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Julian Delia Nov 2018
I am so ******* done.
I am now a loaded gun,
So you’d better ******* run.
I am hateful, like a forsaken son,
I am spiteful, like the blazing sun.

An appetite for self-destruction,
Akin to handling dynamite without any instructions.
The chaotic disorder that runs amok,
The scavenging hoarder pillaging dead schmucks.
This language is those dark corners left unilluminated by love,
A savage from unknown lands coming over the ridge,
That unsated, insane impulse that turns push into shove.

Throbbing veins and demonic thoughts,
Sobbing dames and manic frauds.
Your mental kingdom, your palace of peace –
It all falls apart, piece-by-piece.
Hate is like a saboteur, sneaking in,
It robs life of its grandeur, sinking its teeth in.

Rhythm just doesn’t happen,
You feel stricken, like you’re borderline bed-ridden,
Feeling as used as a ***** napkin.
You see hate in every pair of dead eyes,
In every new set of ******* lies,
Whenever another inner child dies,
Whenever another bomb-dropping jet flies.

We have two languages, in this life –
The language of love, and the language of hate.
Which one do you want to speak?
Which realm do you seek?
Choose wisely;
Mistakes are not taken very kindly.
I couldn't help myself - this is a counter-part to a previous poem, the Language of Love.
SJ Aug 2018
Thinking back, it makes a lot of sense...
The well-hidden rage.
Minor outbursts here and there.
The silent plea for help.
Drowned furth by the shower head.
Spurting cold, cold water.

The numbness that comes afterward.
The beating of a heart calming down.
Echoing in your head.

It comes in waves, ya know?
They're not always soft,
Against the shoreline of your inner mind.
Instead, pounding sharp and icy,
Jagged rock and coarse sand under your palm.

Other times it catches you in your sleep.
Completely unaware.
Sometimes mid-sentence.
Your mouth left half open.
Eyes faded into the black tunnel,
Where all words seem to have disappeared into.

Brows furrow in confusion and loss.
Sudden tears spring forth like a broken faucet.
There was no trigger this time.
Nothin to push you over the edge.
And yet...

The screaming doesn't help.
The rage building in the pit of your belly.
Stoking an agonizingly acidic fire.
Which spreads like a virus into your veins.
Vibrating under your skin.

Hyper-aware now.
Thoughts fluctuating so quickly your mind spins.
Unable to catch words, phrases.
So fast they sound like another's voice.
Right in your ******* ear.
Another itch altogether.

Options, throw the good crystal across the room.
Pray your mother forgives you from the grave.
Knock a chair over.
Pull your hair.
Grab the largest kitchen knife.
Blood staining caramel skin.
Unmarred in years.
The old ones faded with time.
But you can still see them.
Drip. Drip. Drip.

You close your eyes against these visions.

"Don't forget to take your meds tonight."
You tell your reflection.
She nods trembling.
I don't know where to start...a couple of months ago I was diagnosed with Bipolar II. Safe to say, it explains so much of my preteen and late teen years. Especially now. Please note, this is just my interpretation of how BBD feels like to me.
Fiel Jan 2018
I need to confess
That I'm not giving my best
Sorry not sorry
Overcome it "Never settle for mediocrity"
Mikel Sep 2017
You knew that for such yearning thirst

No sunlight rapture would suffice

When you created these poor eyes of mine

You were thinking of that eternal gaze

Enraptured by the endless deep
Though this was not mine. I just love the guy so much.
chris Jun 2017
n w
where did you go?
you said you would stay by my side
Se da água limpa dos rios
o poeta alcança - incólume
as fontes d'água viva...
Oh, claro lume: dela bebe.
Sedento à sanga clara colhe
a água c'o as mãos.

Na vertente rara, sequioso
estro não se abaixa,
à flor d'água, feito cão,
lambendo a lótus n'água.

É de Gideão soldado
entre os trezentos.
O que não lambe a água
O que usa as mãos.
Bebe e proclama:
- Eis a água!

Água da chuva sempre exata.
Água da fonte sempre basta.
Água que a todo fogo apaga,
Limpa água que a sede mata.
Ahsaki G Aug 2015
Have you ever had a Dream?
Something you wanted to get done?
Something that made you smile inside?
Something that sounded like fun?

A dream that inspired you to reach for the stars.
It could be finding someone special or driving fancy cars?

Maybe completing a degree or getting finances on track.
Maybe going on a cruise or traveling the world round and back.

Helping those less fortunate by giving of yourself.
Or just moving up the corporate ladder instead of sitting on a shelf.

Our dreams should inspire us to be our true I&I.;
They should encourage us to be authentic and not live a lie.

They don’t always come easy and the work might not be fun.
But the most fulfilling feeling is when the work is all done.

What happens to a dream that we have placed to the side?
Was it our own decision, or did someone else decide?
Our dreams are our very own requiring our own blood sweat and tears.
They propel us forward along the way dispelling many fears.

The dream thing may seem daunting with the goal seemingly so far.
But in actuality they are sometimes nearer than we think they are.

Don’t lose hope and let your coveted dreams go to waste.
Remember they were the very future that you once chased.

Brush off the naysayers and pursue your dreams with steadfast vitality.
For one day your very dreams will become your own reality.
Inspired by: A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes.
David Jul 2015
I love you like the day
I imagined that we'd meet
  I stared at you with wonder
You took me for a creep
I want to tell you
  Just how I feel
   But then this life
     Might come to feel
What will you do when the trains went by?  

It was a cold winter during the War
It was Germany and the trains kept going by
How did they know the box cars were full of people, stacked like bags of flour?
Going to their death? Screaming for help...
What can I say?

What would we do when the trains came by?
And heard what we thought were cries for help
Or the wheels rubbing against the cold metal tracks
One Church, by the tracks, in this small village, even planned the hymns during the times the trains went by near this sacred place; no one could hear the cries for help...

What about the trains that goes by for us these days
The person of color, the Muslim, the Hmong family down the block
The *** or ******* teen that lives in fear of his or her classmates & parents and church, mosque or place of spiritual practice...

What are we doing when the trains go by?
Aaron Combs May 2015
It's November, I feel the war is almost over,
Poland will find peace again. But the war has taken me,
for I only feel the blackness of sorrow,
all of my strength is falling apart.

Oh, my spirit is falling, falling like the purple sunset,
My beloved,  
   I'm fading in the cradle of your prayers
All my soul is hungry for strength,
   the sweat under my side
and the thorns of confusion and heaviness
are only growing stronger.

Keep me awake, dear.
   Tell me about when we met,  when you
smiled with curiosity  when you first saw me.
  Tell me about the time when we hid and laughed
behind the schoolyard,
   right by the flower fields where we played hide and seek.
The time when our souls  only sung with power and laughter.

Now beneath our old house, our home, I can't hide anymore.
I can't hide the hurt, the pain, the sorrow, but I do know
the flames of grace burns over and over, so don't you cry.
The psalms we use to sing, they also heal, yes, they also heal.

So remember me,

   and the star I gave you, for then I'll be with you,  

near the altar of your heart,
by the silver rivers of memories and love, because then

I'll always be your hero and heart,
your wildfire within.
This is written from the perspective of Jewish refugee to his beloved.
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