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me Feb 2018
there was a voice

that only spoke

to say everything

was wrong.

the line is long

the people waiting



the sky is gray

the weather is mild

the combination


your friends are gone

were never here

nothing is real only



some time

it lost

the faculty

of meaning


for a while






is coming









buckie Mar 2017
she has six hands and they are all holding me,
i am being strangled.
my lungs are bent, gasping,
she whispers in my ear:
“the crash is coming. no air can save you.”

she has eight eyes and they are never blinking,
tarantula hairs.
my blood is running a marathon, running,
i beg her to run away
but she lives where i live. i am not willing to die just to silence her.

she leads me to the rooftop,
tells me to put the dirt on.
my lungs’ scream is an axe, hacking,
all the walls are closing
she holds a vacuum to my lips.

she crouches beside me,
i hear her hissing mutters.
she is like a tsunami, everything,
she wears a crumbling rooftop like it is a crown
she sits on my head and holds my throat.

she tempts me to the edge of the highway,
everyone blurs together.
my head is like a broken hourglass, spilling everywhere,
brains look the same until they hit the windshield
my splatter, but she is not silenced.
buckie Mar 2017
her breath fogs my skin
like warmth on glass-
when did my bones become this fragile;
if she pushes too hard,
when will i shatter?
she slips her fingers between mine
and we hold hands-
as simple as breathing;
i am not known to be good at breathing,
no, the day i remember how to breathe,
will that be the day i drown?
she leaves handprints on my arms
i am a broken mirror-
where am i? i cannot wipe her away;
fingerprints on my surface,
memories that cloud the glass,
has anyone ever seen me in plain sight?
she bites too hard
they stare at the bruises-
as she shifts from lover to abuser,
will my hands stop shaking,
when did my house become haunted?
when will i

Have you looked at your lover?

Their skin. Warm and soft underneath your fingertips.

Fine hairs, sleepy glances. The corners of their mouth lifted into a smile.

Sometimes, it's like peering into an infinity mirror. You see yourself reflected ten-thousand times; you are them and they are you.

Their touch is home and ******* it, you're homesick.

What do you do when your lover's kiss no longer welcomes you?

When anxiety has it's claws pushed into your chest and you can't help but wonder:

What if they don't love me as much as I love them?

Am I a burden?

Am I too loud? Too soft? Too hard-edged and manic?

How can I trust them when I've been hurt by others before?

Love can't cure depression.

Romance won't wipe away anxiety.

Through sideways glances in ***** mirrors, microwave dinners and cuddles under warm blankets—

You smile. You cry. You move on.

You don't have to love yourself to be loved in return.
You are worthy. Recovery takes time.
Angela G Nov 2016
somehow i got lost,
after a innumerable amount of
wrong turns and best-laid plans gone awry.

somehow i got lost, or...

have i always been here?
i can't tell,
i can't tell,
i can't tell anymore,
when all i can see is this cave,
engulfed in the all-too-familiar darkness.

the only exception is a stray bit of light,
reminding me of where they are.
it illuminates these desolate walls,
reminding me of where i will always be.
Angela G Nov 2016
i have a box,
and nobody knows.
or maybe the box has me,
but as i've said,
nobody really knows.

it's really just fine;
they can't get in,
inside this box,
this makeshift home,
to which i've become accustomed,
but never comfortable.

it's really just fine;
i can't get out,
but maybe one day,
maybe i'll be okay with that.
after all, no one can get in.

i have a box,
and it's really just fine,
i've decorated the insides
with scribbles and tally marks.
besides, no one really knows,
no one can get inside.

i have a box,
and it's really just fine,
some days i forget it's even there...
well, some minutes,
but that's close enough to days,
so the tally marks aren't as many,
but they're still. there.

i have a box,
and it's really. just. fine.

it's got a little window,
so i can see outside the box,
but when will i get to
think. outside. this box.
no one can see in the window,
so it's really just fine.

no one can see in the window,
no one can get inside,
and no one even knows about it,
so, though I have this box,
it's really. just.  **fine.
Mel L Oct 2016
There is no point,
   there is no end,
Once begins,
   continues again,

There is no cure,
   no easy fix,
No easy way,
   to get rid,

Once it starts,
   never ends,
Not just once,
   but never again,

There is no way,
   to run from it,
No way to hide,
   no way to rid,

Nothing to do,
   no way to escape,
Once it comes,
   this doom-your fate.
Casey Jul 2016
There has to be a reason.
There has to be a reason
For all this suffering,
All this pain.

What is it all for?

I hope.
I hope
To turn my heartache
Into art.

I could.
I could
help someone, anyone
with my story.

I need.
I need
To turn this around
To make it worth living.

Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure. Panic. Determination. Failure. Frustration. Tears. Pressure....

It never.
It never ends.


What for?

There has to be a reason.
I hope--
I could--
I need.
Ellie Martin Feb 2016
Body is a house
Where something has lived before
A stove that once burned fire
Can't find a spark no more

A place once of comfort
Not a thing to find
The inhabitants long moved out
They crowd the shattered mind

The windows fogged and blurry
Have no point in searching through
Rooms have no purpose
No one had a clue

The walls are scarred and broken
Through war this house has been
Neighbors have distanced the abandoned house
It's emptiness showing outside in.
Ellie Martin Jan 2016
A ****** battle fought
Between the constant fog
And the blinding light

A voice saying
"Join the dark side"
"Come towards the white"

The warrior has no fight.
It doesn't end
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