Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I was asked to explain what I mean by
"Dead Inside"
Typically I pawn off a joking motion
waving my marionette arms
to hide the rabbit in the hat
I adequately nick-named misery
because it keeps me company.
But if you sawed me in half
I'm quite certain all you will find
inside is a silhouette of  man
dancing around in a light box
doing the same fruitless jig over and over.
A couple of loose strands
and a few holes in the images
but the end is the beginning
and I am putting on a show for you all now.
The curtain is  my mouth
strung so tight you'd think it was a smile
And the words I say spin round and round
not a genuine frown in sight.
The light may be on inside
but the picture never seems to change
day after day,
collect the pieces off the floor
get up,
fall in love,
trip over the same type of girl
have my heart shatter into pieces
fall back down on the side of the road
remember how uselessly alone I am;
rinse and repeat.
This is paper thin love
and see through expectations that will not fail.
And it doesn't matter which way you spin it.
Its A tragically bad silent comedy
that doesn't need a narrator to explain
Just how miserable the person inside really is.
My heart is just a silhouette of a man
and if you think you can put some tangibility
behind it and not have it shatter into 1000 pieces.
Congrats you too have joined the circus.
and spin round and round in my light box.
Ryan Seth Cole Jul 2021
A man in his suffering bridaled by his toungue. A collection of thoughts that are reduced to a sum. With his fate at hand at the rolling of a thumb. His attempt at redemption is met to be shunned. He will forever be held by the passing of the moon and sun. He watches helplessly wanting to say so much but never does. He is his own prisoner. He want's to be but never does. He is the man who does not understand true love. He is the man that once was.

-RSC
Watching the world pass by and never making any real changes. Feeling like more of a spectator than having participated. About to make a move only to stop yourself.
Leaves it all to chance.
Never really caring enough.
Norbert Tasev Mar 2020
Today, it is crippled with all its nerve strands, and the Man as the official heir to the throne of the evolutionary chain is weaving into itself; Who can still be alive and the victim in the grinding mill wheels of weekdays? With his scary, huge injection needles, he wounds every day like a wounded Sun - punching my face for a long time or tram in a bar-leaning shop. ***** stings, teasing spits and howling blood

stools drowned in themselves as addicted to themselves as the ultimate hopeless: expelled from their homes! But the Hearts, the proudly lion-drawn Hearts, the clean, unclean, spotless consciences: Cared for and well-kept spiritual gardens, still flutter. - Century is powerful, indomitable

crocodile-willed wake-up Jancies, diva-matrons, fleshy cups - they are leaning over flesh pots for fat snacks. On the ground, the main editors dig traps, hard-pressed piles -

there is nowhere to flee the stoic masses of despised manuscripts - There could only be at last a sounding, cymbalized human word, Chairs and sermons without preaching on Goodness, Truth, Morals, that we are one-hearted in our humanity, and we are no longer strangers!

Those who help with self-will, and with unbridled compassion, hold upon us the easy mercy of their alms. Has the development of the world begun with modern means of mass communication? Are the long-awaited fortune-tellers of immortal castles in theaters, theaters - thunderstorms - still lit?

- That's how they live downstairs: The one who swallows a lot of food is fine and spends on himself. Anyone who helps will be deliberately oblivious - the anti-horror of cultural ignorance infects everyone! "Now the world is pitifully petty and hateful." Luck dancing on the hands of pecking-down little kings, luck and honor or humanity may no longer have a shelter here - because a exploitable, grabbing marionette puppet in the delicate hands of the Man's Boys is stuck in the air of job interviews:

