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ac 1d
i have these voices in my head

with me when i’m awake or in bed
when i’m smiling and happy
they come and break my peace
telling me weird things
that make me lose my ease

they tell me i won’t get better
they tell me i don’t matter
they tell me one day ill be dead
so why not get it over with instead

the voices are evil and cold
but they comfort me when i’m all alone
they tell me to do things to myself
and be sure that no one knows

oh the voices in my head
they walk me to my death
ac 7d
playing me so methodically
in every single way
i know it’s only seventh grade
but that doesn’t make it ok

i’ve been waiting for you
and i’d go to you right away
all you have to do is say when

you’ve thrown me on a roller coaster
loop after loop
when you wanted to race
i didn’t know all the things id be chasing

all my friends give advice
and i know i should listen
but i say it’s fine
even tho it isn’t

wish i could let go of the idea
that you’ll come to me eventually
and maybe you will

elliot
that stupidly beautiful name
constantly in my head
all i think about when i go to bed

it’s so messed up
that i let you get away with this
but one day
you’ll finally see me
as the perfect thing

but by then i’ll be happy with the man
that has always seen me for who i am
and you might even cry
a cry filled with the agony you put me through

and you’re gonna realize
you really fumbled
but what can you do

boys will be boys
they’re stupid and blind
and they only realize what’s good for them when it’s to late
and you’ll be to late
Hugo Pierce Jul 4
I can feel the floor crumbling
I'm tumbling down tonight
I can feel my soul shuddering
My stomach's grumbling
I'm hungry for a time
A time where life is more
than just suffering
Lula Jun 27
But I let it win.
scratching  out unsaid words onto my self
Why can’t I just leave it alone on the shelf
Forget the sting
Leave  it in a bin
It could do anything
But I let it win.
I sit in the dark and trace my problems on my arm
Why can’t I mend without causing my self harm?
Why is it so hard
To let go of the pain
It’s like a twisted thought
Etched into my brain
Just needed some way to numb the feeling
I didn’t know id get addicted and forget about healing
Instead I cover my arms in lines
My very own self made designs
I like the colour red
Especially on my skin
I just give up
And let it win
hiliana Jun 26
he left
he left with not a choice
but mere force
my father
the man I loved the most
was taken in front of my eyes without a choice
I will never understand why
why must there be penalty if not porcelain skin and perfect
my oh my he never had that choice
how I wish we meet again
I hope we have that choice
my darling father
you were taken by a country who never understood you
oh my dear father
I wish us both a choice
a chance for father and daughter
to reunite
wrote this at night, thinking about my dad
Sharon Thomas Mar 2021
The sound of your laughter,
the sound of the waves as it crashes the rocks,
A sunset with a purplish orange tinted sky;

Imagine all of these in one frame,

Thats where I want to be.
Thats where my heaven lies.
Vincenzo Apr 26
The fire escape, a rusted iron vine,
Clings to brick the color of old wine.
Nineteen years, a pigeon on the sill,
Watching Little Italy stand still, and thrill.

The scent of garlic, oregano's hum,
Escapes Sal's butcher shop, where cleavers come
Down ******* lamb, a rhythmic, meaty beat,
Mingling with Vespa engines on Mott Street.

Grandma's window, lace a dusty white,
Whispers secrets in the fading light.
A rosary clutched tight within her hand,
Praying for safe passage through this land
Of honking taxis, shouts across the way,
And boys with slicked-back hair who come to play
Dominoes loud beneath the flickering lamp,
Their laughter echoing, a youthful, joyful stamp.

The bakery's sweet breath, a sugary haze,
Cannoli shells in golden, sugared maze.
I linger there, the coins within my jeans
Burning a hole with teenage, hungry scenes
Of sfogliatelle crisp, a ricotta dream,
A taste of home, it always would seem.

Down Bleecker Street, the music starts to bleed
From smoky clubs, a saxophone's wild creed.
Too young to enter, but I stand and stare,
At shadows dancing, lost within the air.
A yearning stirs, a restless, teenage fire,
To break these borders, climb a little higher
Than tenement roofs, the laundry in the breeze,
To find what waits beyond these crowded trees
Of brick and stone, this heritage so deep,
While Little Italy holds secrets that I keep.

The rumble of the subway, underground,
A constant pulse, a never-ending sound.
It carries faces, stories yet untold,
Like mine, at nineteen, brave and slightly bold.
I kick a loose stone on the cracked sidewalk,
Another night is coming, like a hawk
Descending softly on the city's gleam.
Nineteen in Little Italy, a vibrant, waking dream.
Nothing beats little Italy, or NYC! How ya doiiin?
it's hard for me to let you go,
you look like an angel
--a deviant against God,
beautiful and forbidden
--against impermanence

ever-lasting;
a taste of ambrosia
a touch of Midas; gold
--yet rarer than the birds
that seem to circle around
--your crown;
not of thorns,
but early morning dew

and the fruits you bear;
not of love,
but grief
--and indelible prints
pressed on your skin...

you make my heart beat,
for once it never moved,
until my shadow was seen.
it's hard for me to let you go.
old poem from when i was 15
Luke Lucci Feb 27
To see the value within a woman’s eyes,
An evaluation that’s taken from her curves to her thighs.
A smaller waist,
A full cup to hold,
Does she exceed her value with her weight in gold.
She plays the game, you cross the line.
She craves the gaze, there is more to expose,
Her worth defined by the curve that she shows.
Copyright ©️ luke Wallace 2025
Sammy Feb 16
When the words
"I am a poet"
escapes from my lips,
people claim how full
of emotions I must be.

They seem to be shocked,
when they get to read me,
my poetry, my work,
how little emotional I am.

I am a poet,
because once upon a time
I chose to write
instead of dying.

Only when I let my thoughts be free,
I allow myself to feel,
and only when I write
I get to know some version of me.
Only when I'm a poet
I am me
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