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I think I've soaked in far too
Many emotions today.
The sponge bleeds into
My own conscience and
I am ****** too deep.

I'm overwhelmed.
Someone else's tears
Well up behind eyelids
That should belong to me,
Or maybe they don't.

Someone else's fear
Leaves icy trails on
The skin that clothes
My ivory bones,
Or our bones.

Someone else's madness
Crept into my veins
And set them ablaze with a
Fury so bright it blindsided
The guardian of my mind.

Red, green, melancholy
Blues, they fill my head
Like a clouded rainbow.
Blue bleeds the deepest and
I need some type of shine.

I've had
         Just a
                 Little
                       Too
                             Much today.
F Jan 29
i.
an ailment of the mind,
incorporeal, a ghost that flits between
worlds, festers and grows —
a thumping tumour.

ii.
sick, but not really sick.
(does it hurt? paracetamol might help).
you are exaggerated and foolish.
count your blessings.

iii.
potent to change reality.
stronger than any mushrooms.
a single thought, the words and the images,
gunslingers to misery.

iv.
hook that reels in,
boding some ominous fate.
fish out of water —
flippity-flop; people sunbathe around.

v.
plodding is what it is.
plodding through a tempest,
freezing, crackled skin,
watching everyone else walking in sun.

vi.
you want to scream but don’t.
you want to explain but don’t.
you let them form their own ideas
and agree. you feed on it.
depression? anxiety? what a ******* drama queen
anemo ne Dec 2018
resigned from personality, I live gone from such a scathed place, unable to blend or stand out but to be indivisible. Flowing through, Living a life akin to A silver stream, out of your own unprovoked inclinations, grasping the fibrous contents from my soul, filaments momentarily sustain you but not enough for you to permanently reside here beside me. remaining unseen, lost under shrubbery, fanned out trees covering me, ‘unfounded’, casual movements nevertheless, demobilized. By “silver”, Not that I see my significance as anything higher just forgotten, maybe I’ve made it out to be that way because consciously The brittleness of such a being wouldn’t be able to survive in such a conditioned life, austerity gleaning from every corner to such a center. Gleamed on by the effervescent presentation of sun and moon, providing me sustenance, showing me comfort, blissful distraction from this inescapable lonesomeness, so indescribably tortuous, but all the while, such a “beautiful” poison to the common outsider. Wind can only carry that which has lost its will to live, becoming light, Full of iron I stay, not entirely certain if I’m convinced of that myself to completely let go, to continuously be led a-fray, maybe there is a task that remains undone. Maybe I’m not ready to go just yet. Maybe the call urgently repeating needs no response but acceptance to whatever fate I might fall into, a disposition of tolerance to the external parts that I keep apart from myself for no exact reason to but only because it might just hurt, it might break the way time points to the soul to respond, to repair, to repeat, to mobilize once more.
The happenstance of it being late of four, the moon directly beaming against my window, so aligned with how I feel isn’t isolated nor miraculous just anticipated.

‘while we lay lamenting to the same old tune we seem to have forgotten that tomorrow is along the way. That all is to come certainly for “time” never ceases to stop.’






unedited. I like to think of it as organized chaos unfairly transcribed.

To whomever this might refer to.
She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.

She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.

She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.

She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.

She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.

Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.

She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.

For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
k, let’s go!
     Kanye told us to leave Radiohead behind and after class Josh
     will buy scotch
     The hound in our area won’t bother us no more.

****,
    
      Nah she’s a dude, chill

Aight, let’s go!
     We have Bluetooth,
     We have Post Malone and Bernie Sanders still rite?

Adeleine's letter will eventually find its way to his post,

k, let’s go!
     Video games are a virtue.
     Mr Hoffman, science teacher,
     nearly scored a goal on Tuesday,
     he's so...[[lit.]]

Watch here:
     Tv anime girl with candy butchered by a man-turned-robot...

"The parcel came in two days early for you Joe," mum said

Juniors flee to-

Enough, let’s go!
    Boy lovers; ily lovers
    Everyone dreams of Dumbledore's palace, his poetry breaks our
    hearts,

                                                          *

­Kanye’s gig went bam bam dilla bam
                               Bam dilla bam bam
Josh died of liver failure at 54.
The hound came back, limping in the grass,
The girl-boy became depressed.
Joe slept with Adeleine.
The boys got married in 2026,
Mr Hoffman cried w a book that night. &
The juniors ran away from home.
Experimenting with language in hopes to find a new language. I wanted to capture, not the entirety of the teen, but the essence of him/her.
Tamara Walker Jul 2018
I searched for madness
But instead found insanity
And images floating towards my popcorn ceiling
Lukewarm soap bubbles
Reflecting my ******* face  
Elaborate on the details of a story
Too many stories
Few told accurately
Some forgotten for years behind the couches
Excavated and place in museums
This is apart of a much larger and longer poem called Plenty Words.
Dan Beyer Jul 2018
it scratches–
just like the branches
of our faux christmas tree
that i stand by ***** for the photo
i don't smile
i don't want to
i hate wearing this dress
CeilingStar Jul 2018
To love the dark

Has the dark ever made you feel as lonely as he did when he broke your heart to pieces with his bare hands?
Did it ever keep you up at night like you did crying over him?
Has he ever enveloped you like the darkness has, clinging to your silhouette as gentle as a silk sheet?

The dark night will keep you safer than love ever could
It removes image and vanity
It doesn't discriminate
The dark will never be greedy or callous

The nights love stretches further than your dreams, further than the miles of blank horizon that promises to be anything you desire
The nights beauty will touch you in ways love could never
The moons light, the stars shine, the sunsets warm tendrils

Step outside
Let the crisp night air caress your ***** figure
The night shall always descend to comfort your soul
Love descends only into swirling resent

KG
the moon is warmer than the sun
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