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Michael 6d
Life is hard,
That’s the way it’s meant to be.
We try so hard,
This is easy to see.
They say hard work pays off in the end,
On this I disagree.
How can death be the payout,
That doesn’t seem good to me.
We fight,
We struggle,
This is what makes our life.
If it was easy we’d have no reason,
No reason to fight,
And push for something better.
The final destination is irrelevant,
It’s the journey that makes us.
Hardship is what makes us.
one more day
one more day,
i say waking every day.

one more day
one more day,
we'll get through today.

one more day
one last day,
we'll be okay.

< e.i. >
Halle Sep 24
Do you actually want me?
Or just like the thought of me?

Please let me know
If you want me to stay

I want to stay
But only if you want me to
And as the dust started to settle, she looked around.
The ashes drifting through the air, only making her scorched surrounding more grim.
The cinder danced in the air.
Fluttering to the ground with grace.
It was hard to imagine that a furious fire had done this.
Somehow she knew that the flame would never truly be quenched.
This would never truly be over.
The burning coals exhale hot breaths onto her feet.
Whispering what was yet to come.
The burning ashes smiled knowing
they still had time
to burn her alive.
Pigeon Sep 18
I tried to plant a garden
I toiled and tilled til my nails were nothing but blackened nubs
Like small pieces of charcoal
And I spent my last coins on seeds- because the granddaughter of a florist must have flowers
But my blooms wilted
My leaves shriveled
And locusts chewed on my darlings til they were nothing but the frailest stems
Like my legs looked, when I was fifteen

For days I mourned. Years it seemed. More coins spent on seeds, more work in the sun
But I kept ending up with bare roots and dry buds
Until finally, one day, I looked down at my barren garden and asked it, how do I make you beautiful?
To which my garden replied

cow ****.

Because the lotus can’t grow without the blackest of mud. The roses can’t bloom without meal made of blood.
my garden had died... because I hadn’t gone through enough cow ****.
Eric Babsy Sep 16
The years when I was a child were filled with a infinite range of emotions.
Emotions so strong it felt I could move mountains, land, and even oceans.
My childhood was full of tears and fun.
I know now I am not the only one.
I remember exploring the country side with friends.
When we were older we drifted apart and the pain never ends.
I remember all the cartoons we watched.
I remember birthdays, Christmas, and the toys that were brought.
I remember all the pets we had.
I remember the days when I was happy or sad.
When I think about it I am mad.
The days I have now are filled with sorrow and grief from that.
Though my childhood still remains.
I should be glad that I am alive, please relieve these restraints.
Every day I am reminded of the past.
Hopefully I relieve the pain at last.
I am not proud at what I have become.
Maybe now the dreams of my love.
My friends and family I will follow them.
With their guidance I will swallow them.
I hope to never remember the past so angered.
For some, hope for the future is endangered.
My advice is to find something you are good at doing.
Run for the future and never look back unless it is wrong you are pursuing.
I will keep the past pain and hardship near.
My pain in my heart is stored right here.
Perceptions of identity in internal conflict grow by the shared fear of being disproven.

Resistance, in the form of denial, turns into desperation and anxiety before it reluctantly ceases.

But sometimes it happens during the mental battle and human hardship that the most pressured of these perceptions fires a distress-rocket out of its protective trench.

Something instinctual in man appeals, and if need be demand an opportunity to express what has happened.

The signal often depicts itself in ways of expression already chosen at birth, without regard to the self-image's rigorous, albeit nervous defense.

And so the poet dictates,

the artist sings,

regardless if one never dared before, one dares now.

The feelings are preserved long after the battle has passed,  
thoughts fade out of memory,
lost in one of the eternally sealed archives of the organism.

Yet the fragment that made it out is a beautiful remnant, an undeniable testimony that a creation of the soul can leave man.
This text is about things created during hardship.
Its about a thought i had, that maybe the things we create are the expression of our internal processes, needing to be heard by someone.
Krizhe Ming Sep 11
Too slow in this fast-paced world
Too dumb among the smart people
Too simple yet living in complications
Am I bound to be like this?
Can I even cope up?
Lyn-Purcell Sep 10

Suicide is a PERMANENT answer
to a TEMPORARY problem.
Nothing good nor bad lasts forever,
and life is short.
You are unique.
You are special.
You are loved.
You were born for a reason
Please, do not suffer in silence
There is no shame in getting help
Life is tragically short as it is
Please don't make yours any shorter...

It's hard, I know.
To feel like there is no light left in this world and you want to just stop the pain altogether. I've been there, and in a way, I'm kind of still there. In that void of pain and self-doubt, questioning everything. My life, my existence...
I have tried to commit suicide. The act of it gave me a temporary comfort but, I knew myself. I could never ever see it through. I couldn't deny myself my future. A chance to finally find and have peace of mind and body. To be happy with who and what I am...
It's a battle, but as long as you have people who support you, who love you,
as long as you get the help you need and keep going,
you will be alright.
Thank you everyone for your kind comments on my 'Hide' poem as well as all the messages. My apologies that I haven't read or responded them, I'm still trying to gather myself. I'm not yet on the right state of mind...
Also, thank you so much for 218 followers!
I'll be back soon.
Take care everyone!
Much love,
Lyn ***
Alyssa Gaul Sep 7
It's hard to say if the climb was worth it

I know they push and press convincingly that
the climb is always worth it, but is it really?
I am left scraped up and battered
from all the boulders
and the wolves
and all the **** thorns
and left wondering if I really made it out better on the other side

There's always another mountain

And is it worth it?
To what end do we climb?
To what purpose do we trudge tirelessly up the mountainside,
wondering when we will reach the top?
I have reached the top many times
And there is always another **** mountain to climb
on the other side

So it's hard to say if the climb was worth it

And that is not to say I am done climbing
Though I question, my body falls back into the rhythm of the climb
ignores the scrapes and bruises
ignores the way the wolves nip at my heels
because I too always feel there is victory at the top
believe the nicks come with the climb
believe that if I just reach the top, then I can be free

But there's always another mountain

And what did I gain more than experience?
More than scars, and disappointment
Does it even matter that I have beaten the mountain
if nothing ever changes but my own weariness?
It is insanity, the very climb we repeat
over and over
as if there will ever be a different outcome

It's hard to say if the climb was worth it
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