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Robby 2d
Maybe the sun will come out today
Maybe I’ll feel the warmth on my skin
Maybe my eyes won’t gloss over with tears from the light
Maybe I can go for a walk and just be happy
Maybe there is some hope left
The darkness, an embodiment of my world, stretches are far as my heart's eye can see.  The sadness weighs on me like the depth of the ocean, the cold waters washing over me in waves.  And out there is nothing but the emptiness of my soul poured out onto the sky as stars.  The evil of the world paints its own constellations, devouring the other lights.  A lonely moon, almost as lonesome as myself, gazes at me with pity like all the others.
I had asked for an escape from the world of pain, of anger, of hatred.  The people would laugh at me, call me naive for wishing only happiness.  I had raised their heads when they were low, lifted their spirits when they were down; and now, they don't help, just stare at my discomfort.  Their judging eyes uncover the truth, the horrible truth reminding themselves of their sins.  They see me and turn away, like looking into a cursed mirror.
The cold wraps me like a blanket in the winter, though it is more a veil of thorns.  Creatures from the darkest corners of my mind, shadows in the shapes of the constellations, reach out to me from the gloomy water, the only ones to offer a hand.  I turn away from them in frustration.  Why hadn't anyone else come?  The light of the moon dances upon the waves as they greet me on the white beach shore.  The weight of my sadness disperses upon the island.  The trees and plants dissolve to ash and fly away on the once hibernating wind.  It lashes at me madly, furious by its awake from eternal slumber.
The island beneath my feet grows smaller; nothing but a patch of sand where I lie is left.  The sand, particles of my depression sticking to my blue skin grow darker, consuming my flesh, degrading my bones, eating me from the inside out.  The creatures cry out with silent voices.  I stare at the constellations.  Nothing good could come of the world I'm living in.  There is no warmth in this infinite night.  I lend a veiny hand to the monster next to me, and, like a swarm, the creatures **** me into the black ocean.
Forgotten, abandoned, I sink into the depths, the weight finally lifted from my shoulders.  Looking up at the world I will never return to, a light shines upon me, a single flittering ray through the dark water, disappearing as I slowly fall deeper.  Struck with emotion never felt before, the thorns of the cold feel less painful and a shudder runs through my bones.
My body feels light, no longer cold but not yet warm.  The light has gone, the darkness now carrying my frail body to the dwelling place of the creatures of the night.  Calmly, I watch the last of my breath's bubbles float towards the surface of the water as I fall neatly into a resting place.  My arms and legs settle into the soft sand as I slip into an endless sleep.
What is it called?  I had heard of it before.  The foreign feeling fills me and soothes my heart and soul.  Death closes my glazed eyes for me.
Ah.  I remember.  Peace.
More of a short story than a poem but it's my interpretation of sadness. What do you imagine it to be?
Nikki nashon Aug 28
I wrote a poem for you
Goodmorning sunrise blues
feeling today?
I'd rather not
Persephone Aug 14
Bodies caress in a whirlwind dance
Dusty nicotine plumes pack the atmosphere
Alcohol drips into the vein
Stories converge into none
Worship of the ages has begun
Masked Voice Aug 18
Wish we could fly high,
over to the paradise,
and make an ally.

Who would that be?
Birds, Planes, or Clouds?

Clouds would be our homes,
in gleam and gloom.
Birds would sing to us,
at every phase of life.
Planes, do we
really need them, when we
have clouds to sail on?

Flying; sailing; ignoring the fears
and insecurities.
With the sun next door, and
rain in the soil of clouds,
It's such a beautiful day.

Lying down on the fluffy clouds,
We wonder,
if it is real, or a dream?

Under the bright sun and
the shimmering moon,
fighting for our attention.
We forget how the real world felt.

Amongst the thunders,
we sail through the challenges.
The adventures
experienced everyday tell us
that we aren't ghosts,
but humans who feel.
The tough sails remind us,
that we have each other.

That smile when we see an
island to rest,
Is so immaculate and real.
We fell in love with this surreal dream
Of clouds, of life and of sailing.
Holding on to how it felt,
was the promise we made.
We woke and then,
we lived the dream.
Pedro Vialle Aug 10
I feel a hole
gaping in my chest
dripping dark red blood
******* all that was left
of me, in the past
my smiles and sunny days
leaving nothing behind
but frozen shades of gray
And in my sleep I feel like falling
never stopping 'till I reach my doom...
Ed C Jun 21
Gloom rolled into town
like a caravan circus
vintage and ragged
rusty and golden
the metal tent reflected
a land before time
maybe from the old movies
when the elephants wore hats
still, and the women danced
long legged, **** and sweating
as their toes kicked up
leaving little to mystery.
The gloom has its trapeze highs
and it’s netted lows, a feeling
of falling through time,
through space, being caught
right before the big SPLAT.
The net between the gloom
and the bright lights
catches me like a spiders web,
totally and completely
but not enough to feel less lonely.
There is a tight rope of thought
instead of a train, in my brain,
i am constantly balancing,
a crowd of roaring people,
spitting people, animals
howling in the gloom
at me, laughing at me
throwing peanuts
at me
as i try to balance on the rope.
i really wanna go to the circus but not this circus this is a depression circus not a fun circus
Jiya May 30
come back

i miss you

how do i function with you gone?

you never once have left my side
tell me where you hide

please come back to me
i can't deal with this new feeling

it's yellow and bright and energized
it's tiresome, stupid and ruining my life

come back my little gloom

come back

when your depression goes and comes. when you're recovering you feel lost without it since it's the only feeling you've really known. but it always comes back eventually.
'tis the time where
pink roses lost colour
and laurel wreaths wilt;
old glory a mere story,
the Reaper rests under
weathered oaks and
cut cypresses;
watching foxgloves
and wormwoods grow
as I lie awake bleeding
with the amaranths.
trying (hard) to write in the language of flowers and plants.
Hunter Apr 16
The shadow of our tempest is a devil to curb.  
Allow it to simmer,
lest it shall disturb.
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