Ask lone questions that were made for a King,
one who was born mute, blind and deaf.
He'll express the most breathtaking things,
only coming from this final breath.

I was trying to show that I'm not like rest,
but I think I only succeeded in boring you to death,
As I can see the lint from you picking at your pockets,
And the burn marks on the same fingertips from sticking them in sockets.

Ryan Seth Cole Apr 18

Breathing maliciously, I procure exponentially. My defeat is all but a matter of time.

I slip down that slippery hole that  enters or rather exits into my mind.

I eventually stare from the side lines. Potentially no more option, Left with blind eyes.

I wander from room to room unmasking every sin and every lie.

Until the rooms are empty, I transpond images. I assure you there is no silver line.

What a chilling cauldron it becomes beneath all that I find.

The destruction lay wait to repair with so little time.

If I donot hurry there will be nothing left to salvage. I will be stuck here for all of time.

I cannot emphasize the importance enough that I must leave at the sound of the right sign.

Further below and further behind. I have been bound to this bed with a hope that I will hear a sign.

The time has come I hear drug out beep and see a flashing light.
The battle is won, now to begin a new life.

Danielle L Cook Apr 17

I didn't want to be the one who left because she couldn't handle the change -- couldn't adapt.
But the truth is, I can't.
I hate writing this even now, knowing how it'll look when it comes out.
My aesthetics are dead.

I really don't want this to be the last, because where else can I find a black and white poetry site?
Beau Scorgie Apr 17

We threw a mattress
in the back of my car.
Some clothes.
Some food.

I packed eight books.
He packed a skateboard.

We drove along
the freeway
behind a car
the same as my mother's.

I thought about when she left
and all the tears I know she cried
driving away,
northward bound.

She drove for five days.
That's a lot of tears
and math
I can't do.

The driver had the same tanned skin
my mother has now,
and sun-bleached caramel hair
I imagine she would have too
had she not preferred
the taste of licorice.

I've been reading
the subtle art
of not giving a fuck

and too many a-fucks
I've given
about her leaving.

Let me record
the last fuck given
in poetry
and move on.

So my love and I
drove on,

We're best together.

Idiosyncrasy Apr 12

"I know just one thing."
"Me too."
"What is it?"
"I know the world revolves around the sun
and I know I'm not the sun."

Last. "At the end  of the day, I hope you're still the sun."

You are my favorite unfinished song,
the jumble of words stuck inside my mind,
but whose chained melody I could not find
not when every lullaby has gone wrong.
This song of sorrow with nothing but flats
yearns for your voice to serenade my blues.
Let it all be for naught, you have your muse,
whilst I'm stuck in the echoes of our lasts.
Yet like a train of thought circling my mind,
soon you'll wither - an ephemeral phase,
without a hint, without another trace,
opts to leave, with me left bereft behind.
All the music and the lyrics are due,
but not today, not when I can't have you.


Sandoval Apr 7

Poetry has never hurt like this before. I beg of you, drown this

hurt, and kill it with your last  touch. Touch my skin with your lips, let them rest against my bare neck. And let me drown in

you as well the disillusionment of a love  separated by the stars. Spare me one last look, tame in me this fire that yearns for you,

this fire that can't be put out.  Save me. From myself, one last night, before we say goodbye.


Wyatt R Apr 7

The strength in my grip is getting weaker,
it's slipping through my hands.
Why am I even surrounded in the first place?
The words won't come to me
and I lost motivation, it won't come back.
Stop with your interjections,
I'll watch my life burn down now
and it'll happen by my own hands.
If you wanted to define anything
that happened to me as potential
then I couldn't take it seriously
because it doesn't mean anything
if you don't get results.
The point has passed me completely,
staying here's getting harder to justify.

I see the hell circling above.
What's the point in this?
Why even continue this out?
The sickness has no cure.
We won't come to witness
a saving when we inflicted
this by ourselves.

The story repeats over and over again,
the end should come sooner than later
before we come back around again.
Another turn into memory lane,
mine was more of a tragedy.
Car turned to molten metal,
engulfed into the flames.
I'll be packing my bags,
ready to leave into the fog
of what I hope turns
into my place to die.
Words turn to mumbles
and that then turns to silence.
I won't speak, I won't move,
I won't live inside the shadow
of what I should have been.
Cut this out, cut this out
take it out of here and forget it.
I can't live inside what I despise.
When was the last time I was sincere?
When was the last time I had life?

When was the last time I was sincere?
Abhijit Patil Apr 4

Here I lay, my lord,
The night so dark.
Darker is our soul,
So easy to lose it whole.

I pray'd to you, my lord,
make me all that I am not;
Been chasing rainbows
from the womb to the tomb.
Yet there it was, bliss,
in the dew drops at my feet,
Only if I'd look away from the abyss.

I pray'd to you my lord,
For power, pleasure and ecstasy
but the prayers they were empty.
And all in store for us, the pain,
Please lord, take it away, the pain,
like the first monsoon rain.

We are still praying to you, lord
You've given a long rope, of hope
So fallen we are, We tied it to a noose;
On the hanging tree of sins
Our need is greed, and that we breed.
Soul laid to rust with all the lust.
Fanning the flames of hell so high,
I am sorry, lord, your halo's on fire.

And yet, still to you, lord, we pray,
Inside of us, the soul of Dorian Gray.
And as I close my eyes to sleep;
I now pray for you, my lord,
That if we die before we wake;
There's a soul down here left for you to take.

-Abhijit Patil

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