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dorian green Apr 2022
not florescent but covered by a translucent screen,
my tense and aching frame washed in a  
dull desaturating blue glow.
streetlights speed past neurotic eyes,
like worries of friends i haven't spoken to,
and every awful thing i've ever
said to my mother.
i think of you, of course,
the way i catch my reflection
in the bus window:
a glimpse—terrified and fascinated.
i wring my hands,
a nervous habit when they're
feeling empty.
everything i want is
always at my door,
and everything i fear
is never far behind.
why won't anyone let me hold them
from halfway across the room?
stay sitting across the aisle,
as mysterious to me
as any other tired stranger.
i see you clearly
but can never tell what you're thinking.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2020
captured children,
locked in
vending machines,
like princes in the tower.

Swiping the barcode
imprinted upon their foreheads,
placing them in playpens
--free range, of course--
and listening to the stories
that caused them
in this precise order,

To empty their lungs,
to rage against the machine
that first boiled blood
into the deflated veins
of their youthful tendencies.

Birthing a furlough,
for when
the wild
and profane
wish for scream time:

babes in the wood,
before figureheads to die for.
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
She lived on
the outskirts of sanity,
took up jogging
to outrun the rush
of other voices,
burned a sick day
organizing her own criticisms,
shaved her legs and edges
for practice sake,
trimmed her disorders
as "normal" girls do,
bought a fancy dress
to envy but never wear,
made marks on the calendar
to believe she had places to be,
like the local
coffee shop,
where they serve
a favorite flavor,
somewhat stable,
somewhat frenzy.
Inspired by the poem title "Outskirts," by fellow HP writer Amanda.
Marla May 2019
I live for pleasure
And it bores me.
Out of measure,
I live deplorably.
In all frankness,
I always tell lies.
Reality is a mess
I lately despise.
Why not let go?
Why not fritter away?
Because I may never grow
Lest I see the end of the day.
Meggie Delaney Apr 2019
Art might be beautiful as long as it's true.
I might hope I'm Sylvia Plath.
But at the end of the day I'm just an emotional wreck hoping my neurosis sounds like poems.
Feedback is always appreciated! Thank you!
Ritz Writes Apr 2019
Stoical heart yet the urge to cry
Unable to shead a tear,
'Cause the biggest fear to open up and try
Made me to drown myself in my own state of anxiety.
Did the broken soul find a hug?
Not a single person cared to bug.
I am not what has happened to me
Bounded by fate or dejection
Choices and rejection
Part and parcel of life.
I am what I chose to be.
I'll break and I'll fall
I'll rise and fly
Till I find my wings soared high.
" What happens when people open their hearts?  They get better.. " ~ Haruki Murakami ♥
Igorgoldkind Oct 2017
None of us gets paroled

From the prison cells we lock ourselves into.

So that we all can fit together inside

These jigsaw lives that we lead

Which  of course, eventually all blow apart.
We are merely the fragments waiting to be reassembled.

Every moment of thought is but a small drop in time.

Each piece fits the next piece.

Although we may try to avoid,

The murmurs of our own thoughts. 

It is our hearts that yawn and awaken slowly

From their long winter night’s sleep.

You and I are mere mortals, 

Who dreamt of a life without end.

We are the ones who make up immortality. 

For the sake of seeking sweet comforts and sad joys.

This is the story we tell ourselves
Whilst slumping back to our cells.
Emma Hill Jan 2017
Telltale signs of paranoia ***** at the hackles that run from head
(to heart)
down the spine
        drown the mind
Psychotic neurotic autistic artistic
Imagination whirls like wind through the pines and
The hair along my spine
        Is standing
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