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Broken Pieces Apr 30
Day after day,
Night after night,
I am struggling more,
I can't see the light.

                                             It's a funny little thing,
                                             The thing stuck in my mind.
                                             How could I ever think,
                                             That there was a love I could find.

I wonder sometimes,
What others would say.
They would see the scars,
And they would walk away.

                                              Every single day,
                                              It gets darker.
                                              The darkness leaves a mark,
                                              Just like a marker.

Day after day,
Night after night,
I am struggling more,
I can't see the light.
Ken Pepiton Mar 20
It's been another good day,
good thinkers thinkin' my way, asking if I knew
what was the next word
from the beginning,

and I confess,
to knowing,
it depends,
hangs dangling from a done right axiom,
intentional aim at nothing,
then divide by zero…

this is that, life line upon line, here,
a little there,
there
there is a better, a least, the minimum flex,
and next is after never was,
and once morer never seems

impossible to grasp, almost as futile as
holding the wind
I walked in on,
in a metaphor of reasoning, where war is dumb.
Dumb dumb dumb, did you ever
do you
ever,
for an instance feel this way, and wonder what if
others felt
this way,
in stead, eh, steady, slow, instead of I know, go

--- later they say waddayagnosis came upon 'em
--- swallowed all their holy stories in one

boom. like thunder, loud, like mountain,
Krakatoa, yes, but death to the dinos LOUD

listen,
this is silence, the noise, hearing nothing while
knowing, knowing, knowing
in the bubble I breathe are all the noise-sounds-humms
squeeks,
whistles, caws that sound like laughing,
hawks screaming I can see you, to something,
you flash glance think
you, that hawk has seen me here, in years past,
this season of multiple thaws,
multiple springs,
rivulets cross our path as we read our way into evermore,

the valley just beyond, like
right next door,
special place… can you hear me, feel me… I have
no right might to say I know, but you know,

that is the trick. Theory of mind, I know you wonder if
I ever knew… the first rung
step up,

once more the alien lure, come and see…
go with the flow my teachers always said, but never did, as I look back
July Gray Dec 2020
Sometimes
when I look in the mirror
i'm startled to see
me

When
I scrub off the pen lines
odd bits of makeup
all that's left is me

I stand there
bare and trembling
these are the pieces of me
and maybe I'm starving

but at least
I can feel myself smiling
because
these are the marks of my survival
so this how I've gotten this far
Yachika Sharma Dec 2020
There are memories attached,
With each day, I keep re-living,
Years go by, it does not matter.
There are things I keep feeling,
Your absence does not bother.

I see the marks your feet leave,
You wander but not that farther,
Away from me, here is my plea,
That on days like these i miss,
A piece of myself taken from me.

I am stuck in this lapse of time.
Maruko San Jul 2020
It can be beautifully awful
or awfully beautiful
with so many hurtful memories
and untold stories
but mostly are depressing and
unwanted marks of the past
Michael R Burch Jun 2020
****** or Heroine?
by Michael R. Burch

(for mothers battling addiction)

serve the Addiction;
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons
your flesh, their fair feast ...

or rise up, resist
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.

Keywords/Tags: drugs, addiction, user, ******, needle, tracks, marks, pain, despair, recovery
Broken Pieces May 2020
"It'll heal someday,"
That's what they all say.

                                       But I don't think they realize that some scars,
                                       Don't just leave with the stars.

How can I hope that it'll heal,
If I can't even seem to admit how I feel?

                                                               ­ You marked me,
                                                                ­And now I'll never be free.
S May 2020
The stretch marks on my thighs prove that I am a descendant of the mermaids and the gods.

They shine and appear light on my skin like how the sunlight dances on the top of the water.

They are signs that my body has endured and will continue to survive as the world moves on.

They weave across my skin like the beginning of a beautiful tapestry that will only become complete in time.

Learning to love myself again is hard, but my naked body is slowly becoming mine again.

The stretch marks are art on my skin, my own natural tattoos.

Let them show.
Rhiannon May 2020
An unsettled feeling twists in my gut, as I think of everything I haven't done. Every ounce, fragile pound of weight set upon my bones, leaves me lethargic. There is more to my life than work. My friends are embodiments of love, that God or whoever made us, gave to ease our pain. I am caught in the joy of movement. The joy of travel. The idea that escapism is enough. But how do you escape your own brain? How do you escape your own body? This life is what you make of it. But I want to know what made me. Am I truly in control? Or is this all some sort of sick joke? My thoughts are made up of question marks. But question marks do not give me answers. And what if I get the answers I want but they don't settle right with me?

What if this life is made up of more than question marks?
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