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Violet Feb 21
Pain and shatter,
Feels like thunderstorm and rain.
Raging wars in the heart,
To either leave behind or stay.

But how can I leave?
I've dived in so deep.
Given so much,
Half of me exists in him.

There is no explanation,
No reason as of why it burns,
Like cigar in my heart,
Falling apart into ashes.

So, I might just stay,
Till my emotions turn gray,
Till I feel numb.
To nothingness I succumb.
-Loving hurts.
Yuehan Jul 2022
Floating in thin air
I want to feel something
But nothing is there
Not happy nor sad
i just felt really bad
Grieving for nothing
Wishing that all of these would just disappear
All the problems and fear
But the time is ticking
Our world is moving drastically growing
So vast it ironically pinned us down to our feet
Making us prisoners of our own
A M Ryder May 2022
But what
Happens when
I just don't want
To get help?
Like I don't want
To convince myself
To live longer

I'm so through with
The population,
Being human,
And being myself

It's like I don't
Want to stick
Around and see
If it gets better
I don't want
To get better

I want to be dead
I want to be nothingness
Sabika Mar 2022
Can’t you see me crying?
Flames gnawing at my skin?
Can’t you hear my belting cries
Deep from the underbelly,
From the darkest depths within?

How much longer must you hide from
That which you’re not willing to address?
You put on a mask in your own home,
You cannot see what is amiss.
Must I spell it out for you?
Must I make it painfully clear that I am suffering?
Baffled by the change in behaviour,
You point the finger at me and say
I am to blame!
Is there no introspection on your part?
No patience when asking questions?
No curiosity when seeing my pain?
No time. No time at all.
No proof to hold,
My struggle must be in vain.

I get nothing from you.
No warmth.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
So cold, cruel, callous.
I cry I cry
I make puddles, pools,
Still you won’t believe me.
A M Ryder Nov 2021
Out there
A stillness
A darkness
Yet known
A nothingness
Awaits us
And it's better
That way

The purpose of life
Is that it ends
And people
Don't think
About death
Until they're
Forced to
noura Aug 2021
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.

I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.

You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.

The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.

It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
Leocardo Reis Jul 2021
When faced on questions
of nothingness
one must ask
if meaning had been supposed.
In light of this,
even the greatest of disgraces
can be weathered,
the greatest of heartaches
can be understood.

Must one question
the implication of nothingness?
Surely, you understand.
It is something always present
and only uncovered,
to be learned
time and time again.

If nothingness breaks your heart,
you have presumed
that it was not nothing
from the start.
It is a matter of expectation,
one which could have never been true.
Michael T Chase May 2021
The self-learner and the student both realize that "I" have learned nothing over and over again.
Information is just a tool for recognizing qualities,
and will forever be preserved in its innocence/stupidity.
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