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Kanishka May 15
Web
Wasn't it better when we were children and
Fear meant being alone in the dark with six-leged spiders crawling over our neck?
For look at us now, we're all alone, darkness sweeping us in while the strings of anxiety, depression, panic, sadness, insecurity and death traps us in their web?
The darkest humour,
A comedy
I’m laughing although it is killing me
You watch me bleed, yeah.

Brains don’t feel pain…

Especially daddy’s
When he had a tumour growing in it
Messed up his memory
Also, his sanity

Since then he cannot see
He went completely blind
Nerve cells rarely heal
Especially the ones that run to the eyes

Surprise
For two weeks
He felt it ill
Slight fever with no heat

He felt slightly weak
Then he woke up blind
Everything was dark
His optic nerves his tumour did find


He said everything was black
He flew out of the country
After a month, he came back
He didn’t die, alive was my daddy


Ten years, three months later
I put my pen to paper
I know I wouldn’t remember
‘Cause daddy and I don’t get better.


The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
I am of my father
Dementia: him, schizophrenia: me
Isn’t it a laughter?

That’s my happily ever after...
I'm a person who writes down my events and memory for when I forget then, and I realised there was a story a never wrote down. Over 10 years ago. I was 8, he was 50. The doctors said with the size of his tumour, it had to be growing for over 30 years. In his late twenties, he had a brain scan, but nothing showed up... nothing until over 20 years later.
I'm really glad to have him around right now, but it sometimes gets to me seeing me becoming him and seeing us grow worse, mentally, that is.
Poetic Eagle Aug 2019
time heals no wounds
it just gets you used to the pain
such that the pain doesn't hurt anymore
neo Aug 2019
You are like poison,
Really hazardous,
You melt me everytime i saw you,
Really dangerous,
Could hurt people's heart,
especially mine,
Very risky,
I would ending up hurting myself,
If i keep playing with the poison.
You are very special to me . Take care .
Nicole Jun 2019
The walls were built high

High as a skyscraper

She told herself to be careful

To never get burned again

She looks to her left and she looks to her right

Who can she really trust?

When nothing is going right

But all seems to be going wrong

Looking for a way up

But she can barely claw her way out

The walls were built high

She was done wrong

Wrong for the words that were said

So strong they shattered and cracked her

Wrong for the men who abused her

Ripping her apart

Wrong for the mother who she wish she had

A mom that only wants to act like a mother when it’s convenient

The walls were built high

Maybe they can be chipped a little at a time

Letting someone in to heal her soul

And telling herself though she be but little she is fierce

Trying to imprint those positive words

Trying to believe them

Because weak she is not

She is strong and fierce

Resilient and a survivor

Though her heart was broken

It can be repaired

This is not the end of her story

She has many more years

Stories to tell

Victims/Survivors to help

Because her voice matters

This is not the end of her story

And her walls will come crumbling down

Because her true self deserves to be seen and heard

This is my story

And it’s not over
hannah May 2019
May I say I do have some fears
Like everyone else
Yes, I hate spiders
Yes, I hate snakes
I hate roller coasters
What else do I need to let you know about me
I am a really picky eater
Yes, I hate celery
Yes, I hate tomatoes
Yes, I hate plain tastes
I still have a whole lot I hate
Well whats next
I love my family
Yes, I am the youngest
Yes, My parents are divorce
Yes, I hate 2 cats
I like them more than you can imagine
Well now lets talk more deeply about myself
I hate the way my body is made
I hate that I look more like my dad than my mom
I hate that I am the shortest senior in my grade
But Yes I am fearfully made
Adarsh singh Apr 2019
Age 12,
not a single tension of this world,
standing at a standstill,
And shouting ,'**** the whole universe'

age 13,
failed first time,
everything was fine,
except my parent's pride,

age 14,failed again,
for my pride,
my mum made me change my school once again,
I didn't feed on sun,still for everyone I was an alien,
thanks to Harry, Ron and Hermoine,
I learnt friendship from a friendship which I never got,
thanks to J.K Rowling too,
she's the reason why these rhymes make much more sense to me than those value of pi's do,

age 15, failed once again,
but no worries,
cause I know I am going to change the game,
that doesn't mean I don't cry,
don't worry,
when someone asks me,
I never tell them 'why?'

