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Oh no,  
it happens every time.  

History repeats itself  
in so many variations,  
and we’re trying–

not to get lost  
in the lying.  

So many faces,  
vague yet familiar,  

it’s a race to the bottom,  
and we’re barely surviving.  

There’s a ghost  
in the town we used  
to romanticize–

the shadow of a demon  
we all tried to show  
the light.  

And he pointed  
to the mirror–

to show us how  
we’ve become  
a shadow of ourselves,  

a not-so-familiar guise  
we’ve grown accustomed to,  

just to give ourselves  
a glimpse  
of what it feels like  
to be fake happy.  

The past,  
present,  
and future  
are connected–

and it’s all  
going down  
unless we  
stop it  
from happening.  

We can put on  
a facade,  
but there are cracks  
in the foundation.  

History repeats itself,  
in many variations.  
I promise you–

we’re trying.
inspired by Paramore’s “Crave” and the quiet panic of watching history glitch on repeat.

for everyone faking happy, still trying not to lose their mind while the world burns.
The irony of always being the poet, but not the poem,
And the irony of having unmatched metaphors, but not the muse,
The irony of being the shooting star, but not the moon,
The irony of being the ocean, but not having a river to flow in it,
The irony of being the ashes, but not the sparks to ignite the fire.
The irony of being the forest, but not having the beasts to inhabit it,
And the irony of being the lover, but not being loved.
oh to be loved like i love ?
Jasper Sep 21
Because depression lasts,
love isn't depression.
And neither is life - although
they may codepend - (
that's irony) -
and neither
is insanity.

Depression will make you do
The last thing you do.
Love, the first. Life, just the rider,
We the vessel. We are the vessel of life
And depression will dump us out. Love
Is our ultimatum, our insanity.

Remove the shell and make it raw life,
Raw water.
RT Naintial Sep 20
i place flowers on grave i once was in. Same soul,
different bodies.
One fresh in pulp and other fresh in rot.
I laugh at the irony.
Though i shouldn't.
I take your indifference to me as your cause of death,
maybe the real reason also resided with you in death.
When i mourned my life and what has it become ;
how come you only ever said a thing or two
when i moved mountains for you. Every now and then my blood seized to its attack.
I collapse and get dragged to the grave i seek for help.
Like any sane human would.
I seek for solace from you only to get a “me too”
switched between lands through and through.
So, i had to arise,
dust myself and build a home.
Now, its you who has tasted a mere of what i've been stomaching for years. You wither through and through its tangled strings.
It pushes the flesh out like it once did to me.
Yet you had me.
You had me in the battle i fought before.
Before as a survivor and now as a specter.
I laugh
and laugh
and laugh
and laugh
on how you had me and always did but i couldn't had you no matter how deadly the nightmare felt.
Heavy are the thoughts of my crown—
shining like praise, sitting like gold,
but weighing like stone. A halo to some,
a shackle most days. To rule, or to ruin—
always my own.  

Strangers slip seamlessly into the crowd,
positive, negative—all charges allowed.
Their pull is soft, then suddenly loud.

And here I split a poem in two: I am a
double entendre, a meaning doubled—
a double-edged sword that cuts away
the rules, and the cut you take when
you refuse.

–––

Once formal—but now cutting ties, from
those who cut me. Knowing is freedom
dressed sharp, but dressed like an excuse.

I am the canopy stretched over my throne,
the highest branch of dreams I’ve grown.
Shade to protect, shade to conceal—
comfort by day, a curtain from light.

But get under my skin, and you’ll taste
the irony— me throwing you shade.
You’ll stand in it, unseen in my sight—
just another stranger, swallowed by night.
a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.

...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.

...I am animal, and I am engine—
factory default, released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
spoiled for choice, but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.

and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.
ProfMoonCake Sep 10
The world is weird.
I pray to gods of stone—
and ignore
the god in me.
Vanessa rue Aug 30
walking a rowdy street
tight grip on the leash
streetlight lays it bare
light pooling on my reach

panorama:
 the leash, in pieces

Anna in daylight,
 hands steady, calm and bright
 embracing cracked margins —
 called it love, her rite

but her fawn,
 beneath thorny shadows drawn
 the same leash condemned
 its trembling spirit wan

broken—
 yet a gift unspoken

street cries, in sight
echo through the night
Time flies by and you realize that birds don’t
Water only tasted sweet when you were dumb
When you were too naive to walk backwards like everyone else
Drink more sludge and wear more layers
Until nobody can claim it’s you underneath

Only children are allowed to laugh
So everyone dreams of being younger
Of loving without screen doors in between their bodies
Of thinking less and less and less
Until our history is undone
girlinflames Sep 17
I’m tired of romances.
Maybe I’m just tired of myself.

From now on, I’ll write
free, light,
and unchained.

I’ve spent too long
reading,
rereading,
thinking I needed more time.
Fool.
Idiot.

Pleased to meet you.

As a woman,
I can be as many as I choose.
I can tell as many stories as I want.
And God help those
who don’t want to listen—
it won’t be easy to stop me now.

Light.
Darkness.
Prose.
And poetry.
All in one body.
Amen.

But I’m tired of romances—
or maybe
of happy endings.

It’s never been like that.
It never will be.

Stop fooling yourselves—
the bad boy doesn’t end up
with the good girl.
We like the contrast,
that’s why we read those stories.

The truth?
The bad boy ends up with the foolish girl—
and she’s not just foolish,
she’s twisted enough
to crave his filthy mouth
and his alpha swagger.
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