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Cecil Miller May 2020
There is comedy in the tragic.
There is dignity in human shame.
There is irony in mundane normality.
We just have to find it.
That's how we'll make it through
I hope it reaches some people in  sentimental places
. The morning after
When I told my mother
That he made me touch him
She took my to the bathroom
To wash my hands -
Because he made me
With his essence
Now that I am older
still lives on my skin
And in my mind
I can't help but wonder-
If I wouldn't have felt so soiled
Had everyone not told me
That I was that way
I was just a little girl
With big blue eyes
But I understood right then
That *** meant grime
They tell me that it's not my fault
That I had no part in the scene
It severed the ties in my mind
That made me a part of the thing
Now I still don't connect emotionally
During ***

Instead I simply submit-
Because that's as close to love
As I'll ever get
Anders Thompson Mar 2017
i don't know how to explain it to you
this white skin is a canvas and i want to make it red
the trails of scarlet trailing down my skin,
the gouges in my skin, the crevices
they comfort me
when i see the canyons in my flesh
the hatred is eased and my mind is easier to please
there's a voice in my head that bays for my blood
and a gurgle in my heart that wants to swallow my life
me i bargain with the devil:
the body still lives but it will be broken
and he nods and lets me go and i am free
when the knife comes out and i drag it across my skin
my heart slowly starts to ease
the pain the confusion the frustration
the agony of being awake and aware in this head
it all becomes so much easier when there's some comfort i can see
it cannot **** me it heals with time
pink white faded lines across my shoulders
feel so comfortable and familiar when i'm gone
and my hands start floating away from my wrists
and there's a space in my head where my mind should be
i can't feel my body where is my body
what time is it where am i what was i doing why was i trying
to feel the scabs rocky and hard
i think clearer feel better know more soar higher
when the monster calls and i feel the itch in my fingers
i will do it again and self medicate
to cure the agony in my soul
and my breath will ease out into a relieved sigh
every part of me will cry for this bliss
wren cole Mar 2017
hard of hearing
bleeding out
taking pills
in excess
hearing voices
seeing things
unreal sounds
playing games
different face,
different name,
different hair,
never the same
afraid of stale water
afraid of change
keeping distance
finding blame
i'm sure some of it is true
i'm not a good storyteller after all
just a chameleon
self defense mechanism
stumbling through all the fog
when i was little i changed myself every time we moved away
i had determined that life was a game and i just had a bad hand to play
i learned how from a very young age to start bluffing and counting cards
when your identity is molded from ways to avoid pain you start to forget who are
don't raise your voice here
2 parts delusions 3 parts fear
please believe me, i love you
please believe me i do
please believe me i'm drowning
you don't believe me, do you?
*jazz hands* im a paranoid compulsive liar and i dont remember whats true at this point and it's eating at my insides!!!
Julie Grenness May 2016
This is western society,
How much is distorted realism?
Talk in sinister sexism,
Casually call criticism,
Typecast fashion femmes,
What about men?
High heels or no,
They'll call you a **!
You can't blame women,
For control mechanisms!
Emotional blackmail,
A world run by males,
We should empower the young,
For their lives in the sun,
When was misogyny begun?
Any real chance of equality,
in our western society?
Feedback welcome.
Swords and Roses Nov 2015
Tiny interlocking mechanisms working together to create a beautiful thing.
spysgrandson Aug 2015
I thought,
I was impervious, armor
in place, attached to detachment
my pesky synapses
melted away in
a gray soup

pain exempt...
but ****, you  
come to me
in dreams

in Morpheus grip
you slip in, those menacing faces
I managed to block, return
to mock me

the jeers to which
I made myself deaf, are now soprano, alto, bass
in my nocturnal symphony

those who malign me
are free to walk on my grave:
to them and all others I am
but slumbering slave

I can not choose
when to wake, to end your reign
but if I could, you would then skulk  
a bit in my skull's dark den
waiting for my weary eyes
to close again

— The End —