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Allesha Eman May 18
We, birds in pain,
Put our trust in branches
Too weak to hold the weight of these dreams
This saffron grief is too fragrant
For our evergreen pine noses.
The everyday calamity
The everyman dream
Burns through the soil in our lungs,  
Memories of summer are now lost in September rain.
I am here dreaming of mending hearts
That have braved more than they can bear
But these drooping eyelids
Are stuck in endless night cycles
Of listening to the sounds of misery
theladyeve Apr 22
i no longer wish to be exceptional. be boring. be ordinary. do not stand out. be real. be authentic. cleanse your mind and body and start over. it’s never too late to start over.

i only wish to exist, that’s all. it takes a lot of strength to exist when sorrow, disruption, and misery follow you around, swirling like a black fog that constantly engulfs you. it takes so much willpower to see through the fog that when i stumble out or gasp for breath, i realize that ordinary IS exceptional. to survive the absolute hatred of being forced to live, i only wish to exist, that’s all.
I pray God will take my life first,
Leaving you alone in the shadows,
To realize the price for our own blood…
No more your life for mine to thirst,
The times you tried me at the gallows,
Noosing your own neck for tears to flood…
Slow martyrdom of death to march,
  No one to save our scars lost of time,
Burnt screams of you telling me to stop…
Withered wrinkled bodies turned to starch,
mimicking dancing demons to mime,
Cry the souls yearning our bones to drop…
Long lost tainted blood for salvation,
a world to witness our damnation…
For Kenneth…
Lil Moon Moon Jan 18
Somebody put me out of my misery,
I've been struck by a curious malady:
I can't seem to stop
writing sappy poetry!

Perhaps it's *** my muse is ineffable,
Can't help if that makes her indelible.

Now the evidence lies before your very eyes,
That she as cause and culprit should pay the price

For all of my absurd sentimentalities
Is a result of her bewitchful tendencies:

Bore a mighty wordsmith
out of a hopeless romantic.
Now this whole shebang
might drive me ballistic

As time passes
I can't seem to find a problem with that though

My muse, my lady malady:
Fine, I'll be the lunatic
Now wouldn't that be poetic??
Asuzx Jan 16
Portrayals of suffering -
Mine and everyone else’s -
What are your cravings for?
May you matter
Existing in this endless instant.

Voicings of my pain,
Do you matter if you save a life?
For a life is but a number.

Representations of my fears -
First aid or pitiful joke?
Sublime art or appalling misery?
Beauty or madness?
Tokens of life or death?
Pointful or pointless?

Does it even matter if it matters?
God doesn't either,
dead or alive,
in dreams or in nightmares,
Unless He makes you laugh.
Does God make you laugh, sometimes?
She wrote poems about sunflowers
and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.

She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum;
About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.

And to her future child,
And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her,
And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art,
the interconnectedness of all things.

In radical joyful tones,
she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest,
her Memory Bank.

The people pointed at the lonely beergazer
The outraged wunderkind
The housebound widower
Each lost in the past or in the future.
Ah, misery.
The father of poetry.
They would shake their heads,
A shame, they would say.

Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world,
the mother of poetry, undeterred,
sat in her garden
singing to the souls of the vegetables.
Sophia Jan 7
weary eyes
sinking deeper
into sheets that are so heavy
these pillows suffocating
and holding onto every drawn out breath
a pillow for my shattered bones
lay to rest
i break delicately
falling slowly
in and out of all that i know
and all that seems to be
a woeful slumber
my darkest dreams
through sunken hills
the feeling lingers
and then it is lost
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