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Braid the broken strands ‘till it’s like they’re meant to be there,
hold yourself together like you never fell apart—
rip at all your seams ‘cause you hate feeling fragile,
rather be a broken bone than a spindly work of art.
Marri May 26
It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)
Mrs Timetable Apr 23
And I ran with
The ribbon cutting
Ceremonial scissors
Celebrating my brave
Resolution to not
Make bad decisions
Sadie Grace Apr 14
“I feel numb”
oxymoron
You don’t feel numb
You are numb
Who broke you so many times you feel nothing?
I was scared to find I wasn't scared anymore
10.19
Aurora Camet Jul 2019
I am living but deceiving.

I am dying but still breathing.

I am deaf but hear a voice.

I am chained but still have a choice.

I am confused yet I know,

that the calmest people can be ******.
Xallan Feb 2019
Do you smile at my contradictions
Do you laugh at the depth of my mind
so lacking in simplicity
Or because it is unfathomable
Give me the time
And I'll scream it into your every thought
A heartbeat in mindlessness
I'm sorry I lied when I told you
We have the rest of our lives
jee Feb 2019
I am paradoxical;
an oxymoronic anomaly.

all my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.

I am paradoxical;
an absurd abnormality.

it’s a chaotic peace,
loud with it’s bated breath
and bittersweet ring.

I am paradoxical;
an irregular oddity.

my counterparts are contradictory,
and I change to chance
the possibility
that opposites attract.

and we’re all just paradoxed;
argumentative attractions.

there’s no stopping at the end,
when the sun is low
in the soft red sky.

where my nightmares are made
of daylight,
but I’ll still sleep to escape
the darkness.
this statement is a lie.
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