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The kind of love people write poems about.
That's what came to me when I fell for you.
It's the kind that makes my toes curl when I think of you.
It makes me smile and blush when I hear your name.
It makes me crave your thouch and kisses.
It makes me believe I can do anything when I'm around you. When you stare into my eyes.
The kind of love people write poems about.
It makes my stomach tighten when thinking of losing you.
It makes me want to hold on tight, because this kind of love isn't worth the heartbreak.
Is it?
Now I am crying all alone.
Writing a poem about you.
I wish this was a happy poem.
The kind of love people write poems about.
Madness.
Silence.

Unwavering.

Unbroken.

Silence.

These thoughts keep swarming in my head.

Keep bringing me down.

Back to the
                      G
                          R
                             O
                                 U
                                    N
                                        D

When will these thoughts end?

This constant pounding in my head.

Thinking things,

I shouldn't

Be. Thinking.

Gripping at the corners of my mind,

I try to pull away from the noise.

Unsuccessful am I,

To succumb to such madness.

Take me away from myself

And let me live among the stars.

At least then I'll know of

Silence.
it cost 65 cents to send a letter;
that is 65 cents wasted
not writing that i love her.

but you would think
that if she loved me back
she would read in between the lines

and actually see
what i was burning inside to write
but never had the courage to.

i now think maybe you don’t
have to be in love
to read in between the lines

because she never wrote me back.
©bacillus
The smell of your sweater makes me think about the times we had together.
About the first time, I smelled your scent and thought to myself: ‘This is the smell of the person I am falling for.’ I saved your smell in my memories, so I would not forget.
The smell of your sweater makes me think about the first time I woke up next to you and crawled my body against yours. The way you sniffed my hair and told me I smelled nice. The way I kissed your chest and held on tight.
The smell of your sweater makes me think about how you looked at me. Like I was the most precious thing in the world and the way that look made me feel so beautiful.
The smell of your sweater makes me want to look at you like I used to look at you.
The smell of your sweater gives me butterflies imagining your arms around me, your kisses on my cheeks, my lips, my neck, my breast.

The smell of your sweater makes me cry because all those things are out of reach for me now. The smell makes me want to scream because I don’t know how to fix this and make it better. It makes me want to punch the walls until my knuckles bleed, but I won’t feel it compared to the way I feel about losing you.
The smell reminds me of the way you loved me and how I don't want you to stop loving me just because you can’t reach me and I can’t reach you...
It makes me think of the thousands of miles between us.

The smell of your sweater makes me think of love and the heartbreak that comes with it.
Ms Noma Jul 8
I feel purposeless
I feel empty
There's a restlessness
Inside of me
My brain is fluttering
It's so unsettling
It's hard to focus
To find a locus
I am a child
I am a wild
I can't decide
God knows I've tried
Jibber Jabber
Pitter Patter
What is this?
My brain's amiss!
There,
out in the darkness,
a fugitive running.
Running from God.

Did I write that? I don't think so, Maybe it was me. Wait, maybe I heard it somewhere.  

I sigh in frustration and look to the skies but I see nothing.
Just darkness. Not the total black, the absence of light brought on by the spinning of the sun, the darkness that signifies rest, rejuvenation ,
No. no, just a faint black, a charcoal blackish grey brought on by a fog;

I glance around but I have no clue where I am. The fog is too thick. I know that there's something beyond the fog. Um, big ball of fire burning in the sky. Sun. That's what it's called.

After forever, I see a path, a meandering, twisting path. Its bricks not yellow like Dorothy walked on but red. Wait, I can see the colour. Maybe this is the path I walk.It's a long trek but that's what I'll do. Trek. Lugubriously down the path. Flashes of gold before me, of red, of blue, of orange, of purple, of a colour I cannot name but seems like a blue green thing.

Sometimes I can catch them, sometimes I can't. Sometimes they form a picture. A face in front of me. A voice. A flash of lightning in a cold dank world. Rain, falls. I know rain. Rain, will make the flowers? Grow. No! not my words as well. Where do they come from? The weather grows darker, the fog grows thicker. I wish I remember how it all started. I close my eyes to think.

When I open my eyes, two little faces appear in front of me.  I know them? no, I don't. Wait, I do know them. They chirp something at me, like two little birds in a pod. Peas, peas in a pod. Peas don't squeak. Peas posit, no, peas don't talk at all they're not sentient. Damn it, the fog is back. I look at them and smile. That's what you do when you see people don't you?

Now I see some people coming into the room! Big men! They'll steal from me! kill me! I have to defend myself!  Oh wait, one of them wears a face. I've seen a million times; it's so... familiar. I look across to the mirror in the bathroom. Oh, he wears some version of my face. But younger. With... well with better hair.

He growls at me, his voice booms and brings the room to a stand still. I still don't know what he says. The smaller one echoes. His voice slightly smaller, less boom-y. Boom-y, that's not a word.

There's a word for it, I, The words are there, in my head, like rays of sun bright, no sunlight, coming through the darkness. I wince at the thought of the heat burning my skin. But there's no heat. Just fog. Just that blasted, bloody fog. It came one day, out of the darkness chasing me down like I was fugitive. It never sleeps, it never eats, it never leaves. Just there. Why can't I see the sky. I remember what the sky was like. It was, green? no blue. The sky was blue.

My dreams are interrupted by the boom-squeakers. That's not a word is it? I used to be good at words, I used to write them in a book, for others to read, for others to write

The four faces are in full speed now, booming and squeaking and squeaking and booming. I nod at what they say, I still don't understand them. Something about school and class, something about work and money.

