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Pedro Mar 13
In my void
deepest of self
no one hears me
down in this well
a well of thoughts
darkest corner of the mind
a place to be lost
and to never be found
Leo Balaban Mar 11
I’m an expert
at what I do.
Every drop
of my every being
is good at being me.

It’s my only choice.
every action I do
trapped in myself
in my choices
in my mistakes
in my beautiful mind
as most have

It’s what I was
always made to be.

Since it was written
in the stars
mostly deep in
cells of my blood
in the coded chains
in the atoms
that make up
the long depths
of my soul:

I am me and
I am ******* good at it.
i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?

maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.

and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.

in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.

if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.

anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.
thanks
Jack R Fehlmann Nov 2020
Gentle, contrasting upon pages
Soft light holds

These words penned in
My hands cursive

As the dark of shadow surrounds
Drops fall upon
A page of recollection

Bleeding ink that spreads
Makes blurry
Why it is I feel this way

Lowest moment
Freely self inflicted for no reason
Why am I like this?

A need in me that I alone
Embrace to the end this way

Alone.
Wrapped safely in a dark room
Drops on the page.
Depression even when in treatment can hit like waves to the cliffs face.  Almost self inflicted. Almost in some sick habit, I force myself to the place inside, below to the embrace.  I hate feeling this way.  I wish I could banish the path that leads me down to the misery I never earned and the torment undeserved.  Why can't I be normal and prefer the light and love and warmth.  Melancholy for too long. Something is wrong in my head.
Anemone Nov 2020
I've forgotten how to speak
I've forgotten how to smile
But if I sit down and just think
Perhaps I'll remember for a while

I've lived a life by many names
By many faces, old, and new
I've seen my reflection fade to dust
And think, perhaps I can do that too

See my smile
Of course you do
I've made sure it looks convincing
But look deep into my eyes
And perhaps my mask is slipping

Have you ever looked at me
No, really, looked at me
What do you know, what do you see
Perhaps it is a truth, but candid is hard to be

I often think to myself
What would the doctors say,
If they could get a hold of me

That was a joke.
Funny, is it not?
Perhaps there may be more this than I had originally thought
Ash Nov 2020
I have no care for sparkle and shine
Until you came by knocking on my door
You tore apart my garden of red
Petals of the past shredded and destroyed
Everything soft about me you changed
Hardened me up and polished me down
Now I shine and sparkle like you do
But what did it cost for both you and me?
Anemone Nov 2020
All people are selfish.
Not all people have empathy.
A waltz or ballet dances in my head.
Am I doomed to hear them on repeat until the day I’m dead?

Why can I never write?
Tripping over my words like rope left out at sea.
Now look at that, I've lost all hope of writing an analogy.
Then a rhyme, a spark of joy.
Maybe this could be a song worthy of others to see.

There’s never quiet,
always sound,
never focused,
it's just too loud.

Words used to be my escape but now I can't even write.
I design fantasy worlds where I can fight my inner demons,
the ones that crawl around at night,
as foxtrots in the background are played in delight.

So I'm sitting in a back room, cringing at the slightest sound.
Reusing old lines from old poems and songs.
Things I can't finish,
things I can't start,
and things that hurt my broken heart.
Thoughts that seem stupid but won’t go away,
moments in the moonlight that aren't here to stay.

I'm so tired and yet I've gotten enough sleep
I guess I'm just tired of promises to keep.

There's so much to do
Much I wish that I did
Someone needs to remind me
I'm still just a kid.

Can I have another childhood, can I take it all back?
Would I take back the painful years of torment, of lying and shame?
Would I take back the tears that I have cried?
No. I’d never take back those tears, for they are my story.

There.

Have I done it?

Have I written enough?

I'm tired, so tired, I can't see it through.

Distractions, distractions, they hold me inside.
Inside the dark corners that make up my mind.
So many things dwell inside of my head.
It’s hurting, It’s hurting, make it stop, the little boy said.

Take another step, I know that you can.
Anemone Nov 2020
This is but a simple night,
Not unlike any other,
But the lonely figure in the garden
Meets the face of yet another

I become the face I see on the other side of the mirror,
The outside observer, the heinous sight,
Shifting ever slightly still,
So the glass might catch the light.

For it may be the sunny day,
Or the calm and peaceful night,
Yet still, you’ll see the small figure in the garden,
Smiling with delight.
Jake Welsh Nov 2020
My past sits before me in a cushioned armchair
mimicking my crossed legs
a swaying foot

I’m so focused on its story
that the walls surrounding begin flickering swiftly
yellow, grey, violet, grey, yellow

in minute intervals, everything else vanishes
except a voice that travels from there to here

the words ever changing as they go, and finally settling upon the tips of my fingers

then, comes to me, names that nurture the weeds in my veins
from my first love, a bright doe
through the birds, vampires and ghosts
all the way to Pan

to cultivate this breathtaking wildflower is my fantasy
so that its fragrance will entrance me into a state of sleep
and take me to a place where resolution is needless

between me and the cushioned chair
are miniscule grains of actuality blended with accidental lies

I know there’s no literal plant
just as I know that there’s no literal resolution
and that it’s not really my fault

I was always good enough to have it all
therein lies the perfect balance of pain and joy

for I do not have any of those people anymore, this is fact
for that’s just how life works, this is faith
here's a preview of from my chapbook in progress. i hope you all like it
Logan Pete Sep 2020
I listen to the darkness that whisper the name of yours. The winds howl your voice as I am trying to sleep. When I do sleep I am greater with the presence of your body in the astral sense. We meet like too friends who have never skipped a beat. This love of ours sustained over making years  baffles many. But those many will never understand a love like ours . The shared emotions of moon and sun. The moon and sun meeting together in the human form. One moves like moonlight on still waters the other dances on ultra violet lights . When they meet they kiss upon an eclipse
A broken dream placed together
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