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You were so close to me.
Every heart beat pumped you closer to me.
But you were just poison being injected in.
I tore my heart out before it could beat again.

We stretched the horizon,
Our pallet decorated the sky,
For one sweet moment it was just you and I.
Your sunshine kissed my closed eye lids.
Even when they were closed you still managed to seep through,
I couldn’t escape the image of you.

But you set in that sun,
And never rose again.
You took the warmth with you,
After all you put me through.

It is painful to feel you.
What was once petals is now thorns.
Bleeding me from every pour,
But you don’t seem to care at all.

You handed me a revolver,
And urged me to pull the trigger.
It was hard for me to tense my finger,
But you convinced me that this was for the better.
Ronnie Feb 22
Never ask a poet what they think
about the things that matter.
They will not give a definite answer
for their hearts tend to ache
somewhat too severely
and even then some things
are better left unsaid
unfinished
in a black and white world
where any shade of grey is a crime
somewhere over the rainbow
in a place where it is the safest
to not be there at all
or else you are certainly the one to blame
even if the lace is buried deep within
your overwhelming guilt and shame
hidden under all the what ifs and pleats
and somewhere deeper yet
there is the quietest of voices
too afraid to speak of the bruises
left on the inside of her thighs
and within her heart
the voice of reason that tells you
please don’t walk down that alley
keep your friends close
and the keys in your hand closer
keep your head up high
and your hopes down low
or whatever else makes sense
in this dog eat dog world
where everything you will ever know
will be shredded and recycled
oh, if only
to be crushed into a pulp
and spoon-fed to another generation
diluted with careful consideration
into a day-in day-out nine to five
not even a cog in the machine
a ***** at best
and you will be *******
tightened up more and more
until you can’t hold it together
and whatever it takes
falls apart into pieces
broken glass on the asphalt
a hole in the wall
that sinking feeling
where a soul should be
but the angels don’t visit anymore
or answer our prayers
the line is always busy
there is always something else
something more important
a bullet in the bible
escalating into emergency
but who is out there for the unarmed boy
dying on the sidewalk
misjudged for the colour of his skin
who is out there to stop the hand of a father
suspended in mid-air
with the children cowering at his feet
who is out there for the American dream
turning into a global nightmare
who can tell the pending future
staring down the barrel of the gun
wondering which side you should be on
and what of that which you call freedom
only to trade it for martyrdom
what of candour and justice
and their antonymous nature
what of the artists and the poets
and everyone else that took a shot
but didn’t even come close
living in a daydream
playing from the same broken record
telling us that there is meaning
and there is worth in the things we do
except that from time to time
the needle would skip
distorting the vision
and at times like these
it’s the easiest to look away
for every scratch on the surface of reality
encourages you simply to
pull the trigger

No.
I will not, I refuse
to let this get the best of me.
The pen is a blade. I slit my wrist
and pour my heart out onto the page
instead. This is a sacrifice
I am willing to make.
I will tear myself apart
on my own terms.
If I cannot do it myself,
who else will?
My most recent poem for my university class, inspired by the likes of Baraka and Ginsberg. Prompt given to us was "protest poetry".
Postal Leo Jan 31
Can we go back to paper planes, and the sun’s rays,
Making out, and writing essays,
The world is so simple, or at least it can be,
Baby, just set me free…

Last night, i earnestly cried, was the first time in a long time, a knife didn’t breach my skin,
And i began to think about everything I had to lose, but yet still so much to win.
I thought of the girl, who had so easily stolen my heart,
And then piece by piece, ripped it slowly apart.
Now, I’m not exactly known, for being studious and smart.
But I’m fully aware of when I’m being lied to, from the start.

What secrets, do you hide?
Love potion, or cyanide.
It's clear for me to see, you just were not meant for me,
Whenever I’m in pain, you enjoy with such glee.
And now my heart's in pieces, all but shattered,
I’m deaf to all noise, accepting your laughter…

And we start again, all over,
I begin to lose composure…
And I, am so afraid of dying,
Spent, an eternity crying.
Need some inspiration, maybe i should talk to God.
Why didn’t he forewarn me of your facade.

So who gives a ****, about you and me?
At the end of the day, i just want to be free.
Using my hands to shovel through this infinite darkness.
Spent days trying to think of a word to rhyme with darkness, but all i could think about, was love!
Boris Sitnikoff Oct 2018
Grey matter all around
She sits there, makes no sound
A blank stare at the ground

Nobody alive, all alone
Sighs all bored, no joy shown

Streaming from her wellspring.
Off her legs, dripping,
The blood of the faithful cries in anger:

“Why did you do this to me, *****?”
“Where is your soul?”
“*******, *****.”
“*******, ***.”

Her face, unfazed,
Her eyes, all dazed,
Her tongue, flicking back and forth
As if there was nothing to do.

This is the reality
That she bought with her humanity…

As a down payment, and with infinity due

Only God can cosign her now.
Does He even want to?

Fast forward

Great white throne, souls abound
He sits there, trumpets sound
Fiery stare at the ground

Everybody waiting, none alone
Signs of fear of His glory shown

“I heard the blood of my children,” said He.
“I saw your name in satan’s checkbook,”
“And I don’t see your name in the book of life.”

Then she replied

“Why did you do this to me, *****?”
“Where is your soul?”
“*******, *****.”
“*******, h-”

His face, unfazed,
“My Son died for all who believe in Me
And turn away from their evil deeds,
Yet you washed your conscience in the toilet
And fed the ***** crows My Word’s seeds.”
His eyes, ablaze.

Her teeth gnashing,
She weeps as she burns
With literally nothing else to do.

This is the reality
That she bought with her humanity…

As a down payment, and with infinity due.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
red
the bus
was flooded
with sunshine,
crushed tomatoes
smoked salmon red.
fears siz-zled like raw meat,
brains splat-tered, oatmeal
steel-cut bitter,
berry jam
drippin’
maple
syrup
honey
smo—oth.
scarlet scars, crimson
crimes, carmine
car crash,
die.
Knowledge has ahead of it, forgetfulness.
The crow does not stop to examine his wing,
His gaze would surely cause him to fall out the sky.
Yet there is a time when knowing is fruitful.
Reflective verse for a work in progress - Crows Cage, a graphic novel about a correlation with the life and works of Vincent van Gogh
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