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Lydeen Dec 2019
Kissing my wrist.
1. 2. 3
times. I should

be good for
a few hours.
Then repeat again.

Stumb- stumbling stumble
over ov ov
stumbling over over

over over over
stumbling ov over
my over my

words. Every time
I try to
speak to you.

Kiss, 2, 3.
Now I won't
accidentally hurt you.

Picking at my
skin, pinching, frowning.
Cutting each and

every bite into
a perfect cube.

Into the car.
Kiss, kiss, kiss.
Now I won't

be in another
car accident. But!
Don't forget, don't

forget. Do it
again to be
sure. You have

to or else
you'll get hurt.
Hurt your family.

Hurt someone else's
family. Break apart
a whole life.

I can count
every single calorie
I have eaten

today without even
looking at the
label. I can

taste and tell
you which artificial
sugar is in

my energy drink.
But! I only
drink the ones

with guarana extract.
It's all natural,
so at least

kinda better, right?
FREEZE! Here comes
a new thought.

What if I
suddenly ran out
into traffic, got

hit by a car,
and traumatized someone.
Or, consider, if

I went to
a theme park,
and just jumped

out in front
of a roller
coaster, horribly traumatizing

a whole train
of children. A
huge explosion of

blood and brains.
Don't do it,
don't do it,

Don't do it,
don't, don't, don't
It's a thought.

It doesn't control
you. It doesn't.
Let it go.

Kiss kiss kiss.
Kiss, 2, 3.
Kissing my wrist.
William A Poppen Feb 2019
stirs a persistent bane

while on her Mother’s knee

Now her bones
grate against the chair
amid her rhythmic rocking
that breaks the dim silence

Images reverberate

on the back walls
of her mind

Disquietude prompts alarm

as her obsessions claw
to unearth graves

of fears

she pretends are invalid

Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister

Neither pleas, nor prayers
quell her ruminations.
A revision, originally written in 2011
Kelly Truong Aug 2018
The roses bloom around a house
Reaching over the roof and into the clouds
The thorns pierces the windows
And the roots becomes the floor I stand on

The living room becomes uninhabitable
With glass shattered on the sofa,
The TV split into two
And the air becoming unbreathable

The kitchen is full of insecurities
With rotting food in the fridge,
The missing knifes found in the tub,
And the family table with lost chairs

As a family we protect a single room
The walls are covered with mirrors
Gifted invincibility by our imagination
We stare at our reflection in wonder

Our shoulders are back
Confidence in our eyes
Our head is held high
And into the clouds

We became lost in our protection
Unable to see what is below
Until the dark and bright clouds part
Allowing the star to pierce the sky

It's is a fact that when there is more light
Our shadows become fed
Growing darker than before
And whispers into our ears

We believed we were giants
Taller than our house
And one with the roses
Wanting to seek the blue sky

Instead we trapped ourselves into the clouds
Becoming lost children
Who ignored the open window
And got pricked by a rose

We were smaller than our disguise
Once there was nothing left to compare to
Light shun into the room of mirrors
Leaving a broken family in sight

But we were all addicted
To the beauty of the roses
Who petals became clouds
And the stems that became ladders
Chabadtzke Jun 2018
People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band" (which, incidentally, is Twenty One Pilots), to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!
I'd like to take this moment to thank my heroes, among them Twenty One Pilots! Stay alive, frens! |-/
Always thinking,
Always fearing.
Always losing my control.

Could be better,
I resent her.
Write the letter of my soul.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.

It's so confusing:
The words I'm using,
To show the stories I have told.

Fight together,
Or against her.
The thoughts that I've heard are so old.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.

Suffering and obsessing,
Are the same thing or so it seems.
This obsession isn't sweet-
Constant thoughts of the fear to beat.

Sweet obsessions,
Fear burning through my veins.
Sweet obsessions,
Questioning if I'm really sane.
I was in the middle of a panic attack and somehow decide to finish a poem I started awhile back. Thanks!
Amber C Mar 2017
i'm collecting the times i wake up
already feeling my knees buckle
from the shame, the nerves, the stares.

i'm hoarding the clocks that i've stared at
throughout my adolescence
when the nights were long and my blood looked redder.

i'm keeping the tickets i used to escape
the rumble and the jumble inside the house
back then when the walls were thin and my skin was thinner.

i'm checking the numbers, the drawers, the walls
again and again and again
just to see if anything is about to break again.
Heavy Hearted Feb 2017
A gap within my minds brigade
is the price, solemnly payed
weak- the bold brain's barricade

a barricade assumed concrete,
proven otherwise as I repeat
irrational- my slow defeat

Compelled am I, a victim to
intrusive thoughts I can't subdue,
to cease them truly, I've no clue

But I've a hunch that if I end,
consumption, and myself defend,
longer no more I'll haft pretend

No one can function at this pace
I wish always my steps retrace
back to run a different race
to end in a much different place.
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