No matter how we try another's soul
Is theirs and once broken,
Perhaps no amount of love nor care can fill
The void created and
Never when that void is full
Of vinegar spite and
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