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William Aug 2014
Oh if you knew what it meant to me
the fall of faith and not religion
the human race has lost all,
Faith is that of dreams
it fills my night terrors.

We are a broken species
mercy is seen as weakness
it is treated like terrible diseases.
I just want to be seen,
Seen for me
Not my prescription

Only the departed whisper...
Oh if you knew what it meant to me.
Gone is me
stainless, sharp and metallic,
Breaks my taught flesh
leaving a red drip.

It spirals amongst the water encasing me,
Hoping no one will find me
**Praying someone knew what it meant to me.
Tamara Rice Aug 2014
So bored
and so dead
that little monster I fed
and now she's fat,
full, and a little brat
she starves me
content on watching me bleed
making sure i drown in need
she burns and chokes me
I can't stop embracing her
the only piece of me I have
can't lose her in the cure
and I need to be so sure
so sure, My Love, you are
i'm kissing the killer
clutching my demise
keeping her close to my heart
she's with me always
my only company
she listens always
always, always, more always
she's killing me
i'm gonna cuddle her close
cause if I'm going down
I'm taking her along for the ride
"....Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush’d!   15
House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house! dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house—but dead, dead, dead."

Walt Whitman
Aaron Bee Jul 2014
Slow minds,
And
Hungry times.
Fire ignites a
Luscious green
kind of
magic.
Euphoria inhaled,
And
Stoners prevails
For we have
The upper hand
Held to our mouths
With the other
Not too far.
Lighter in hand
You are the
Magic man
One of many.
punk rock hippy Jul 2014
I will send you through a bad trip.
There will be bugs on your skin, you've lost your mind so the devil is laughing at you.

Bombs will be set off in the weakest parts of your foundation.

You will read my sentences as if they were in the bible.

You will feel what I feel.

I love feeling like Tabasco sauce has been poured in my eyes because I can't get words down.

I absolutely adore questioning my every move since birth because I can't match these sentences up.

But my absolute favorite thing to do is skip my pills for a day so I cause destruction so I can force creation.

The funny thing is, I took my pills today.
Syreena Phelps Jul 2014
The deeper the cuts,
the more they bleed.
The longer the cuts,
the less you'll need.

More medication,
for doctor's greed.
Ryan Cripps Jul 2014
It's one of those days
Where I've got no inspiration.
Where I'm writing
Completely out of desperation.

The pen is dried up,
But there's still ink inside.
I thought I had something going
but the stanza was denied.

I hate these types of days.
It's the potential for writers block.
My inspiration is on the edge,
it's got the gun loaded and cocked.

I feel a lack of dedication.
A lack of education.
There needs to be medication
for a lack of inspiration.
Follow me on twitter: @radicalmartian
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Ophelia Jul 2014
This emptiness
It's all you left me with,
your friendship and fake smiles
and careless "I love you"s
Cannot hold a candle
To the hole you made
You chipped away at me
Little by little
Making a place for yourself
Inside of me
I let you build a home in my heart,
Hell, I helped you paint the walls.
I was so happy to have you
To hold you
To love you
I was eager to let you in
I stood by as you filled this hole
I watched you ooze
Like cancer between my bones
Spreading your poison through my brain
It felt so good to let your smoke
Pool in my lungs
And choke my throat
Until I was made of you

You were happy to pour yourself
Into me but I guess you really did care
You loved me too much
To let yourself love me
When you saw how I held your hand
Like a needle
And needed your voice
Like nicotine
You pulled away
You need me too much
To risk killing me
At least that's what you said
When I cried out for one last drag
You may be right
Your love would have consumed me
Until there was nothing left but rotting bones
Even so, despite your desperate attempt
To save me from us
I may not survive this withdrawal
My self rehabilitation
Is more painful than I can stand
At least not alone
If I had you
To hold my hand
And promise my pains away
I might be able to quit
And maybe we could be friends
But alone I didn't have the strength
To heal these sores and forget your lips
I couldn't wait
For my heart to stop pounding
Instead I took a knife
And cut this cancer out
Myself
I was the surgeon
Carving out this cancer
That came from addiction
I cried when you took it away
It left these hollows in my skin
My skin is paper thin
My blood pressure weak
This self dichotomy
Was messy and rushed
I tore memories of us
Out of my ribs
Scraped your smile
Off my heart
With a spoon
Filtered your perfume
Out of my blood
Medicated myself
With weight loss
And alcohol, music
And poetry
To dull the pain
And stitched my skin
Back together with lies
To cover the scars
Of my haste
I never healed
I forced months of
Chemotherapy
Into a few weeks
It hurt but so does
Thinking about you
I haven't spoken
To you since I started
This self treatment
I'm afraid that when I finally
Do see you again
These stitches may unravel
And I'll fall apart again
Leaving this disease exposed
All these holes for you to see
Will you still want
My friendship
When you've seen
The pain in my eyes
And the scars you left?
I hate myself for becoming so dependent on this girl
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Everything she writes is tagged
#DEPRESSION          

You break my heart, know.
Even with these chemical
bonds holding me together,
these frail spiderwebs
weaving around ventricles,
you shatter them like a
calm breeze, playing child,
a secret told to the wrong set of ears.

The characters in (y)our plays [on words]
are the crux of (y)our matters.
We're all ancillary like stepping stones;
pity (y)our destination begs leaving
no stone unturned.

My stepping stones are tablets, though.
20mg doses of baby steps,
crossing voids like I see in (y)our eyes.
My mouth is cavernous,
my throat the steps to hell
(wide and steep and too easy to trip down).
Each night - a crusade to save me.
Each morning - a body count.
One. Good enough for me.

Each time I sign on - the body count grows.
I have a bad habit if writing poems that are too personal about people I don't really know. This is one of them, so I threw in a bit about myself for good measure.
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