Suddenly I see her,  there's a fine one across the room, I open my mouth but no words come out. She's wearing blue is coming with something. Oh I remember this! Sweets! she must be coming with sweets. She's young and pretty, she knows my name. Wait, why does she know my name. A little too well, wait are we related? that would be bad. Oh no, she doesn't look like any of those around. Her rosy red lips move but I can't hear the words she must be saying. The fog always prevents that. She's brought me candy I think. In a little bowl too! Oo! that's nice. I used to love candy. I think I still do now?

I let my guard down! Oh no! they've got me! (Pop!) they've forced me to swallow something! I better spit it out! Spit! Spit! Spit! Oh wait, the darkness is coming, it's better than it normally is. I see the void and know it's time to rest. Maybe when I get up tomorrow, the fog will finally... clear.

As I teeter on the edge, I hear it. the voices. They're saying something. They say....

"Is Grandpa Grandpa today, Dad?"

"He'll be fine, son. sniff He'll... maybe. be ok. Some day."

"Maybe tomorrow he'll remember us?"

"Maybe tomorrow, now put on the music. He loved Les Mis, it was always his favourite."

"Don't go yet, Dad. Please... don't."

The world goes dark but its finally happened. The fog has cleared and I see the sky, just before the sun turns and it goes dark a final time.

Now I rest.
The first introductory bit is from "Stars" sung by Javert in the musical version of Les Miserables. I'm using a tiny bit of it here for a) its relevance on how this man feels like he's been chased like a fugitive by the fog and b) to represent the fact that he has somewhat forgotten that these are not his words, that his memories are blurring.  

Many people out there have a friend, or a loved one who is suffering from dementia. It's probably the worst punishment to have especially for this man who I've imagined to be a word-smith, perhaps a writer, of novels, perhaps dictionaries.

If you have a relative who's like that. Maybe go visit them one day, Maybe you can be the wind that pushes away the fog and they'll be able to see the sun someday.

Just maybe.

You say
"that's dark, babe"
But I don't think it's dark enough
Only in the night my dreams take shape
waking up these days is getting tough

I'm conflicted
my life's been restricted
Dreams seem true
and life is twisted

And all my thoughts
are growing along rose arbours
pretty to look at and impaled by thorns
each of them dying the death of martyrs

Can you see now?
There's a terrible sadness
a kind of sorrow
Turning sanity into madness

Reality check is for the sane
Imagined a world more real
Thought it's all in vain
I spoke to the devil and made a deal

Soon all I'll do is sleep
dreaming of my life to be
still better than to weep
for what isn't meant for me
Raizel 6d
After so many sleepless
Nights and days
I've finally had a moment of silence.

A moment when I did not feel
I had no thoughts or pain.
I didn't think about you.

I was so tired
Everything around me was dead.
It was such a bliss.

But my body is collapsing
And I begin to wander
Will my feelings for you
Die first or me?
After weeks of dozing off two or three times a day for less than an hour, lots of caffeine, drugs, mental and physical exhaustion, last night I've finally had a moment of silence, everything around me stopped, the pain and my thoughts were no longer there.
I would imagine my shoes full of broken wineglass
     and I would bicker, shoot, hum, wring
     carefully take them all out,
     with my godcrazed sweaty hands
I would see hallucinatory men in love, all destroyed with jarring
     scars on their arms because of the Great War,
     wrestle each other to steaks in the dead beach
     moaning with their twenty year old cigars
     still in their tortured mouths
I would see children playing at Dawn,
     They never grow older, always the age of eight
     They all played games with me, especially
     In those Westfield overblown supermarkets
I would dream of a pure Strawberry Field's kingdom,
     With John Lennon’s flannel shirts and a picture
     of some artist’s wife wanting to jump off the Brooklyn bridge
     Thinking I’m related to Napoleon
     who I forgotten about, ever since we left Chinatown that day.

So I called the twenty four hour hotline, where all the suicidal people call in the middle of the night,
      groaning in my bathtub, thinking of my visions,
      knowing one thing, I cried,
      “ I don’t want to turn into a cockroach like Gregor did!”
Instead I turned into a Shakespearean agony girl in two days,
     and wrote dramas in my room at midnight
     hissing of the mistreatment of slaves back in 1821.

After, I wept of the romances of the guiltless terraces in the tiny
     exhaustible corners of the street, in the abandoned libraries,
     and went back to school half-insane filled with gibberish stanzas
     and academics that sounded like more gibberish.

Then, I was I crowned with pinnacle ‘Madness of Thou Brain and Sick Oblivion, with auditory hallucinations’

I gave my one synapse yell to my only friend in town, and they all
     sent me to some institution where I felt more belonging than I
     did in eight years.

I met a girl who was planning to read To Kill A Mockingbird in an hour,

I met a boy from Juvie who smoked too much and took too many pills

I met a boy who was just as sick as me, we played Twister in the
     dark until the nurses caught us holding hands,
     I never saw him again after that.

I met a girl who completed her suicide two days before her
     discharge.

Can you see it yet? In the tiny inexhaustible corners of the streets?
     In the abandoned libraries?

In little time, my generation will beat their visions to the streets,
     their innovation will rise to daring freshness.
A poem that reflects the society of modern times, a hallucinogenic mess of questions, but still somehow surviving and standing firm in its ideas.
A year ago I wrote a note
I apologized for everything I had done
A year ago my headphones were my fortress
My scissors were my battle weapon
A year ago I lied
I said I was fine
A year ago I stepped down from that chair
Put away that knife
Walked away from that life

I'm still not sure if I'm brave or a coward
But I'm glad I didn't leave them behind
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