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Ora Miedema Apr 22
I want to die
But I don’t know what that is.
No, I don’t just want things to be alright.
I’m tired of this world and life.
I want to write one more poem.
To let the story have an end.

And then leave by myself.
Which seems impossible for me, to just let everything go.
It took me everything to do everything in this life already.
Have it be ok enough to survive.
But it never really worked and it never felt alright.
So please let the story end.

Tell me where I will be free and where I’ll find my place.
A world of freedom with my old friends and feelings.
Still there but feeling good and better.
Not sick but in my power.
In love and able to rest in peace.
And fly away.

I can’t find my world in here.
Let me go soon now.
Write the end chapture here.
Let me die, let me go.
Let me find my courage to let go of everything, it’s not even working.
Ever.
Yet it’s all I really know.

I tried before to go.
Wasn’t my time.
Same right now, still things to wait for.
For people, for me.
Born suicidal, I hate this world, the life, the constant merciless days and nights.

I wanted euthanasia but in the end it was denied, trying again, reapplied.
Intensely long waiting time.

Although I know there’s more to this torturing life.
And every chapture had its own little subjects that perfectly align.
But now I need to die!
I want to, I have to.
Let me say goodbye, tell you “This is the end”.
For once and for all.
In this life for me finally.
Goodbye, goodbye.

The end.
22-04-22
Gabriel Apr 19
oh.
oh, terrible person;
oh, woe is me, terrible
'person' for terrible acts
that were never committed
in the first place.

oh, second place,
welcome me. welcome
me? welcome 'person'
for uncommitted deeds
and false memories?
is it welcome? is it
welcome?

oh, honey. oh, darling.
oh, sweet sweet sinner
from catholic school
in the back seat of a fighter jet.
oh, military propaganda
for a life un-lived. oh,
song. oh, drown it out.
oh, performance.

oh, performance.

oh, beautiful girl.
oh, girl to be taken.
oh, girl to be used.
oh, girl, get used to it,
you'll be dealing with this
longer than it was dealt to you.
oh, girl, you'll be hurt
longer than the hurters. oh,
sweetheart, i forgive you because you
were young. but you are me,
so i also hate you.

oh, little one.
won't you grow up?
won't you be a failure
earlier than i was?
won't you give up
like i never did?
won't you hitch a breath
on a short prayer,
wish you never were
wish they never were
wish those things...

oh, those things.
wish they never were?

see, you're younger than me.
oh, you're so much younger than me.
wish they were never done;

see, twenty-three year olds
don't have fairy godmothers.
they have propranolol and therapists
and dialectical behaviour therapy forms
forgotten to be filled in.
oh, forgotten.
oh, stone slabs with no meaning.
oh, stonehenge.
oh, mythology.

be an anthropologist, my love.
curl up your grief
and your trauma
and work it into a pretty clay sculpture.
oh, sweetie, make it beautiful
please
make it beautiful. make it
loved, or just make it.
let it be finished
and loved
and long-lasting
and then die.

oh, and then die.

listen to music.
sink into music.
be music,
be beautiful,
be consumed.

you are what was done to you.
after all,
oh, after all,
you are what was done to you.

you are what was done?

you are done.
Thomas W Case Jan 20
I take the remnants of my
childhood OCD,
and I put it to
hard work at my
custodial arts job.
Janitor to be PC.
All the initials make
my BP rise.

And the pounding
of the basketballs attack 
my eardrums in
a mad staccato
beat.
The blue toilets, and
the chemicals assuage
my nasal cavity.

Leggings and tight shorts
get my Nabokov mind calling
******, come, let me
touch your pink flower.
I'm wet now at
the head; can they see
it through my pants?

How many times did
I touch the light switch?
Do I need to blink
my eyes two more times?
Ah, if I could only
swim to heaven in
the blueness of the sterile
chlorine in
that big cerulean pool...
wash this
wretched disease 
off, once and for all.
That Girl Dec 2021
The thought of you terrified me at first.
Another reason for someone to never love me.
It brought me to tears.
But when I heard my diagnosis…
I smiled.
I was relieved.
My thoughts.
My obsessions.
My compulsions.
They now had a name.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
OCD for short.
My thoughts no longer defined me.
They weren’t a part of me anymore.
I knew what to call them.
They had a name.
And maybe since I knew their name,
I could tell them to ******* leave.
The nothing pushes me away
To my room
Or rather, what remains of my room
For it has filled it with tar
And desolate shadows

The nothing tells me to stay there
For I have been defeated
Monsters roam the streets outside
The radio screams of danger
And I am the only prey

The nothing melts my wings
And turns in into mush
Here, the sun is king
It's heat is the formidable queen
I fall into a sea - forgotten

The nothing tells me I am forlorn
That my body is a black star
Being ******
To non existence
By a black hole

The nothing says that they love me
That they exist to protect me
And I have no choice
But to believe them
I fall into their arms
My heart is a flower
Pollinated by electric bees

The pulsating weather
The vagabond soil

Creates oh! A dangerous vine
My soul is a bastardly garden

Tomorrow brings more life
But what life is there for me?

Dead butterflies surround me
My body is a sick country

Oh my heart! Find God! Find God!
What is your precious?

Do you smell corpses around?
Or will you not curse the ground?
wes parham Nov 2021
I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.
oh, the **** in my pockets, ha!
Read here by the author...
https://soundcloud.com/warmphase/solid-objects
Nigdaw Sep 2021
my mother always cleaned
it was her thing
more than hobbies
more than friends
erasing every previous day
it's accidents
it's happenings

little hand prints
adorn my walls
pencil scribblings
from budding Leonardos
and when I pass the second stair
a stain on carpet
from God knows where

I live the past everyday
making new futures
along the way.
Nigdaw Aug 2021
he cuts the grass into stripes
annoyed that the fence
doesn't run parallel

he will sit with a beer
after a long day
watching the sunset
his OCD screaming
it's not symmetrical

it's all he will see
amidst this natural
beauty
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