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Emry Oct 2020
This poem’s not in
Iambic Pentameter,
It is a haiku.
Old silly poem
Veronica Apr 2020
Still searching for something to fill the void
The early silence trade for endless pain
And when my mind is screaming, filled with noise
If sanity is dead, am I insane?

Oh how I want to give my soul to thee
So I don’t have to hurt it anymore
The only thing I have to fear is me,
You tell me that I’m broken, are you sure?

With all the many lies to me you’ve fed
I see the truth that’s lingering afar
Hung on too long, to let you go I dread
I’ll leave this suffering, still plagued by scars

Embrace the pain. With it comes wisdom too.
Wake up, my dear. From death springs life anew.
JΛM Jan 2020
Their gears twist and turn, cranking tirelessly
Round the mortal coils of a mellower
Art and content of games played wirelessly.
The game boards are awash with bellowers,
Slighted pawns too bound by echo tubing
Passed around to fortunetellers frightened
By town criers trying to throw heartstrings
Of lovers obsessed with burdens lightened.
"She is trapped and he the trapper," they say.
Shall he free her and see her twist and break?
Maybe that is her choice," but not today,
Or tomorrow or the next," he risks fate.
      Their goal is obvious: parting those two.
      Too bad their love is a folie à deux.
Folie à Deux means madness for two. it's a case in which two people share the same delusion. Like lover's having the same fantasy.
JΛM Dec 2019
Righteous anger is intoxicating;
Brain cells sold to the fiction of the mind.
It funds peddlers too loudly debating:
Oh, what to do with words spent on designs
Of machines combating contradictions?
Their motherboards are hardwired for the ****.
Any thoughts or beliefs on opinions?
Just wait for their hunger to get its fill.
Nothing like teeth flushed with red and venom.
***, death, and chocolate cannot compare
To the moral high ground's cheap decorum
Of beliefs held in contempt and despair.
      Because paying attention to the wit
      Of my getting hard done by is the ****.
Anna Himes Oct 2019
Look, my face, in there the misery lies
A hit, a peck, to your neck, I’ll stab you
Past the doldrums of the eyes, stab the thighs
Stab me, stab you, we are part of a crew

Who is to blame for this which we suffer?
Choice or illness: is this my habitus?
Who is to ask, is she a good mother?
Filth, grime, slime, a dime, but I am righteous

Don’t want to go to jail, got to get well
Reach out for help, and they put me there. Hell!
Is it my fault; am I even my own?
Come to the Hole, show you the seed we’ve sewn

Look, my face, in there the misery lies
Look, my face, in there the human soul sighs
inspired by "Righteous Dopefiends", a photoethnography centered around a community of ****** addicts
morseismyjam Jun 2019
The kitchen table, dimly lit, at which
Sit I, with book propp’d up upon the edge,
And in my hand, a mug bedeck’d with owls,
To the brim fill’d with sweet cinnamon chai.
The room as warm as summer, walls protect.
And I look out at the surrounding black
Becoming lost deep in the rain and wind
Which whirls without, just like a dancer wild
Would swirl a ribbon round and round their head.
But i sit in my isle of warmth and light.
While they are locked outside, in  fath’mless dark.
another poem from highschool. We were studying iambic pentamiter.
Arke Sep 2018
for all the love of life that is now lost
your voice rings through my mind like a warm song
regardless of sweet summers ending cost
creates poetry in my head ere long

our melting of minds and bodies now gone
but forgotten, your touch could never be
simple as the dusk which becomes the dawn
my love for you as pure, as it is free

I know you may not feel of me the same
perhaps never again will you be mine
and gone is the love that once easy came
perhaps your silence has become a sign

but my love for you will always ring true
and your love alone has carried me through
Jon-Paul Smith Aug 2018
Cupping candles on the open landscape,
marching to the heartbeat of the earth,
head hung low I hold the empty plate
that carries my last meal, the vanished mirth

I knew before the terrible black promise
of days that have been too long in the night.
I know I will not see the fabled summit.
A phosphorous reminder of the light,

Solemn-eyed the moon proclaims my doom,
my quiet song on this unhappy moor,
as I who move from chaos into gloom
light candles and bring darkness to the world.

If I could find within this grave omission
the fortitude of strength to stay the hand
that trembles with an urge to amputation
on the backdoor of tomorrow where I stand

How I would walk then as the need arises
and before the looming mountain make my plea
as far away the sun it blithely rises,
but I do not think that it will rise for me.

I do not think that it will rise for me.
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