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Specs Sep 2018
I’ve been depressed all week
But she‘s been too.
She shares her coping methods
And she’s praised and supported.
I share mine and I get a single
“Nice.”

I’m the one willing to take bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To make sure I haven’t drowned
While lifting others so they can breathe.

At this point it’s not even them.
I’m force-feeding words into their mouths
As I watch them go about their lives.

I know that
They’re busy.
They’re tired.
They’re taking a personal day.
They’re working on themselves.
And I understand that.

But whenever
I’m busy,
I’m tired,
I’m taking a personal day,
Or I’m working on myself,
I’m there at the drop of a hat.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes
To realize that maybe, just maybe
I need help too.

Irrelevant.
The delayed introduction after the
“How have you beens?”
“Fine and yous?”
“I’ve been great, I have this story...”
Minutes pass before I’m even thought of,
And by then I’ve excused myself.

I’m the one that’s taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes.
I’m taking you out and bringing you in
But I can only take so much.

I’m so desperate to be important to someone
That I don’t know how to be important to myself.
Even the saying of “one is sliver and one is gold”
Is unintentionally excluding.
I’m surrounded friends and their golds
But there are so many golds there’s not room for bronze.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those that can’t take five minutes
To realize that I give more than I take
And that I’ve given away my soul.

A sick feeling in my stomach,
But if I bring it up,
I know you’ll have it worse.
So I swallow my bile
And stretch out a smile.

I’m the one taking bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To see that I’ve made it out
Of the burning building too.

I’ve laid myself out as a doormat.
So why do I complain when people wipe their feet?

I’m the one taking bullets
For those who can’t take five minutes
To see that I am
Broken.
I’m tired of meaning nothing to everyone
Willow Sep 2018
It’s an hour close enough
To the number of no return
We contact through the space
As we once did before time

A cigarette before ***
Is not what the humble mind
Would immediately jump to
Only the outsiders would assume so

A cigarette before ***
Simply means a breath of air
Before all wind is stolen
By the intimacy of a conversation

A cigarette before ***
May role off your tongue
Tarnished by a society
We constantly run from

A cigarette before ***
When the *** is climatic conversation
And the cigarette is just the breath before
To prepare yourself for the race.
Caleb Hess Aug 2018
We are slaves of our thoughts, as they bifurcate down crossroad after crossroad, as they diverge in all different directions and force us to obey, and if you must defy then prepare for the pain of cracking bones and resting your head on a cinder block to sleep at night as your brain comes up with new, insufferable ways of torture to force you back down onto your knees, making you bow down. Rebel against yourself all you want but there is no escape from the dystopian society in your head. Knowing this will only make your hunger for escape even greater for we want what we can’t have.
A good concept if you ask me. What the poem is about is pretty self explanatory.
Pyre Aug 2018
You know what she is
She's a drink
she's like alcohol, I love drinking it but I hate waking up the next day
No
Actually, No
she's like a cigarette.
I love cigarettes
I love taking a breath with it
How it just is part of
you
just, inhale and get a buzz
Before you exhale
until you bring cigarette away from your mouth, give it a second and then go again.
All the while it destroys you inside
Until eventually you finish that cigarette
and then you just toss it on the curb.
Sometimes you drop it in a puddle of tears.
sometimes you break it before you get to light it, other times you burn the wrong end of the cigarette.
That goes on for a while
until you finish the pack
some people even get bored or sick of their cigarettes, so they switch their brand.
but all in all.
their still smoking a ******* cigarette
and the end of the day, every time you finish one
you die a little more inside
Just a little, your insides literally blacken
and her?
well she's the **** of a cigarette I've kept going for too long
it's kind of burning my fingers now.
so I'm gonna **** it.
then I'm gonna buy a new pack.
Pyre Aug 2018
My chest is my mast
My eyes the crows nest
and my mind the pest

My rib cage is the hull
My jaw the figurehead
and my mind the blockhead

My ears are my anchor
My eyes its chains
That my mind all stains

My Spine is the keel
My veins the crew
And my mind is askew

My soul is my captain
My heart the navigator
and my mind the perpetrator

My name is the Crest
That my mind will infest
j Aug 2018
what other objects do you have,
to turn them into metaphors
that profess
your affections for me?
do not give me flowers,
or anything that exists in nature.
keep away the comparisons from seas,
the sun, and anything in between.
i have heard them all from past lovers,
& they all left me in time.
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
Which crimson bud
doth burst forth white,
which lovely flower
doth perfume the night,
flourish and flutter
doth stamen and petal,
the bee upon beauty
doth gently settle.



© Pagan Paul (15/08/18)
.
Carlos Aug 2018
Lines like a laxative for tongues,
The individual pieces become greater than its sum,  
Summer time therapy dialing up in increments,  
Wouldn't know the difference between the butterflies and chrysalis.
Syzygy in spirit as sympathy in the impetus,
Synergy  in serendipity makes symmetry seem ubiquitous.
Flummoxed, I fell face first flying into fellowship,  
Feeling fusion in the furrows of my fingertips,  
Figure this,  mistigris,  implement mirrors  for the synthesis,  
Taking root  in the underground,
This is censorship on stimulus.  
Kaizen from the get-go,
How did silence ever get gold?
Climate of the  biome discernible by  petrichor,
Some of my greatest allies are people I've never even met before.  
Mumpsimus with metaphors, metatron or metamorph,
A mess of Mesozoic memoirs  drowning in a reservoir,
Reserve my right to write a mire of a  message board,
Desire an empire of satire to conquest; explore,  
Buyers,  sellers,  best befores,  
Crying out to be adored,
The expiration estimation rivals rivals' primal repertoires.
Rhymes like mycelium,  climbing up the  parapets,  
Embrangled mosaics interceding abstract arabesque.
Salma Elaouni Aug 2018
I need a cigarette
I want a pitch black coffee
And a cigarette

I need a window
On the 7th floor
And an empty flat
Streets with chaos and corruption
Allys with secrets that stink
And you out of my head

I want a wounded room in the middle of a clutter
Where the cracks speak the terrors stuck in my throat and silhouettes with night stories.

I want you
Right there by the corner
Where I can inhale you in the dark and steal your scent like a gem I could keep on my chest.

I want you
Out of my body
Yet it is windy
It is dim, lonely and hallow
It is pulsing and it is late
Late enough to sit by the window
Sipping at that pitch black coffee
Waiting to be saved by the morning
Or a cigarette.
I do not even smoke yet here is another poem about him
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