I read Edgar Allan Poe to Dan brown,
did not leave even a single account,
but still the main question remains,
will these words going to take me somewhere,
or even anywhere else,
or I too, will became a 9 to 5 slave just like everyone else.

-my story by adarsh Singh.
Mia Mehnaz Mar 2019
Time had evaporated into the dingy air of the hospital
Day merged to night, night to day.
Sleep turned to endless bouts of prayer and whispering into your ear. Whispering that it wasn't your time yet,
That everyone was waiting for you to come back.
All that came back to my ears
were the incessant beep of machinery
Machinery that was your lifeline,
that kept your beautiful heart beating.
Coiled and crimped tubes running in and out of your body
And you looked frighteningly ethereal;
A ghostly angel in the place of my sister.
A tangle of exterior veins; pumping foreign liquids into you
And though I loathed the thought of those cold substances
Stealing away the warmth from your blood, they kept you safe.
They ushered you away
From that distant white shore,
We have come to call death.
Until one day they simply could not save you any longer.
But there was a lingering flame
Amongst the grief that was waiting to pounce
Because? You were fighting.
Like a soldier you were fighting,
With your bare hands struggling against the predator called death.
You fought with every last ounce of will in your body,
Until God called your name,
And you grew your wings, and you left.
Visitors come and go
An endless flurry of desperate hugs
Fairy-like kisses upon my cheek; soaked, saturated in tears.
Because that was the first time,
I had ever felt absolutely, completely, powerless.
I was shrinking back into a shell of myself,
Speak when spoken to I reminded myself.
And through the night I would choke back my fear,
And I sang to you. Childhood melodies.
And they seemed so far away; out of my grasp.
I clutched a strangers hand
Your hand, was delicate and soft
This hand was swollen; foreign.


But I didn’t let go. Not yet.
I ran my hand through your hair,
And I didn’t get the scent, of lavender and soap.
I retched. Inhaling something harsh.
Because as I put one finger to your head,
It came away with blood.
Still.
You layed so, so, still.
Your chest rising and falling; with breaths that weren’t yours.
And I still,
Still, read you stories and talked to you-
In that scarce hope that you would wake up,
And I could hug you for real.
Not having to heave myself over you;
Being delicate, in fear of choking you.
But I still hoped.
God, I hoped with everything in me that you would make it.
I prayed on my knees,
Screaming in a silent room that,
I would abandon my faith- if God stole you from me.
And yet, stolen from me you were.
The doctors were hopeless,
Reminding us- the damage is irreversible.
If not today, you would die tomorrow.
But I would not desert you.
I still hoped.
I hoped.
I kept hoping.
And the next day came.


The day before you died.
The white sun broke through the window,
Embraced the room and clarified.
The shadows that the limbs,
Of the simple oak tree make on the hospital wall;
Stark and bellowing.
The leaves are all gone.
The leaves and the colour are gone.
The tree is devoid of youth and joy;
And in the tree- I see you.
It hurts.
You are the mannequin of a sleeping girl.
But the heaviness of you,
As though your insides have turned to lead.
I believe it is lucid now,
A dying girl.
Trapped in a coma.
Tomorrow, you’ll be gone.

My sister’s eyes are closed.
I pull her closer,
Inhale what remnants of her pure scent is left.
I want to hold her, In this world.
Keep her close,
Let her never to leave- not yet.
Her hair brushes my cheek.
She is still sleeping-
Why is she still sleeping?
And then,
I begin to cry
I do not stop,
And I lay my sister down.

On the white sheet.
My sister,
Her eyes flutter open.
And sees shadows,
Sparrows on the wall.
Flocking to the naked limbs of the simple oak tree.
She smiles,
A small, beautiful smile.
And she points to the shadows on the wall and says


“It’s okay now, look, the leaves are returning to the tree.”
This is probably the most personal thing I have ever written. The most raw, the most real account of my sisters death. This poem doesn't speak of my grief, as my others do. But rather takes on the perspective of the girl I was when my sister was dying, A small thank you for reading, God bless you all <3
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


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Imagine if we could unlock the
secrets within the dust...
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