Get off my back, ok?
I've got heaps of homework
I've got a practice internal
which looks completely difficult
I've got to pack for a field trip
even though I don't have all the things, but I'll make do
All of which has to be completed in two days.

I've been exhausted,
Haven't been getting enough sleep
I'm not ready for the pressure of school
My mind isn't on that level yet
Woken up this morning,
Nagged to do lots of things
As if this pressure isn't enough already.

It's only 9:50AM,
My day's starting to go down hill,
It's turning to shit.
Can't you see that I'm stressed out?
Can't you see I've got enough on my plate?
Can't you see I'm fighting back tears?
Can't you see I'm trying to motivate myself to do everything else?
Are you trying to bring me to my breaking point?
It sure as hell feels like it!

It makes me want to scream,
Throw things,
Yell and hit,
I want to have a break from all this,
Get away until I calm down
Can everything just be easy?

But I'll square my shoulders and hold my head high,
You won't see me cry.
No one will see me cry.
I'm not going to lose it,
I won't make a mess.
I'll handle it
Do my work,
Prepare everything
And try be positive.
I just need my headphones,
That's all I need
To block everyone out
And get things done.

Stay off my back?
All I ask for is two days.
Two days
Without extra pressure,


I found a poem I wrote about two years ago(?) and realized I hadn't posted it on here.
sarah 8h

Our love lived between the lines.

There was no rush,
no lingering sense of time or place.

Only timeless tenderness;
a love so wholesome
that the rest of our lives
didn’t seem to exist
without one another.

I heard echoed tones of yearning
underneath each touch of your fingers
to the keys of our piano.
Every note was a memory,
a sweet pang of haunted recollection.

And when the music crescendoed,
the world s t o p p e d
and started again
in the span of one heartbeat.

Your eyes, your e y e s,
so full of every terrible kind of beauty,
swallowed the sound of the notes
as they reached up and became
another memory,
another facet of proof
that we were meant to be forever.

When the time came,
we sang.

and the universe stopped
to listen.

alex 8h

my god you were such a beautiful stranger
i've still got the confetti in my hair
between the smoke and the shot in the barrel of a loaded gun
don't you remember us being there?
god i remember us being there.

straight from a song that i just wrote in which i stole from my own poetry.

In every artwork
She is reminded of him
Her wonderful muse


paraluman (n.)
a muse that inspires artistically

I color words with my anxious, greedy thumbs,
And paint mental pictures with my diction until its numb,
Hoping one day to be known as the Profound Prophet,
But I can't seem to untie the belt tied inside the closet.
Maybe I should be known as the Absent Minded,
Unconsciously assisting my fellow man that's been blinded,
Making sure that their happy endings get finded-
Found*. Whatever, words are just symbols,
Give them meaning and they protect like a thimble,
Or cause damage like knives sharpened by the a syllable,
Words can kill but at the same time are themselves, killable.
My words don't harm, they heal the injured heart,
Seek the perpetrator, and tear them apart.
Call me the defender of love, or a purveyor of wisdom,
Or a street rat cuz if they want it they can get some,
But I assist the community one by one, on a mass scale,
And I pursue my passions in life studiously; without fail.
In short I guess you could say that this was a confession,
But nah, I'll jot this down as another rhyme session.

Just another freestyle.

Myself and Mahler have a common mind,
an overwhelming God that Man can't find.
Thus, in the slow, long beating of our hearts
listeners to the soul can sing their parts,
when, in a mighty chorus, they submerge,
and from the common realms of world diverge.
We cry, whilst hanging from our mortal noose,
'Veni. Veni, creator spiritus

Apoem I wrote in 1966

listen to music
only made by
dead people
that way you
have an excuse
not to like the
music made by
the ones who
are still living

natalie 1d

"will your tongue still remember the taste of my lips?
will your shadow remember the swing of my hips?
will your lover caress you the way that i did?"

im obsessed with joji atm :)


a dandelion blooms in late July, atop a hill in Berkham

its semblance meager in its youth, though quite unlike the rest, thought he

frissons of an e minor longing resound and sorrow compels his gawky gait

to take to the wildflowers, in search of a beauty unassuming;

he had always been fond of dandelions.


the hills ablaze with yellows and golds, he seeks a single blossom;

plucks it from its roots eternal, a treasure solely his to cherish

its petals rouse his doleful heart till months elapse and chill the wind

yet how puerile, how absurd to preserve a blossom sans its roots!

he thinks it a futile endeavor;  

the repugnant weed to be disposed of forthwith.


a dandelion wilts in early May, atop a sill in Cambridge

fervor compels his pois'd gait to take to the wildflowers

in search of a beauty conspicuous;

he had always been fond of azaleas.

Poetry to go with my art song[s] of the same title.

Chopin's Nocturne opus 9, number 2

A sonorous performance,
The mellow yet melancholic undertones of the masterpiece reverbates through the meadow
From the reflective rubato streaking past the flowerbed,
To the passionate conclusion in a whim, echoing through the garden,
The garden in which a willow rests
Its twigs holding a chalice in its embroidering,
Twines glowing in the shimmering of the silver moon,
Its dark-red fluids seeping from the cracks

It gazes through the dark crevasses for an eternity,
A panorama of planets and stars dwindling to dust as it stirs its nebulas,
Clouding its view as in parallel,
Universes as large as needle tips deteriorate to nothing

There's just naught, nothing, nothingness,
The black mass piercing,
Puncturing the veins of the solemn soul wandering through the canyon
Rubato, stringendo, it walks its own pace and in its solitude
The moonlight its guide, the music its guardian
The darkness its friend

The walls enclosed - an impasse clad in an aural hue descending from the stars
An eternal mirror flowing accross the pond
It took a gander in the deep lagoon and saw the galaxy unfold

Sparkling candenzas fluttering through the sky like fireflies
Ever abiding, expanding galaxies within the grasp of its cortex
The moon flows, the stream flows
The sound of drizzling water emanating from the distance
Timeless endeavour snaps back to reality

I found myself sitting in a dim-lit room, glass in hand
The mellow taste of the blood-red wine
A bouquet of fine grapes with cherry undertones
In the corner rests the mirror I gaze in occasionally

Seconds pass and I looked at an abyss

Minutes pass and I looked at an abyss
A murky shadow lurking

Hours pass and I looked at an abyss
A murky shadow along two red stars

Days pass and I looked at an abyss
A silhouette hued in rubescence grimacing with hollow eyes

Weeks pass and I looked at an abyss
T H E  E Y E S  W A T C H  M E  W H E R E V E R  I  G O

Months pass and I looked at a whole new universe
As I looked at the crevice staring back at me
It smiled and reached its hand

Years pass and I looked at an abyss
The opaque mass piercing my glassy veil as familiarity reminiscences
A supernova of grief and destruction strokes my back, pinching my neck
The willow is dead
The moon is red
A brittle chalice crusted with blood

Then it fell silent and yet the nocturne faintly lingered in my head
As I stared into the mirror for the first time in centuries

It stared back, bearing the most unnerving grimace

So this poem is pretty personal, too. It is dedicated to my nemesis: the view of myself in the mirror.

Looking into a mirror always unnerved me. I didn't like seeing myself and combined with my fucked up sleep schedule, there was a chance I hallucinated quite a bit. This poem describes a drwam state until the awakening, describing my fear in the passages after, as well as the hallucinations.
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