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Mary Allard Sep 2018
She feels everything so deeply
Every ray, a bath
Each touch, a fairytale
His dimples, painted art
His love, a world

She feels everything so deeply
Every sprinkle, a shower
Each bruise, a tattoo
His hands, a weapon
His love, a poison
Hamartia- the quality of a character that leads to their downfall
b Apr 2018
i wanted to call this poem

"if this is fate than put a gun in my mouth"

feels a bit excessive
even for me.

and im the most extra ***** ive ever met.

i rarely have **** to say when i write.
ive rewritten the same feeling a thousand times.
i only know so many synonyms for heartbreak
and im running out.

the star of all this angsty literature
is far away for the moment.
across the country.
but ill be home soon
to watch her graduate (im still a kid and so is she)

i went very far away from home for a lot of reasons.
admittedly, she was one of them.
when i met her
she told me she'd never be able to afford to leave.

well good news.

next year she'll be an hour away.

i think i live in a chinese finger trap
or the ******* matrix.
the harder i pull
the faster the walls cave in.
the **** i try and leave behind
gets to where im going before i do.

i believe in love too much to ever **** it.
even if that means i have to watch it die slow in my hands
and listen to it shriek out in pain.

id rather die than give up on love
and from what i remember
thats what we call hamartia.

i could fall in love with a sword through my heart
if it was nice enough to me.
and maybe if she were holding it,
it wouldnt even hurt.

my highschool english teachers would be very proud of all the two greek terms i remembered
voodoo Sep 2015
I think of you on days the odor of water makes me dry-heave.

Our photographs still throw me, offguard, into flashbulb memories. Every detail etched into my brain with a hot scalpel.

This isn’t an apology, this is a confession. I am not guilty in my eyes.

That was my hollow lava, this is what it crystallized into. Look at it, laugh at it, break it, keep it. My words were only meant to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes. In your eyes.

Drown my breath in a tub of sand, tell me everything that isn’t alright.

You can weave our veins into a dystopian novel, stamp it with 'fiction' and we can pretend it never happened.

The ordinary incinerated in your palms and I’m reeling from this hamartia.

Paint your carcinogens on my skin, carve them into my bones, punch them onto my eyes. Hold these hands one more time and feed me a blatant lie.

Feed me anything that’ll help me swallow these choked up cries.

I’ve wondered how the others were, how you were.

Was it art when you wrapped blindfolds around their necks?

What was it to them? How were they dying?

How am I dying?

Because I wake up in the odd hours, my chest feeling like it’s soaked in salt water,

and you’re standing at the edge of my bed,

with a mug of poison,


telling me it’s okay,

it’s just a bad dream,

here, I made some coffee.

And I believe you.
for K
mk Aug 2015
i am sewn together by mistakes
// hamartia //
Michaela Siaki Sep 2014
You're all the company I would keep,
If choosing were a choice.
If oceans were dams, and miles were feet,
and I could hear your voice.

Our fatal flaw will always be
In my loneliest moments -
You are asleep.
Rose Ruminations Aug 2014
She spits fire
Stands strong
Feet planted:
No mercy

She is belladonna
She is the femme fatale
She is unattainable
And she revels it that.

Solitude lends itself to sweet dreams and optimism
Without the threat of slowing down
Without the weight of children's bodies
Without the teeth and claws of responsibility
Sinking soul-shudderingly deep
Into her body

Or so she tells herself
When faced with her
Swarms of unhappy thoughts
Gnat-like they flutter
Around her head

But she will not let them in

Because that is vulnerability
That is admitting weakness
That is being human

And she will never admit her *hamartia
Felix Char Jul 2014
For years,
God was as reasonable
As any other immaterial thing.
He was in the mornings and evenings.
He was in the washing and in the sleeping.
He was in the walls and the dirt;
He was in the blood.
But as with all things perfect, infallible,
Time will only wear
Away your sureness of them.

This unfaith creeps on us
As a dream does.
We are assured against illusion
if we will not investigate.
(You could run through it
For years, not letting it end.)
But when we see the trees' reflection
Glinting off the frozen lakes in winter,
Or else read the words of a Frost
or a Keats,
We find, He is no longer in any of these things.
Whether we are then numb or stricken,
His absence will be hollow, unavailing:
"In the depths all becomes law."

If it is possible,
We should not be terrified;
Though we are always terrified,
And if not,
Then blissfully mistaken.
We must slake our lust,
At least first,
In the physical and close at hand.
We must burn with the mornings and evenings.
And be borne in the unravelling of
Washing and sleeping.
These dutiful rituals,
ephemeral and eternal,
Are in each who've walked before us,
Who've learned and hurt,
Who've breathed our air.
It is here we find
The solace of our ancestry.

And when these, too, become tiresome,
And we are stretched thin
By the weight of the metaphor of all things,
Wholly in those most simple,
Be sure that even this
Deepest gravity
Invents itself from within us.
So trusting are we that
The breaking of our chest
Is reasoned through;
That we are meant for this pain
Or that joy.
Is the parting of the grass made; is it designed?
Even from the tides,
We demand divinity!
We must strive to divorce
From these assumed perceptions:
Become the science, sterility.
Be as simplest machines,
dividing cells:
No use of colours,
No shades,
No God.

When we are yearning from
The meanest seed,
Quickening and suffering,
For now we can not be reduced
But unto death,
The greatest truths lie herein.
Now, we can suppose longing
Onto handshakes,
And let each small weight upon us be Sisyphean.
We may let, too, jubilation be in
The sun's rising, and in all
Things of measured confidence.
In each fleeting moment,
We can appreciate that we will live
For an infinity of moments,
And also not even one.

He is in these things.

We can be sure He is no corporeal being,
Willingly given up by our tabula rasa.
And we will know that His visage is made of our fathers
And we are in Him: nowhere.
But He is in our questing
And too, in our need for Him.
And He bends backward,
Head over heels,
twisting like our own anatomy,
To meet us, to free us.
We have felt Him each second we have yearned,
And each second we are bloodied by this yearning,
By these moments.
He is in our most procellous highs,
and in the damp wake of loneliness.
When we hurt most,
We know, with instinct, to let pain in,
To lay bare and be torn,
And torn again.
Why should this be?
Because He is there, too!
He is in tears but
So is he in love!
And love is in the ***,
Love is in the burdens.
Love is in our greatest triumph
And hiding still in our writhing panic.
In our joys and fears,
Our surrenders and our suffering.

We are made of the stuff.

And if one of us should fall in His name,
They will then be immortal.
Not in the sky, nor beneath the Earth,
But in the hearts of humans;
In the mortal, frail, beating hearts
Of those who still bleed for them,
Still ache for them,
Every morning,
Every evening.

He is love.

And, as ever,
So are we.
Shane Oltingir May 2014
When I gave you my heart in Pandora's box,*
locked and sealed, and safe from me,
You did not taint nor break my heart,
You simply lost the key--

*It is there where all my hatred starts...

— The End —