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I'll crumble to dust
if you lean on me
any longer
I am but an sapling
that was forced to grow
before its time
a flower that bloomed
out of season
and withered before it
could blossom.
Esther L. Krenzin
mia Apr 17
I hover over fractured water
the porcelain compels me to lean closer

"I am not lovable"
Cecil Miller Dec 2018
Ten minutes til the perculator
Brings me from grime to grind.
And in the morning stars are setting,
As soon the sun will rise...

On a world that I hate to hate.
On a world that loves to hate me.
I have to go outside and want to die.
I cannot stay in and hide.

There are monsters in the field
And they've got the taste of blood.
There is no end in sight.
I cake my face with mud.

They always know to find me,
Though I move in patterns, rare.
Deep inside, I turn inside,
I deny dispair.

I know I'll never beat them.
I avoid, but can't back down.
And so I'll take the beating,
But I'll try to rend their skin.

I know just how they see me.
The same as they did then.
Silent words that we all know
Do not go unknown for sin.

The time has metered nothing.
It hasn't changed a thing.
If authority lets loose it's leash,
The dogs would gnash again.

The eyes upon me see distainly
What they want to hurt.
Only, just, to keep alive
What every monster wants.

Ten minutes til the perculator
Has darkly roasted beans,
That was ground into powder,
Like the bullets in my lean.

The night will soon be like
A blanket ripped from me
To show me in the basking light
For all the world to see.

They'll say that I'm a monster.
I always was so strange.
I was a trouble-maker, boiler maker
And the only one to blame.

They'll say I was a bad seed.
When all of them do know
The type of horror that befell
From the monsters long ago.

In times of triumph I did learn
How best to bide the time.
They think I'm so predictable.
They're thinking colorblind.

For all the worth of quiet,
And to rest this savage pain,
And retribute the misery,
(It won't happen again)

And yet you'll cry for justice.
Say it's never served.
If you used measured all they put on me,
They'll get what they deserve.

The victim becomes monster,
The world fears the marters more
Than any of the heathan clan...
Ten minutes, nothing more.
I wanted to write something provacative and edgy. I also wanted to empathize with another point of view. I think if it polarizes, that's a fair reaction.
kiran goswami Oct 2018
They ask me a question every day,
They ask me 'Oh darling! How much do you weigh?'
And I answer this question every day,
I wish to tell them,
'I am not made up of flesh and bones,
I do not weigh on scales and stones.
I weigh the love letters never sent,
I weigh my heart I gave on rent,
I weigh all my insecurities,
I weigh Ganga's purities.
I weigh the prayers of my mother.
I weigh the hard work of my father.
I weigh the thirty-two-inch smile I carry and flaunt every day,
I weigh the fears which haunt me every day,
I weigh all the love I have for him,
And I am certain that weighs more than the stories I dream,
I weigh the fairytales I've read,
And I weigh the kindness I've fed.
I weigh my hope,
And I weigh my dreams.
I weigh my faith,
And I weigh my screams.
So I weigh the lightest I could ever be,
And the heaviest you could ever imagine being.'
But then in the end,
I murmur the words '47 kilograms',
A lean and skinny girl is what I am.
aisha Aug 2018
depressed people
to love
can they?
Rizna M Rameez Jun 2018
When I grow older
I'd find myself a shoulder
To lean on
Who wouldn't pull away

I told you
I lean on your shoulder
When I'm in pain
Physically and Emitionally
And I just can't hold myself up anymore

Just because there are people around
I know you think we'd get into trouble
The teachers would tell us off
But in pain,
I don't give a ****
What people think
And you don't need to either
I have no idea what's up with me anymore.
Enjoy the poem that's not very poetic
But it's true to the very bone.
sadgirl Feb 2018
o, darling
daylight has never been your most flattering

and how could it be?
you never sleep,
because life is but a dream

like that old
children's song

dear god of boujee
women, the ones with
bloodstained louboutins

let me autotune myself to sound inhuman,
say my prayers to

in the dying light
of the atl

my only hymn i have to
offer is that of

and instead of bread and wine
i have lean and

o, darling
our eyes will never

and new money, who dis?
will forever be the closest thing
we have to a mantra
Gang gang.
Ken Rafiñan Jan 2018
Right on the equator—
straddling the high heat between
and whatever we’re not.

Getting the full hit of that
sun-lit shot:
by skies,
through skin,
and right into muscle and bone and soul.

“Hello, hello.”
What else could you feel,
except mellow?
As any fellow in yellow would—
that summery good.

All those seconds
the salt on all those rims
“When will all of this end?”
“We don’t know if it should.”
Or if it even could.

All those bright mornings,
hard as wood—
firm with a give.

because it is expected,
and then exponentially exploited thereafter.

Hands behind your head,
with the
on the
That place where only you will go—
all salt-stained.

Staring right into its clockwork face;
defiant before the daily god.
all we could be is burnt.

Pigmentary punishment praised
by dazed memories of days.

Hours of farewell;
so long it took us—
how ours were so wrong.

Before we feel,
we fall.

We’re done:
corpse cold,
and gray gone.
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