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s y kalindara Oct 18
I laid my pen and line to rest for twenty seasons
as the frost settling in my mind and fingers, warmed up to dream
only to waken again by the grace of a lover,
a muse unlike any other,
a kaleidoscope of raining colours.

With the twinkling of your eyes,
the words fell out of my head,
parading on papers for the world to see
just as my veins welcomed the warmth of creativity.

You are the vision behind every verse I'm founding,
thirteen in counting,
a finer motive than fresh air and tranquil sleep
every fibre is clawing at me to keep you close
to never fade away like a withering rose.

Will my senses still serve me without your touch?
Will I ever write again if I let myself forget
the melody of your voice and your silhouette?
I'm not ready to find out just yet.

We have taken a vow, my pen and I
to keep you alive, for an age or two
or however long it might take to find
our glory in someone new.

Copyright © 2020 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
Thinking about how I stopped writing for 5 years until I met Jordan and he inspired me in ways I didn't think possible. I'm still writing because of him, and about him. I feel like I can't let go, that I'll disgrace his memory if I do.
Sarah Flynn Oct 17
even as a kid, I knew that
forever didn’t exist.
I pulled tulips from the earth
and brought them home with me,
but I wasn’t looking at the petals.
I was looking at the tiny hole
left behind in the soil
after the roots were ripped out.

it wasn’t about the
beautiful thing I had taken;
it was about taking something
from the planet that had
taken everything from me.

the tulips went into a vase and
I kept them, like any other kid.
but I wasn’t the kid
who marched in and proudly
showed them to their parents.
I didn’t show them to anyone.
I sat by the vase and
watched them rot.

they were my physical proof
that death is real,
evidence that my friend’s dog
did not run away to a butterfly farm,
and the old man down the road
did not mysteriously go to a better place.
they died, and they rotted.

I think about this often now.
I killed flowers not to admire them,
but to prove to myself that
even beautiful things can die.

I know how morbid that sounds,
but what you have to understand
is that my whole life had
revolved around death.

my childhood memories
were a sickening collection
of wilted flowers, of worms
burned into the concrete
after a storm, of rotting fruit
and swarms of flies.

my young mind showed me
the same images on repeat.
dead friends, dead relatives,
people who left me,
people who left this earth.

for my entire childhood,
I never got to stop seeing
lives that weren’t fully lived.

even as a kid, death didn’t faze me.
violence was nothing to me.
pain wasn’t fun, but it was tolerable.
even back then, I was numb.

I remember how being
so numb at such a young age
terrified my teachers and
scared my friends’ parents.

I didn’t know how
to explain that I was numb
because no matter what
horrors I was shown,
I had already seen worse.
Sarah Flynn Oct 17
I don’t know if I feel happy anymore,
but sometimes I don’t feel numb
and I call that happiness.
it’s more peace than happiness.
it’s more of a relief.
in these moments, I feel something
and I know that I’m still alive.
I must be alive
if I can still feel

when I get asked about my scars
and how I could possibly do something
so cruel to myself,
I want to say that
when I did it,
it wasn’t cruel.
I wasn’t trying to die.
I was trying to remind myself
that I’m not dead yet.

I’m a writer.
I’m supposed to be good with words,
and I am.
so why can’t I tell you how
I’m really doing?
why do I keep saying “I’m fine”
when I’m anything but fine?
why can’t I find the words to express
this feeling?

it’s not a feeling.
it’s the lack of a feeling.

I haven’t learned
how to explain this yet.
I’ve spent years leaving and entering
this numbness,
over and over.
I think I’ve spent more time in it
than out of it.

I didn’t learn much, but
now I know that

the only thing worse
than feeling pain
is feeling nothing.
Susanna Aug 7
i wish i could love someone as much as my cat loves me

and i wish i could feel something when i touch myself

i wish my life existed outside my room

i wish i had things to talk about
Natalia Jul 27
Days go by
Silently and swift,
No-one asks why

They became one.
As the clouds merged
Under the beating sun.

Why fight it?
Damage the soul
And wound the spirit?

Let the days go,
And blend together.
Ending that happy glow.

The darkness comes
Calling once more,
As everything numbs.

It feels unsteady
To rise alone.
I promise you're ready.

The beating you hear,
Shocks you at first
It's foreign to the ear.

Feel its essence
Let it remind you
Of your existence.

How beautiful it is,
Unique and bright,
A wonderful oasis.

That no-one can take,
Distort or damage,
Bend nor break.

Listen to your heart,
It beats for you.
To set you apart.

Rise up dear one
The world awaits,
Your time has begun.
I don't write these for anyone but me. If you get any emotions or feelings from it, I am honoured that you even took the time to read it.
May the sun always shine down on your beautiful soul.
Abstracted Jul 22
Obnoxious people
Loud voices
My head is numb
With lots of choices
I zone out
Hearing white noises
Should I leave now?
Or forever?
Abstracted Jul 20
I can only feel
Cold as clay
I can only see
In black and gray
My thoughts are like a hallway
A melancholic, dark way
So don’t tell me to stay
Don’t force me
To disobey
Khyati Jul 16
Some wounds can't be cured
by band-aids which cover.
In fact the abstractness of such scars,
can't be numbed
even by anaesthetic hangovers!
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