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Bella Isaacs Mar 13
Half the time I forget I'm a woman
Half the time I'll act the man
There is no lad out there who will treat me
Like the lady I ought to be;
And so I'm skulking like the teenage duellist
That I wrote into my stories, cruellest
In my smile and style, harsh blacks,
Harsh silvers, stinging hylauronic gloss
The only thing that reminds you that the tax
I place upon myself is a compromise from my loss.
I will fight all those scoundrels for me
Dosed up on Panic! as only I can be
"Whoa! Mona Lisa!" Aye, but catch me bare my teeth,
Catch me look at you, eyelashes poignards, like the iris underneath
The deepest blue
To remind you
I'm not entirely the goth I paint myself to be;
And tomorrow it'll change, as the black shirt'll be *****
And thrown into the wash, and I'll still try to cut a picture
In my poet's silk blouse and blood-red lipstick; I indenture
Them into this image - I'm surviving for every next coming dawn
But, yeah, I'm doing it in a style - that of the dagger drawn.
fray narte Nov 2021
i am bone-tired and befogged with melancholia; i cannot wait to fall and bounce cheerlessly in a field of forlorn, arenaria flowers, all over the sunless forest floor. leave me be — a strange girl in a sleepy, run-down town. leave me be — a hopeless case in my own quiet apocalypse.
Philip Lawrence Jan 2021
some say she was born with a broken heart,
unmendable by word or deed, and now armed
with a quiver full of witticisms and deft vertical
palm, friends, lovers, the world, all held at bay,
lest they discover her sorrow
irinia Jan 2021
The mourning is
about it never being
the way I needed
it to be.

My life itself a
disturbance of mourning

Stands in my life. Before me. The
dead girl under the bed
her skin transparent as mine

disappears. I come out
and there is no mother. Sometimes
she appears and there is no telling what
attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs.
Becomes desire,
the loot of her mourning.

Empty womb pillow. I am not
enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe.
Behind me, at my sides
stands mourning.

I have only to be busy with your burial.
Sharpening flint to a pillar
pile to a mound
and turn from it.

It is gone
And I am.

By Noa Vardi, M. D.
fray narte Oct 2020

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this sorrow has grown stems and branches;
soon, they will dig their way in,
handing me flowers for a funeral.

some nights, it is a switchblade
digging deeper into my wounds —
other nights, it is an act of kindness.

some nights, my lips refuse to read aloud
the epitaphs carved in my headboard.
other nights, i recite them like poems
worth laying at a forest's doorstep —
in a worn-out dress and
with mud in my skin.
from the dark,
i cannot tell whether the offering
is this poem or me.

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this sorrow has grown roots
in the gaps where all my bones used to rest —
and there is no way out of these woods
when your heart has long hanged itself —
when your feet are sinking quicker
than they move.

and soon, you'll find that the butterflies in my stomach
had been nipping on these funeral flowers —
nipping for so long on my flesh —
inside out.

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this chest has become a wide-open mass graveyard.

here, their weary bodies lie —
the girls made of blackened bones and dystopia.
the girls who don't survive themselves.
here, their weary bodies lie.

here — where my weary body lies.
aviisevil Sep 2020
home is where the heart is, but what if the heart is broken and lost ?

what then, when there are no roads and no pathways, but a forest with naked trees, and with barely enough sunlight creeping in, to make out the void that surrounds us at all times.

what if a mind does not require a body anymore ?

where do we go from there ?

questions pierce my conscience like an asteroid hitting earth traveling at a thousand miles per heart beat,

evaporating any sense of belief or religion that existed in the deepest corners of my being, resembling a fire that even sun is afraid of --

what if the answers never come ?

what if everything ends before i can wake up, before i have the urge to do something worthwhile with my dreams and fears,

i can build castles in sand and bury my doubts in tiny rooms with tiny beds, but never escape this impending sense of doom that has made a circus in my veins, always to and fro the axis, as i wait for the silence to scream from across the ocean, i guess i'm still waiting for somebody to say my name before i forget how to think,

and i'm still thinking of various ways to end this train of thought and perhaps i'll jump off at the next station, i can see myself from afar howling at the wheels of my suffering for taking a turn for the worse,

it's better if i leave this room before it devours me, i have so much to think and so little room to sit idle, it's as if the walls are suffocating me for fun, every brick vibrating like the bones in my body, trembling in a careless rhythm --

