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fray narte Mar 18
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?
Sanjali Dec 2019
‘Hello,
How are you?’
“Fine.”
The reply comes through.

You can wait an hour
Or maybe two,
Soon you will see
Words are hollow tools.

Lack of empathy
And care.
Degeneration-
World is in despair.

Crying faces
And white lies.
Yet blind gazes
Swim through the night.

There are no friends
Behind dead screens.
Knock and Knock-
There is nobody.
For meaningful relationships one needs meaningful interactions, whether online or physical.
CarolineSD Oct 2019
And when the butterflies returned,
They fluttered down from
Hidden caverns draped in verdant moss.
Trailing dark tendrils of apocalyptic dusk,
They settled on the fragrant grass,
And like recessed memories,

Forgot.

And when the butterflies returned,
They flapped their harlequin wings,
Like Ashanti dancers in the wind,
Clothed in Kente cloth,
Alighting on graveyard moss,
And like the faded wording on a wooden cross,

Forgot.

And when the butterflies returned, they skimmed like vibrant gems
Across the sea,
And gathered like scattered drops of multicolored rain  
Across the fallowed fields,
And rivers that had healed,
And where man’s touch had once disfigured,

Now all forgot.

And so it is in life and death.

All that was once fire and depth
Breaks from the body

Like falling wings and

We are left

Forgotten things,

Each new day reborn
In glorious colors

Like a swarm of Monarchs across
The yellow of the dawn

Drifting

Forever on

Without us.
Mae Jul 2019
My home ran way
Now I sit were glass meets the frame at the window and wait.
How long has it been
Years?
Weeks?
I'm not sure I care.. I'm not sure I don't

The mountabank came round again
Selling me a fictitious love.
His love.
You see, sense he travels so much selling the good oils
of
Rosemary tilled out of our toilet, Powders that
I personally
made from the stalagmites that grow in the southwest corner of my dwelling,
and
Teeth whitener
scraped from off only the finest ingredients
of
Feets calus, the kind aquired after walking long enough to no longer need shoes.

No he had no time for me and besides, he wasn't my home.

I'd have my fun but... He could never hold my love.

Yesterday I passed away
The cold nothing
Became a greater threat this time
I didn't have my home
Nor my love
I wasn't ready to go.
In a dank cave somewhere in the Philippines
After the hair on my head grew from fire red
To silver white.
Still sitting where the glass meets the frame.
Pablo Saborío Nov 2018
I understand.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot.
In the puzzle of your routine.
I know.
How thoughts can become clocks.
The terrifying performance of repeat.
I share it.
Your idea of total estrangement.
Blonde avenues without a silver soul.
I believe you.
Those sharp ideas to break free.
To be ruled by pure impulse.
I’ve got your back.
That plan to draw meaning.
To assist others to pleasure.
I realize that too.
That you’re at the edge of the night.
That you’ve got goosebumps as stars on your skin.
I do not deny it.
The vastness of every unused minute.
Cold, the cold bored instant.
I share your opposition.
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
How small a part of life can sting.
I know.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot  .
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
With its parched dreams,
beneath the zizzing sands,
the river waits for a surging swell
to take it to the labyrinths of a
new consciousness.

You choose your own course
when you crash into the
chasms of meaninglessness.

You hibernate to the still zone
trancing between words
when words fail to contain you.

As you flow through me,
you become the sacrarium
in the labyrinths of my consciousness
for me to diffuse in your soul’s stillness.
thelemonpolice Aug 2018
I gave myself an F
I've never had an F in anything
a straight-A student they said
But I was just a stressed student
Stressed a lot
Stressed at home because
Enough work is never enough
To get that "A"
Stressed at school because
They never taught enough
To get that "A"
Stressed at lunch because
I have nothing to say
To people who get A's easily
Other than how I'm struggling
To cope with this overwhelming fear
That I won't get an "A".
And the overwhelming desire I have
To get that "A".
And the painful knowledge that
I could be having fun and I'm wasting my youth and perhaps my entire life worrying about a letter on a piece of paper
As if I'm only worth a bit of ink on paper
As if life is graded
Because although I have A's
If I were to grade my life
I would give myself an "F"
an old poem I wrote during school exams... inspired by the poem in the perks of being a wallflower
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