The gorillas gnawing at them, like the Adonis on the mallard kittens, giggled, "Mobile phone! Buy artificial nails! " - That's left! "No longer need immortal confessions on the dragon pillars of wounded-hearted sunsets, nor any universe-lovers." - no brainwashing stupid - Morals! The power of human hearts, understanding on earth, Peace in your hearts! Between the Aggastyan Mountains I stretch my bow like a bow and whisper my voice!
Raven Oct 2019
I've written about it so many times
but my pain is still invisible,
wrapped up in beautiful words.
I wish someone would rip them apart,
revealing the cruelty of it all.
But still i'm standing here
dressed in a blanket of suffering,
trying to turn it into something beautiful,
but i've run out of ideas.
I'm trying to make you notice me,
lying in the arms of solitude,
naked, scared and worn.
I feel so vulnerable even thinking about it.
My only way to speak about it is poetry
and i've already said everything,
I'm only repeating myself.
But it's in vain,
comfort's still out of reach.
stranger Sep 2019
eating the inside of my lip
and uncovering my back in the moonlight.
I walk the streets nonchalantly.
No hearing.
Just sight.
And taste, the taste of the inside of my lip bleeding.
I was raised to be just and to keep my eyes on the sole thing that interests me.
Meaning everything.
So it's all I do.
I sit and stare unwillingly.
Keeping track of the eyes that read me and the ones that are just passing by.
Considering.
I'm built around the social construct of being lonely.
But not really.
I'm losing the fancy words I used to fight for just like I'm losing myself.
As I leave more me on my bed than anywhere else.
I shaved today to feel a hint of self interest.
It was completely useless.
I couldn't give a **** about myself with hair or without but that's just too much to confess.
I've been trying to sing more and dance and give into the so called creativity I harness.
It's all a lie.
It's all a distraction.
It's something I want to call motivation but can't.
Am i meant to rot in the lifestyle of a movie miserable human?
Walking the streets and spazzing on my bed.
With my dreams swept out of my head.
I look in three separate mirrors everyday.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
And that's the million dollar question.
Because somehow the moment everything collapses we turn to the forbidden.
But either way I digress I'd be too afraid to do it to myself.
I've found billion other methods that make me feel that they match the situation.
**** this poem.
It's another excuse for my insomnia.
Another excuse to justify why I woke up at 11 just to fall onto another bed.
All the memories I've collected, play me such a theatre show,
And I watch wondering if they're the dream from last night or real life.
And it makes me question again.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
Not because I wanna die necessarily but because at times I'm rather lucky.
Like the universe repays me.
Like the universe cried a single tear of mercy and out of all the people it rained on me.
And it still seems like I'm ungrateful.
The universe is mistaking my head for someone else who maybe instead would know how to use that luck efficiently.
I am no such mastermind.
I've lost my book based intelligence when I was 11 and gained my eyes when I was 13.
Ironically.
So who am I and why am I not dead?
Living a paradox withing irony itself,
I'm handmade by multiple clichés.
Or that's what I think.
My dreams seemed nice until people tell me they're just a fantasy.
Oh but look at me, 16 and complaining about dreams.
I'd end up a great housekeeper I'd tell myself though nothing stays clean.
I feel old.
Old in a way I've never felt.
Like by the time I'd reach 30 I'd already be dead.
Or maybe again,
Is it all on my head?
Adolescent scent in the times of complete desolation.
I stand and I don't understand.
Who am I and why am I not dead?
**** some nights, my talent for insomnia really shows
This world is celebrating a new found existence while I'm just calculating the distance of my head falling to the floor.
Its a new year, a new hope for the hopless
Theres a casual affair with the maiden next door
And when that doesnt work i know where the dope is.
Its Underneath the floorboards, next to my crushed heart and broken dreams,
Washed up fantasies and unstitched seams.
Because Ill be incapacitated this new year
Kept away from the pain and the fear
Of being sober enough to face my own reflection
Hidden from the complexion of my stone cold eyes, the consistent mellow stench that looms around my scars, and the blatant mistakes in the shadows.
The heart breaks and callous hands
That are both held together by shackles and brands.
I will not remember anything,
Plunging down into a new year.
Depression strijes again this year
MKB Nov 2018
It’s been awhile
Dead light
And
I

Have you been watching
Little me?—
In all my corruption;
Has your sentient ablution—
So tried—
Decided to set me aside
In my hiding?

I grovel here;
Blind.
While You glisten—
You listen—and weave
Serene discomfort
Into a little-soul
Like mine.    

Supine and slight—
I trace Your patterns in the
Night and try to name them
As others have
Before me:
Dipper. Orion. Northern-light:
Compass bright.

Are they suppose to
Mean Something?
I cling to their instruction
And move nowhere.  
Your pictures do not wear the weight
That answers
Do.

Can I sough purpose
In their Recitation?
—For I have wanted for comfort.
I repeat the names—
Cardinal ghosts in dotted-frame—
But their direction
Alludes me.

Oh, You Pin-******—
You Old-Flames—
You Astute Celestial Hosts.  
Have You hung silent
—In all Your knowing
Just waiting
For me to let go?

Do You know the cold of war waged
Alone?——
Blueprints of rage have rewrote the
Geography of my limbs:
I am not my arms my legs I am not
My breaking
Heart.

My hands aren’t mine, anymore.
I have never been so
Stolen.

Hey, Heaven’s map of decussation:
Do You see me down here
at all?
Praying for Your mum
Eureka call——
To pull me past
My boxing halls?

You are all l have left—
to follow.
Tired of feeling lost.
Tired of letting go.

But it could be awhile
      Dead light.
Hopelessness is a heavy might:
But I thought—just maybe,  
you might—
Wait
For me.

I face you
In the night.
—Until I get there.
Me: the tiny nightmare.
At the edge of sleep’s reprieve
Before I face the mourning,
Bare.
Carry You-Ruelle, Flurrie
JJ Inda Nov 2018
tippy toeing around once more,
still all that fails is true
and lies are grand for while,
until, always until.
-alone isn't always solitude
or lonely,
but it is.
I see the words in the air
and when I reach,
they scatter.
I'm keeping quiet
and very still,
maybe something will happen,
or someone might come in and talk
and I can put the pen down
and admit it's useless.
Next page