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Zoe Mae Jul 23
I try to write from different perspectives
Think outside of my box and be more objective
Give every style of writing a chance
Be open to learning an alien dance
I appreciate effort and creativity
Even if it's subjects that for me don't come easily
I try to write and read from different perspectives
But one thing remains constant
I feel rejected
Zoe Mae Jul 22
Left for dead
in someone else's memory

Nothing but pain
Always awake
searching for a remedy

Torn inside out
Inately irrelevant
trying to stay in the game

Giving up quick
Treading water at best
Everyday feels the same
Zoe Mae Jul 22
I don't like my skin today
It doesn't fit me right
It's loose in the wrong places
Where I need room, it's too tight
The color doesn't match my mood
I don't appear slate gray
I think I might go back to bed
I hate my skin today
Spike Harper Jun 23
Perhaps inspiration is the problem.
I have always danced with words.
Blending syllables and wit
Bending sentences at will.
Firing ink from a loaded pen.
Makes for good imagery.
As I flap the pages of this notebook.
Dropping tiny daggers with this tongue.
Trying to master the craft of symbolism.
With sarcasm.
Playing with these words like hooked on phonics.
Molding them into a scene.
Of play on words.
With less drama.
Maybe even worth less.
Like pay-less.
As we walk in eachothers shoes.
To better understand the roads we travel.
Assumptions forever to be made, not a soul to try and look deeper. Not a soul to understand. There are many complexities within me, that even I cannot untangle quite just yet, but I try my best. I just long for a look of acceptance, a look of acknowledgement. Nobody truly knows the pain that swarms within. The words in which my soul screams.
They call you judgmental yet frown upon you when you are not exactly like them
They try to pick apart any possible reason for an action you take, a mistake that you make
Then boil it down to their own perfect little answer
Their expectations they hold for others can be grueling with how many hurricanes run through your head, though they claim not to ask for much
To act as if they can see right through you can sometimes be their favorite way to pass time, though  of course they don’t know half of it
The strong vibes of arrogance and judging glances they shoot behind your back are enough to suffocate you, but you choose to hold it together with a smile
Until the weakness returns, where you break down and shake
You try to place words together in your mouth, your poems, in your eyes, your soul, anything.. but the largest part of you screaming out remains silent
To expect to be fully understood by another is foolish  
For their selfishness and their narrow way of thinking are evidently highly prominent
And far too many complications are forever involved
The attempts to silent your mind  unfortunately prove to be futile
A cigarette, one drink after the other take away the gnawing pain that will eternally make its presence known
Moments of happiness turn dark as ash ever so quickly
To laugh at oneself, to lose one’s mind is hauntingly easy enough
In a world where no one truly knows your name.
Vellichor May 18
Look at this girl
With wildfire eyes,
Beautiful flames
That will burn you alive.

Look at this girl,
A tornado in skin.
She tears through hell
With a bone chilling grin.

You think you know
That she’s numb to the pain,
That novocaine
Somehow runs through her veins,

But her wildfire eyes
Hold tales she won’t tell.
Her bone-chilling grin
Is just to spite hell.

You’ve become passive,
So absently blind.
Her fiery facade
Has convinced you she’s fine.

But her wildfire eyes
Can’t relieve her lament.
Her bone chilling grin
Can’t change hell’s torment.

She’s dying alive
As the fires of hell churn.
She’s not fireproof,
And she feels every burn.

This girl that you see,
And her wildfire eyes?
They’re beautiful flames,
That burn her alive.
Ryan May 8
don’t understand

it’s not something i do
i’m not living in the moment or
i refuse to attend to practical matters

i spiral
because in
every moment of
every day
my mind is
seeing and
feeling and
the biggest struggles
and smallest victories
of everyone around me

years of hard work
dreams come true
my brain is a sponge
in the ocean wave of life

look around
the world is a whirlpool
of infinite possibilities and
of infinite reasons
to sit and think for awhile

it’s only natural
to be pulled
Jade Apr 10
⚠️Trigger Warning: the Following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide. ⚠️
This piece is an emulation of Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". Any similarities, as a result, are purely intentional, and I am thus giving credit where credit is due.
There once was a girl
who cut herself,
a plan by which she could get
a little company
some excitement.

(Or so it was presumed)

She rushed out from the
school washroom
after tearing herself open
and called out,
"suicide, suicide!”

And her teachers and classmates
came out to meet her,
and some of them stopped
with her for a considerable time.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help—

But instead of
trying to understand
the chronic illness
that plagued her,

they resorted to an archaic stigma
to inform their judgments
on the subject of mental illness.

They believed
that she only bled
to receive attention,
and was therefore named
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
after The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

she wasn't allowed
to use the school washroom
at all anymore

even if she had to
take a ******* ****

it would only encourage


Despite them never
saying this to her face,
the girl was not



the defamations
that had fallen from the
tongues of these
black sheep.

The Girl was so
profoundly hurt
by this betrayal

that a few years
as she attempted
to bleed herself dry
in the bathtub
at 3 Am
on a stormy
May 30th,

she dared not
tell a soul

for she knew
they would think
this to be an act
of deceit

a freak show
she put on just
for the ******
hell of it—



in some sick,
crimson pageant.

But this was not
a game of


the wolves
had always been




to the blood moon
of her mind's eye

every beautiful thought


the fabric of her sanity
torn from her skull

(And the veins torn from her flesh)

the wolves’ cry
a siren song

leading the lamb
to her slaughter.

Don’t you understand?

I am not playing dress-up

I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing

I  am

the lamb to this slaughter
Tell me

If it was all just for



then why did I feel the need

to hide my cuts
with long-sleeved shirts

during gym class

in the summer?

Why did I start
cutting in places
Where no one would ever
of looking?

Why did I tell everyone I
when I hadn’t?

Did you really care about me?

Or did you care about
What would happen to
if the liability killed herself?
You cut me in ways
a razor
never could.
How could you
How could you
How could you

Go **** yourselves,
You uneducated
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