and it feels as if i can never escape from this sadness that has made a nest inside my hollowed body, i am but a step away from breaking down in little brittle pieces of absolute nothing,

i'm so close to being scattered, of crying rivers and oceans of my solitude and misguided birth, but i never do, i never let the rain **** the storm --

i never let the blues paint over the rotten reds, and greens and everything that does not come with a colour,

i enjoy my drakness alone, and i make peace with the ghosts those dance around us when nobody's looking,

i swallow my screams until i'm drowning in my own sorrows, my eyes in a horrific trance, watching the atoms destroy each other a billion times in plain sight,

it kills me that nobody bothers, nobody cares until they're dying, with unrelenting sadness at all times breathing down their necks, ready to bite and drain away the lesser world.

why life when there must've been so much before ? -- i wonder in disguise of madness and tame melancholia, ruined by man made conditions and nefarious activities of the restless and unkept,

and yes, i'm talking about you too, about us, about the gods that live in palaces made of rejected prayers and songs,  

i'm talking about memories, slowly decomposing into dead skin and dusty old book shelves that harbour nothing more than old age and forgotten fingerprints fading away even though the arms of the clocks on the unraveled walls have stopped moving, and the time has stood still peeking from outside the window, waiting for somebody to draw the curtains.

in the cold gloomy room where i've sat everyday for days to come, i sit even now paying attention to every detail, with empty promises and smothered dreams, with voices that echo across the many places inside my mind, buzzing with words that change with every step, and no matter how deep i crawl there'll always be something on the outside that just doesn't make sense.

i wonder if that's how people feel, otherwise it'll be harder for me to explain when i'm done talking,

i'm always breathing the fumes of whispers and stories that people radiate, walking room to room, traveling in circles, and in straight lines that never deviate to accommodate any other shape, reason or thought, always blind to the things passing us by, never turning to see if there's more than what greets the eye when you're looking for something out of place.

perhaps that's why we never leave our souls and wander about in the world of ghosts to see for ourselves if there's more than what we think there is, always believing to choose the lies instead of the truth because we were taught not to be real in this binary world where being out of the box means you're exposed,

that's when i wrestle with the man in the mirror, strangle him and complicate him, abuse him and starve him, carve out his body in my own, paint over him until all that i see, are my eyes peering into my soul, telling my mind that my thoughts have died a sudden death and all there is, is an echo that keeps fading away whenever i remember i do exist, and this is more than just reality, and i'll be better off without my own company,

who am i ? three words that keep me from ending it all, i hope there's no answer.
I'll try to explain what I cannot.
fray narte Aug 2020
this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;

my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?

why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.

and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.

i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.

now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.

now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.

now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
Graff1980 Jun 2020
Give me a piece
of the beast
on which you feast.

Listen closely
and mostly
you will hear
at least one of these
children cry
from hunger,

stomach growling,
while predators are prowling,
and the wolves are howling.

Back home the at risk
sit and wish to be rich,
instead see their
family fall sick,
while praying
god will fix
all of this ****.

We could have been
partners and friends
to all of the children
who have fallen in
the hole we were digging,
with filth on their chins
as strangers pass by
smug in their disgust.

You know,
the world is broken,
and we allowed it to happen
cause the shiny little tokens
made our monkey minds smile
while rich wolves stole the whole
Graff1980 Jul 2020
Here I am
one more
dead man
just walking.

Here I am
on what I see.

Here I am
not to waste
the space
where poetry
plants it blooms,
that perfect
pink fleshy room
that will soon
be consumed
by rot and decay.

Here I am
ready to play,
for this short stay
which can be bad
or made great
by the way
I take it.

Here I am
hold my hand
as I walk us both
through the
forest trees,
and starlight
reflected in these
rippling seas,
as we share
all this beauty.

Here I am
ready to give
the time I have
left to live.

Where are you?
Graff1980 Jul 2020
Just passed that last blast
of winter’s wicked fury.

What a relief
to get some heat
cause I was tired of being

Finally, here
seems like we cleared
and jumped
straight into
the summer’s blue.

Sadly, this quarantine
has me catching
the fevers of cabin,
has my jets lagging
without ever flying
spiced with just a tinge
of unwanted crying.

Please no more storms,
please don’t get too warm.
Let this disease
finally pass by all of our

Cause all that I want
is to come out of the house
and see all of you.
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