I sit here, once again.
Gazing back to the past.
Head shrunken down as I wonder what could've been...

But yet I silence myself for the better,
   for it doesn't matter what could have been.
What I could have seen...

I sit here,
   quietly picking up the pieces of my yet again shattered heart,
even if it didn't take much this time around.

I'm, just trying to make the best of what could be,
Not so much concern myself with what shouldn't.

So,
   be still my stricken soul,
   and my scarred heart.

The path to peace is paved with pains,
And every brick I lay brings me that much closer.
In these stones I set, I send the sickness away.

And I glue together the weathered feathers of the wings with which I will fly.

Yet the sky is so far away...

All the more to learn along the way.

~Robert van Lingen

Broken heart
Favouring loneliness
stumbled upon paper and coffee
rewriting the story of forever !!
©shadeofalonelygirl

Nothing can help me
but that beauty

I still remember it was dawn
and
all what the moment did was
recreating love
which I always needed to do myself.

Collecting the paper ticket,
                   I was there alone
                                at the bar.

A place of singles and I had a
                      receipt,
                      to show how
                      lonely I really was.

It said entry for one...

                   Exit for few,
who walk with more than they walked
                                                 in with...

But I only ever went home,
with a
          receipt of regret.
      
I made It in to a paper aeroplane,
           making my loneliness less obvious.
          floating in the wind, dancing on its own.

my brain vomited
onto the page
all squiggles
and misspellings
unpunctuated
heiroglyphics
a secret language
only i
could understand
not prose
not poetry
not correct
just me
my pen
wreaks havoc
on unruled
paper
i am errant
i am irritable
i am irreverent
i am making
my way

Ruled paper bleeding
ink scribbles shrieking
open lacerations
into blue and red
arteries.
Veins pulsating curiosity
but cornered by anxiety
assuming that the
dialect I use to write
is ill with idiocracy.
“Idiot” screamed in
bold letters from a
fountain pen,
permanent pollution of
this ocean that I’m drowning in.
Scissor-fanged sharks
circle ‘round the toxicity,
chew my paper submarine,
a vessel crushed beneath the sea.
Vessels to my heart julienned,
cut open during surgery.
They couldn’t pull me from the deep
in time before the flatline
beep.