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Lizzie Bevis Jul 13
The black fabric clings  
to my dampened skin  
in this oppressive heat,
while the sun beats down,
indifferent to my grief,  
making my loss heavier to bear.

I wear this darkness  
on the outside now,  
while the emptiness of loss  
ironically thrives within.  
How strange it is that colours speak  
what words I dare not say.

Black is not just a colour,  
but the weight of something lost,  
the saddest shade, absent of light,  
offering no relief in return, 
as I long for cooling breezes
that I cannot feel.

In this attire of sorrow,  
I walk through sunny days  
as a contradiction,  
I am a gloomy shade  
amidst summer's lively scenes,  
wearing my grief on my sleeve.

©️Lizzie Bevis
I still hold onto your fantasy in my head, tight.
Can you feel the memories at night?
Or are you completely alright?
Do you replay every detail in your head, too?

I believed in your potential even if your damage grew.
I realized they were always there, the clues,
A part of me still wants you to remember though, just for the sake of the blues.

I guess there was no way clear,
Your voice's still ringing deep inside my ear.
I know it'll pass and i'd be healed,
But i can't help and peel
My lips, when i think about everything,

Will we ever get closure or just nothing?
Guess i'll get my tea,
sit on that breezy balcony,
And try to do nothing.
villiøn Jun 26
Teetering moons linger on the edge.
The desolate expanse cowers in fear.
Outside, an observer that refuses to intervene.

A wailing silence is born in the void.
It's screams descend into a chasm of chaos.
No more can I bear witness to the damnation.

The stars have sewn their eyes shut.
Condemning fate to an eternal madness.
A sorrowful ache burrows into my womb.

Everything yearns for my tenderly solace.
Their patience bound in endless slumber.
My children are born to chaos, forevermore.

Time, imbued in an infinite memory.
Grows beyond distant eons —
And consumes existence itself.
Lostling Jun 26
When I sleep,
I no longer dream.
If I do dream,
It fades with the rising sun.
Unless it's one
Where you lay in my arms
Sleeping, because I was too late.

Who could forget such a dream?
I had another nightmare last night. I wish they'd stop.
junie Jun 25
my bones miss structure
even if it’s borrowed
a timetable stitched from deadlines
just enough to tie me to something
outside my own spiraling

now, all i have is time
feral and barefoot
spilling into corners
where potential goes to wilt
too much of my life for nobody to hold

no duties to tether me
no rush, no reason
just the sound of myself growing louder

my hands itch for anything but survival

let me bleed for burden and responsibility
instead of rotting in my own brain
let me fall apart for someone else

still, i need to stay alive
to wrap the babies in my warmth
to meet the mothers
between screams and surrender
so they’ll finally feel safe with me

for now, i stare at the scars on my wrist
and think of all the pain i’ll carry differently
when it’s not just my own
but from holding too much of another life
and never letting it slip away

the lives i hope to live long enough to see

so when they breathe for the first time
i’ll know how to do it too
this piece is especially tender to me because it's about a personal experience of growing up with depression, and learning to grow from it. most of my life was spent tied to the pressure of deadlines, so i felt heavy responsibilities to stay alive to fulfill my duties. now that i've graduated and i'm in a long waiting period for university, i found myself relapsing and losing hope again. but i know that it'll pass, it always does. time is a blessing and a curse. i'll turn my sorrow into love for the babies and mothers i'll cradle in my arms in the ache of birth and fear. i'll know my purpose then.
I still turn and look.
I hear her in the whispers
From years of instinct.
Her spirit might not haunt me
But ev'ry shadow is hers.
Poem for Lily.
Alex May 5
Grandma has no grave
In my house.
Ashes are her remains
Underneath the ground.

I saw it, once, a hand-sized metal disk
With holes as big as a one-pence coin
For plastic flowers of various faded colours and dull varieties
By which to shed a tear and moan
That what little she had is now overgrown.

Between you and me, though, she's buried somewhere deep
In Albox, Spain, in a citrus heat
Where her tree grows steady, bearing good fruit
Year after year blooming flowers of white
Strong white, bright white
All the same kind.
Her tree puts forth oranges of sweetness and pride
Not dimmed in all this time since the moment she died,
Though she's been moved, once or twice,
Her flowers still bloom
Sweet, strong, and bright.
Simon Bridges Apr 26
Being this way
They say
Is a natural occurrence
                               Certain
                               Predictable

     As when the path of
Worldly planets collide
              A shadow cast
              Upon the other
The dark eclipse
                                Inevitable

How does one soften
Such emotion
When its surface
             Is taught
Like the spine of an open book
                       Placed face down
For ease of remembrance
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