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Tetra Hachiko Oct 2019
"If you're so good with words, then be a writer"
They said
"It'll be a good release for you"
They said
Sure, it's all fun and games until you actually crack open your chest and pour out whats inside on white pages, now stained forever with the black ink of the cruelty of one's own mind.
Sabila Siddiqui Aug 2019
The pain rots and sheds,
as it smoulders her bones
and burns her skin third degree.

Loss and jealousy enwrap
her scorched heart into ashes,
while lava flows off her tongue
as it promises vengeance.

She becomes a vortex of emotions
engulfing her own life,
dwelling in the
merry go round thoughts.

Until she picks up the pen
and tucks the rage and ache
within the 26 alphabets
stringing words,
to sentences to paragraphs.

Ashes and embers stain the paper
as they ebb, blot and flow,
crafting the cathartic relief
until the paper stains darker
than the shades of her mind.

The blues that would pour,
become the budding flowers
in her chest.

She remodifies
cobblestones into steppingstones,
amplifying her narrative.

She tosses the losses
into words
and crosses beyond the horizon.

A candle flame burns deep
inside her solar plexus
as she transmogrifies the shards into a mosaic;
the strings of the web she was entangled in
weaved into embroidery to embellish her soul.

The cries and lies,
made her wise
as she built from the same sorrows
she was drowning in.

She put her ache on cadence
and turned up a brain wavelength.

She finally found her salvation
from abandonment
a dive deep and wide into
the depth of introspection
pulling from the cronies and nooks
the parts built and undiscovered.

She armed herself with
empathy fueled passion
as she has burnt, learnt
and learn to yearn the better
while she steers forward
with a transfigured mindset.

For the people who came,
now leave as poems.
eleanora santino Aug 2019
not happy but content.
stable but not healed.
rebirthing but not quite alive.
we'll be alright.
Keiri Jul 2019
Darkness rises.
Toxic level emerge.
Enough disguises.
I'm at te verge.

At the end of me.
At the start of fall.
What became of me.
Look at me crawl.

Black eyes.
Red whites.
All the lies.
All the fights.

It didn't end well.
It never got good.
Ring the alarm bell.
No one stands were I stood.

It's over, it's gone.
My head got insane.
I should've known so long.
Never enter memory lane.

It's over, it's gone.
I've finally lost it.
The will to fight was wrong.
And I will never fit.
An older poem dug up and repolished
Tuffy Mutombo May 2019
If you want to see beauty look into the mirror
If you want to see flaws look into the mirror
Self-love and self-hate exist in the mind of the beholder
Which ever one you choose to make stronger
Will stay just a little longer
Little Bit May 2019
overgrown
lawn
or
fairy
garden
you choose
Sara I Raad Apr 2019
You can give someone the world.
You can walk a thousand miles in their shoes.
If they don't want to take responsibility for their actions,
their choice of destroying parts of you,
their choice of treating you wrong,
their choice of not putting you first,
they are not going to.
Stop bending over backwards
for someone who wouldn't
make a slight turn for you.


Sara I. Raad
AuEcologica Apr 2019
It is hard, isn’t it?
We tell ourselves yes because all have a definitive answer to it.
A full stop that is the peculiar reason, which a focus on “the”.
Not realizing, not embracing that we are “the” complication.
Our world could shatter and fall; utter destruction could befall us all—
Our attitude decides our fate; one can smile while facing death.
It is hard isn’t it, to be?
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