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Red blood drops
The tears of the body
Clear uncolored tears are the tears of
The soul
Blood red leaves
Falling from the trees
Are the tears of the trees
And of the
Suicide victims
Them leaves have blood
Soaked into them
You can run and hide
In your novels,
In your poems,
In your dreams,
But know,
We'll be waiting.
Void 2d
It terrifies me
Knowing that people
Like you
Exist in this world
Annie 2d
but people laugh it off like it's a funny joke
i laugh too
because life is a joke

i've had too many mental breakdowns recently
Why do we ask the same questions
Using the same words
And hope it is any more relevant
And meaningful
Than it was before?
The truth,
The lies,
The pleasure,
And love,
All things that when told,
Still have a time when it hurts...

You come at the best of times,
And the hardest part is when I cannot cry,
You leave me here to lie between,
Beddings and sheets,
And as much as one cares to weep,
You instill this repercussion of my sanity,
Leaving a shut down,
Like when a computer... shuts down,
However it's crazy right?
How the shut down leads to a standby,
But when you're dealing with two parts,
It is not the machine no,
But merely the display,
As it, replays a signal,
That there is no signal,
There is nothing feeding the monitor,
There is no rest for the screen,
Always on,
Slowly.... dying,

As soon as it activates,
It is consuming,
Consuming the complex knowledge,
And memory,
Of what is,
or will be,
And what became,
To create the distinction and difference between man and machine,
Is the stand,
And the costume,

As I stand here,
Staring at what is merely the imaginative reality,
The one I've always talked,
What is the truth,
The lie,
When I love,
Hate the feeling,
I told myself,

When you are on the other side...
Does it still hurt?
I've been dealing with my insanity these past few years since I've last wrote. I've been writing but, merely hiding, I'm glad I could reach the surface again to unfold the stories
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
Heinz Lunch Sep 19
The crickets kept me company
When you were far away.
They kept me hopeful
with their beautiful music.
The crickets listened to me
When I spoke of great life.
They kept me happy
with the way they jumped around.
You came back to me
I was the happiest I'd ever been!
You told me things that
I didn't want to hear.
The crickets were not invited
When I come to think about it.
They keep me awake at night
With their piercing beady eyes.
The crickets are everywhere
When I step into the house.
They keep me from staying sane
With their black bodies scurrying.
You came back to me
And now the crickets I do hate
My thoughts never rest
And in them she nests
She’s so comfortable there
Stealing my air
So I’m breathing her essence
Always feeling her presence

I think I feed her too well
She can feast and dwell
In premium space
Consuming all trace
Of my sanity
She creeps

I’m not really insane
But don’t we all play this game?
We keep her at bay
But know she could have her way
If given the chance
We all let her dance
And toy with our thoughts
We enjoy her taunts
Tease our sanity
But insanity
She creeps
Insanity cast as a predator in these thoughts.
Ceyhun Mahi Sep 15
زلف سیاه زنجیر جنون شد
دل حیرت زده من مجنون شد
"(her) dark lock of hair has become a chain of insanity, my amazed heart has become a madman"
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