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carminayasmin Feb 12
it’s lips poured spirits and wine
- fresh squeezed-
into my hands, into my system.
And it walks behind me sober. Watching my slurring stumbles
whilst an old sense of strength from inside me
poured from my mouth, spilling on concrete.

my legs fail me and I fall a trance. Into it’s arms.
But only for a sweet second -
and now I’m smothered lying in stone cold slate, it’s so nippy, the cold.
and it’s shadow blocks the streetlight floating above me.
Wait; streetlight is glaring dim orange again
now that it has dispersed away, down the pathway.
With open arms, it’s searching for a sober.
an old one, August 2018
Who ism “it”?, you decide.
swaggmaster Feb 7
pull it high over my head
and tell it to begin.
I’d rather be trapped
in the raptures
safety net,
filled with feelings of regret
and substances I didn't neglect.
Chris Feb 4
Mad
I say I like it.
Being mad.
Tried to be normal once, didn't go well.
It's the answer.
To all of you.
Nothing helped me, Noone helped me,
No support or understanding.
I've gone insane and I am a better person for it.
What's stopping you?
Amoy Apr 2018
Five Years old, **** and shy.
I saw you letting go and I cried.

Mummy! Mummy!  Please don’t go.
Will you come back?  I don’t know.

Mummy! Mummy! Do you care?
Please, please stay. I want you near.

She looked me in my eyes and said,
“Don’t call me that.  Call me by my name.

It’s Marcia.  Give it a try”.
That’s the last day I saw her…

Until sixteen years later, one day in late July.
Noah Jan 17
I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you get I love you texts from your mom for no apparent reason.
or that your dad makes funny but loving tweets about you often.
or that your sister is still living and breathing and thriving.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you come home to a full fridge and pantry.
to a dog whose treated well but not adored more than you.
to working lights and ceilings that don't look like they're gonna fall again.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your mom wants to go on a road trip to tour colleges with you.
that your dad will buy you instruments and play guitar with you every night.
that your sister wrote a play based on you.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you can not only afford but expect fancy sheets and blinds and rugs.
that your mom will still let you crawl back into bed at night if you have a nightmare.
that she'll do your laundry or dishes if you're having a bad day and she'll make you hot cocoa.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your parents don't guilt you for needing therapy.
that your parents aren't ashamed to talk about you because you got a A- instead of an A.
that your parents don't avoid talking about you to your friends now that you're out.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that your parents take your side over your families.
that you've never thought about what you would do if you got kicked out.
that you don't have to plead to get your parents to call you the right name and pronouns.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you don't have to prove your worth to your parents with grades and sucess.
that love is more common than shame at your house.
that you aren't just the kid they had because the first one died.

I'm not jealous.
I'm not jealous that you've never had to struggle with money.
that you've seen your mother proud of you for something other than an eating disorder.
that you aren't treated as a burden.

I'm not jealous.
I swear, I'm not jealous.
Its just that I would give anything to have parents who weren't jealous of other parents with "good" kids.
at least I get to move out in three years. my parents **** yayyyy.
Daniel K Jan 14
The wind bore coldness.
Never was it’s fault; the lack
Of sun’s affection.
Micheal Jan 10
Sought for by all, truly achieved by few.
So many search for years, decades, some even their entire lifetime to find you.
Despite the ever-growing search party, you’ve remained elusive as ever.
The path leading to you is seemingly never straight.

The “wise” say you’re found within, but in a life of struggle that seems to prove false.
After all, the happenings outside of one’s heart sway the happenings inside.
No game is harder than that of life.
Never is the game of life more difficult when one is dealt a bad hand.
And for every king you draw, life holds an ace.

For some this bad hand is the player’s hand never holding money.
Some scratch and claw living paycheck to paycheck.
  Struggling to evade eviction as they watch the rich pop champagne.
Often times food must be forsaken for shelter, water, and lights.

For others this hand is dealt to them in youth.
The eyes of a child should be filled with hope.
Many of those eyes are filled with tears due to constantly being told their existence is unwanted.
Sometimes their eyes instead of being filled with tears are swelled shut.
Their desire to be loved never being satisfied.

Commonly, this hand is dealt by the hand of a loved one going cold.
Seeing the body of one you cherished lying motionless.
Even though you know you’ll see them again, the pain still lingers for a lifetime.

When given cards like these, the player seldom wins the prize of happiness.
Who is that girl? 
that I refuse to see
staring back at me
who could she possibly be?
Flaws delicately pointed out
but virtues waiting to be touched.
Like flowers on a spring morning
there's a voice inside her
shouting and roaring.
Drifting apart everyday
and the memories
don't seem to stay.
She seeks for help
but they just don't tell
what their baby girl needs
is not on sale.
How much time is going to
pass by?
Before they realize,
that it's too late,
that this love that she needs
just can't wait.

-Andrea Dayana Valdez
Brent Kincaid Dec 2018
This is the sad song
Of men and women
Who create offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.

So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
Each day with the rugrats
Nets no child any praise
They see not much beauty
In the offspring they raise.

If a soul deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.
The talk of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.

It’s as if a child born
Has but few years to grow
Before needing to be an adult
Who will automatically know.
That they must know to parent
The sick adult needy one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.

This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of loving, advising voices.
It’s a song too many sing;
The music heart breaking,
Yet few of those parents know
The sense of trust they are taking.
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