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dancing in the deep down
dramatic, lulling lays
of Lana Del Rey—

a quill on its snow-white
then tainted-black ground
and a flooded, brimful head
on its space—

till the airhead wakes and
weeps and wails.
A late post here, gotta admit that I still feel frustrated and mad at myself that I am unable to write lots like some of my friends. They are able to write long, gorgeous pieces even from the simplest of words.
I’ve been scarred from head to toe so many times, it’s impossible to tell the old me from my recent history

My mind scarred from disease
                                       My feet from anxiety
My hands from guilt
                         My stomach from impurities


My heart scarred from betrayal, never to trust again
My ears from stupidity that never fails to turn on me

                                   My face from insomnia
My arms from inability
                                             My gut from fear
My shoulders from loneliness
                                         My fists from fights
My eyes from violence
                                     My knees from failure
My bones from pain
                              My ankles from weakness
My reputation from mistakes

And my soul from these dark clouds that refuse to fade...
I failed
Not because
Unable to read
His face.

I failed
Because he is not one,
In fact Many
Trapped inside a case.


Ajay Amitabh Suman
All Rights Reserved
He's a crystal glass sitting on the kitchen table,
and he's sliding off 'cause the legs are too unstable.
So he shatters on the floor,
like so many times before,
the boy weeps.

Now I tell him to pick himself up and get on the table,
and he tells me he can't 'cause the legs are too unstable.
But he's just too small,
that's really all,
holding him back.

So I tell him to be the legs for the kitchen table,
'cause I didn't do my job and I couldn't be his savior.
I tried to hold him up,
but I let him down,
and I can't bear to tell him that it's my fault he's on the ground.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Justin Gabrielle Jan 2016
i spend my days lying down, motionless
for hours, staring at this too familiar ceiling

i spend my days doing nothing, brought by
a crippling inability to speak what I mean
or do what I wish (on things that matter
most to myself)

i spend my days reacting to your slightest movement,
with a doll's passivity bordering on disgusting

i spend my days being a mere watcher, a witness
to the wonder of how beauty grows

you are a sight to behold
and it must be such joy to be held

but i'd rather spend my days lying down, motionless
trying **** hard to dream of you
(but only nightmares come through)
kind of referenced a small bit of stuff/lines that I really like.
Kyle Kulseth Feb 2015
An animal shriek
in the snowiest silence
is swallowed by eyes deep and brown,
                        not like mine.
Which're shallow and icy and
                                clouded with Sundays
                                shrugged off of shoulders
from peak down to plain.

These mornings are silent,
constructed from cinder blocks;
skeletal, rusting--yet inwardly
                                     wailing.
Why in the world can't I set those shouts free
when the achiest Mondays release
all their caltrops
               and I stagger through work weeks
on sore, shredded feet?

It's because of the way
      that your shrieks echo off
      of my wrought iron eyelids
      when frost fills your veins.

It's because of the way
      that I melt every Thursday
      and wash down the side
      of the night in cold sheets.

I can't shout out loud
and I can't melt the quiet
that screams from the mountains
to snow on the prairie below.
Thoughtful Aug 2014
The floor is a mess,
clothes and papers scattered about.
No need to look at the rest,
please do not shout.

She's lost what mattered most,
him, her, them, they.
The shine her tousled hair, lost,
and gray clouds are her vision okay?

So please do not judge her inability to leave bed,
or her waist that's shrinking by the day.
Please just think about what you just read,
and fix her the right way.
each night I'm slowly dying
chocking on words I can’t say
racing from my brain
through my body until
they reach the edges of my fingers
the bottoms of my feet
the tip of my tongue
only to stay there and linger
unable to escape
unable to disappear from within
Anne B Jun 2014
.
You thought you could love, but darling.

You are the Arctic Ocean.

**— 3.05.14
Not a poem, in truth. Just another one of my confessions.
Helseivich May 2014
in order to make it home safely,
i need to reach the end of this hallway.

in order for me to move forward,
i need to reach the end of this hallway.

in order for me to become a better person,
i need to reach the end of this hallway.

in order for me to understand myself,
i need to reach the end of this hallway.

in order for me to do just about anything, really,
i need to reach the end of this hallway.

but i never do.
in fact, the most i've ever managed
is just a few steps
before i freeze in my tracks, unable to keep going.

it confused me at first,
but like anything else in life,
all i had to do was connect the dots
to realize why i always get stuck there.

if only you'd move.
if only you wouldn't take residence
at the end of this hallway,
staring at me quietly from the opposite side.
if only you'd turn around,
even if just for a moment,
so that i might dash forth before you look at me again,
as if it were a game of "red light, green light."

but you don't.

you never move.
you never turn around.
you simply observe me from afar,
waiting for the day where i'll be able to move
forward
on my own
even in your presence.

sorry to say, but
i'm not quite sure when
or if
that day will ever come.
Until then, I'll remain here.
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