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I've been sad for as long as i can remember. The day my father died is when i started to wonder whether that is the natural state of a 10 year old, to lose a person who is supposed to see you through life until you can hold your own hand.

As cruel as it sounds, I've been wondering when my mother's time will be up ever since he passed on. I keep preparing my mind, every time her birthday comes I tell myself "you've had her for an additional year, maybe this is it maybe this is when your luck runs out".

I never cried about his passing from the day after. I was numbed and I've been numb about it throughout all these years. The only time I came close to crying was a few weeks after he was gone, I was watching the tv and something came up that I really wanted to tell him about. I turned my head to the back and I called out "Papa-". I stopped when I came to the realization that he was not there and he will never be able to hear and respond to the things I say anymore.

Everyone thinks that because I was just ten years old, I wasn't affected much. Due to the fact that out of all my siblings I was the one who knew him the shortest, they thought that I couldn't be the saddest. But that was my father too, I loved him too, I was his daughter too. Everyone thought they were the saddest person. They were so busy with their own sadness, they never checked on mine. They never asked how I was doing, they never explained death nor did they provided solace to my lost and broken soul.

To a ten year old who had to figure out her own emotions, the easiest way was to **** it up and keep it inside.

& when you go through something like that, you'll understand why I say I'll always be sad.
Marsha Oct 2018
I wrote a book
that's entirely
about you
even though
I was
only a paragraph
in yours
You were my whole book...
the passion for creating
poetry and prose
began in his formative
as he progressed
into adulthood
the fervency did increase
every time
he sat at his desk
the greatness of language
poured forth
on the vellum
his ink wouldst
come to life
verse and paragraph
illustrating the painted scene
so too
the inner most thoughts
which dwelt inside
his innovative dreams
he imagines
being among the stars
writing of a wondrous place
and his desire for this
shall always be
utmost of embrace
The poem was inspired by a good friend of mine.
Noah Mroueh Oct 2017
A good story
May very well be
A plot that concludes
I've always thought
The most intriguing
Are the ones
Left unanswered

There is a story
That lies in a notebook
On my shelf
Collecting dust
It's only one paragraph long
An undeveloped idea
But an idea nonetheless

It was co-written
By an undiscovered writer
And my ill-equipped self
We wrote an intriguing paragraph
I was hit with writers block

I moved on
To other works
Long novels
Short stories
But still
Nothing more intriguing
Than our one

Most days I regret giving up
When I left behind this unfinished thought

And I still wonder
What the story could have been
If it ever continued
From paragraph one

Who knows
It’d be a new story all together

All I know
Is that I will most likely never have an answer
But if that paragraph has taught me one thing
It is to develop ideas
Craft paragraphs
And finish stories
Before you put them on the shelf
Carlyyyy Sep 2017
Humor comes in a million different shades.
As mine reaches various greys and yellows,
I admit, more often an inkling than a joke,
I say, "I could die happy, right now."
This life assures me nothing good nor bad.
Maybe the next? If any.
I won't take anything away from myself because that would mean,
I have an enemy.
And you don't run from your enemies,
You face them.
So it's safe to say,
I am here until I am not.

It's hard to explain this one.  I am aware of suicide's toll on everyone. I am neutral, well I like to think so. I notice the many sides of why. It can be a way out but it could be a way in. No one knows what goes on in other people's minds. Suicide can be neither a sign of weakness nor a symptom of strength. Maybe it's both? I don't know but I do know it happens. I lost my friends to suicide. These people, I knew them when I was a kid. We all possessed naivety and love for life. Adventures didn't come to us, we made them. We grew up. We saw, did, & heard things. The real world ****** us in. Expectations hit hard. Lies and deceit had familiar faces. Love hurt. No one is to blame. No one at all!  I've come to terms. We all face demons. We all have our struggles. How you face them is what matters? you decide everything in your life. Don't let people get you down. You are capable of anything! Preferably good things that help you, people, maybe nature and animals. Idk but be good.
Al Jul 2016
and the pain unfurls on the ink page like a shuddering scream, a flower so small you can see it only on the tip of a finger held to the sky as if to view a drop of dew. and in the end it grows to such proportions that it begins to stab into the side and just a bit under, and pulls from the very depths of one's chest what once may have been living. and it begins to ache there, see; for this pain here now can only be that which suffocates and feeds on need, on greed, on every smallest insecurity. it binds at the slightest touch of the wind, on the faintest of breaths, and feels love for the first time in the beating of another heart. and it is at this point that the pain which had bloomed so sluggishly, so tenderly, can stand on its own and plunge into its own depths.

and so it is like this that one may wish, perhaps, to end a life of such suffering.
my first paragraph poem, written when i grieved the fact that i loved and continue to love
Maria Sinoway Mar 2016
The thing with being
a writer is that when
you get to know people,
you can write an entire
chapter about them and
all you get is a paragraph.

- *But oh god, did you even
try to finish the sentence?
For you, I have written
an entire story.
Hannah Jane Call Feb 2016
I'd love a paragraph wakeup message every now and then...
I do those for him but never get them from him. He says he's bad with words.
Cody Henatt Nov 2015
I love him. I love his heart. He, like so many people in this world, has been beaten down and forced to harden his shell. He strangles his emotions and locks them under key, and how am I, me, supposed to fix that? I'm the same way. I drift so emptily through my life because of uncontrollable strife and I... I just don't know how to regain a sense of purpose, feel some motivation, muster the ability to have some sort of elation. My pen used to bleed for me but now my skin is what's bleeding and I'm just so hurt and unhappy with the life that I'm hardly leading. I'm not a painter and I can't turn this ruby red blood into a painting, but I can write about it, record it, instead of under the pressure fainting. I'll do my best to stand strongly for him, for if we don't have each other, we have nothing. Maybe we can help each other blossom again, and be as healthy and pure and whole and perfect as we once were. I imagine it's possible, just difficult, to survive this; but a future with him is one I don't wish to miss.
cyanide skies Jun 2015
maybe it was worth it and maybe when I first saw it coming I saw something less like an ending and more like a beginning because you know, for the astronomical chances to completely align, once when they called for the end of the world, and a second time when he crossed my path like the broken revolution of Pluto, is to call for a complete set of anomalies to ensue and maybe that wasn’t it at all maybe it was just a crazy twist of fate that was meant to teach the universe that you can have what you want but it comes at a price because even when the world wasn’t ending there was no such thing as forever and shortening people’s forevers makes for a whole lot of desperation maybe that was it maybe it was desperation but no matter what it really was, I’m still here in this mess of ands and maybes that spin me around while the end of the world is hurtling towards us at so many light years an hour an hour an hour of time I don’t have time anymore but I’ve got to tell him I love him I’ve got to tell him I love him I’ve got to tell him I lo
my first frantic-paragraph poem
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