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Zara Turner Aug 18
I left you one year ago,
You hurt me and so I let you go,
I thought that we had moved passed it though.

But you make it so hard to forget,
It ***** cause you know how to get,
Your words so deep in my head.

You know deep down what im like,
You know I’d never hurt you in spite,
But you say it so that what it sounds like.

Twist my words to mean something else,
Manipulate what I said myself,
Do you know or are you lying to yourself.

Don’t act like I did it easily,
You know know this wasn’t easy for me,
And if you don’t then you never knew me.
Just a poem that I wrote about when someone misreads your intentions when they should know that you were never intending to be hurtful.
You were lying,
I was believing.
You were deceiving,
I was trusting.
You were pretending,
I was loving.
You were manipulating,
I was falling.
L Barbera Jun 29
The sight of you is an enveloping substance
A supreme ****** stimulant
Eradicating all commitment and restraint
I try to fight but the tenacity of your figure
Is in complete control
You are a ventriloquist
I am a puppet
Suspended by strings
Manipulated by ***
Devin Ortiz Jun 20
Severed strings. I dangle free.
Master only to psychopathy.

Take it all. Every crutch.
Can’t manipulate,
What you cannot touch.
Nelsya May 19
Tricks could be dangerous
if it was done
by the wrong people

Disguised in pretty lips
and polished words
they were trained to manipulate

Be careful not to get caught
in their petty tricks
that are disguised in fancy lies

So it is best
to think before you absorb
and to have a mind of your own
You over there, observing us in despair.
I’ve listened to your cries; each wailing word that slithered out of a poisonous jar.
That tune, so disgusting and manipulative, once was a melody to many, not just me.

We hold each other’s love like a child’s innocence; you took ours, now we are rendered empty.
And I dare you not look at us with a lens of green, that’s not fair at all.
You say we both held your heart, I proudly state that you never held mine.
Rip our roots from its core and you’ll unleash a devastating darkness.
Not our darkness, yours.
Rip our roots from its core and you’ll delve into the mystery that is your own fatal flaw; greed, loneliness, the desire for something more.

Begging is weak. Look at you now.
The tale never stops, it’s always told. In my days and in my dreams; there’s no escape from the horror that is you.
The tale never stops; for the longest time, saddened truth that only your ‘part’ was played, only your part was believed.
Time has tumbled like stacked dominoes, it’s his time now. His time to grab back at all the things you stole, get his justice like you had yours.
Happiness tips out a river that will,
Just flow.

I want to take those pictures that are hidden in your crater and burn them to dust; there’s things you deserve but happy memories of us is not one of them.

The sea so precious, so beautiful, so innocent and vulnerable can not be treasured let alone protected by your plastic hands.
Therefore you are delusional. It was not stolen but taken away out of fear of further pollution.
Now the sea is cerulean, clearer than before; sea life swims joyous, delighted that’s for sure.
Keep your thoughts untwisted, I’ll help you untangle the spiked vines.
Because what was yours, you broke, made someone new who I love and is now mine.
What was yours, was me, but never with a label.
Misery a life with you; present day, I’m away, still shattered but that light bulb of mine glistens me to glue, and finally I’m fine.
About a girl I once knew who defined toxicity.
I, at the time, had yet to realise that she would become important to me not because of what she has done: for the person I invented her to be in my mind. She, a version of me that I despise because I am not it. But this version is not the real her, the poem reflects her true self.
Max Feb 14
Your weakness feeds my strength.
And it tastes delicious
At the age of 10,
I enter a world manipulated by a smooth console
with knobs to weave myself into a different skin
level up with every ****,
and move with a certain skill.
At the age of 12,
I open a world stacked on my shelf.
Some world lying there parched like the desert,
accumulating dust and letting its texture fray away.
Whereas some lie there with their syllables
paving roads to adventure
and intoxicating the air with its tropic odor.
At the age of 14,
I scroll myself into another world;
where vision is pixelated
and lighting is perfect.
Instagram and Snapchat are the societies that exist,
ranking your position with the followers you keep.
Endorphins are the taps you receive
and filters are what you apply before you leave.
At the age of 16,
I pick up the VR goggles
and sleep under lucid rainbows
and a different constellation.
Everything is under my control,
the timezone;
a stimulation that feels so real.
At the age of 18,
I meet people of different hues,
discovering new worlds in them.
With different nations weaved on their skin,
and composition of carbon, nitrogen, spice and sweet ever so different in them.
Makayla Jordan Dec 2018
maybe I lost my touch
can no longer
i know that sounds
mighty cruel
but when given a rose
with those dark painful thorns
wouldn't you want to take them off to.
strip them with your words
and make them beautiful.
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