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I light up the sky with all of my words
As Natrium, Cuprum and Kalium burns
The tumultuous sparkle of my love
The dazzling bedazzling of the burst
Red, blue, golden, green
All on the scene
For everyone to see
But you are blind as blind can be
What is love to the one who can't feel it
Bryle 3d
Self love will always be
And will always be a struggle
It's the constant acceptance
Of you lacking, of your own flaws
It's the dissonance between
Settling for what's in store or
Trying to see what's for more

Self love is about
Answering the screams you hear
Inside your head once everything
Has settled and calmed

Self love is about
Addressing your fears, of what is
Keeping you awake at night

Self love is about
Letting your tears fall, letting your
Emotions take over every while
For self love is not about sparkles
For it is dark, painful, and tiring

It's hard, isn't it
You call me a fire but I am not
I am a matchstick
I have to set myself on flames to take you down
And that’s why I wanted to wait, to give you a chance
You call me free and raging but I’m not
I’m just a firewood
that you burn to keep your hands warm
You bask in my glorious burnout
And see me lose my aims, sanity and myself
And all the chances to ever sprout, ever again
But still you call me a flame
while I’m just a candle
You use to get yourself out of the dark
A candle, not even touched, but held by the handle
I have to set myself on flames to take you down
By living alone i am escaping a haunted house. to leave is to be spat out undigested, a bone picked clean of meat but spared the marrow. it was always me who refused to be easily swallowed. it was always you who hated that.
We both know this haunting didn’t seep out from the walls, it was set in every room. (you made sure of that.) in such a space, articles of comfort are more unpleasant than bare walls - far worse than nothingness, they are marks of you. it is true you have built a home. but it is not my home.
Your haunting is pristine, white walls and tasteful furniture. beautiful but unwilling to be dwelt in. in polished mirrors, everyone is dirt. at least a gutted, rotting place could have been somewhere someone like me was loved, some long time ago. even claimed by mould and time such a house is less of a haunting than any space shared with you. at least i can imagine those crumbling walls as having once been the pillars of a life. at least among them i am clean.
if you are a leech, i am water, part of blood but never enough, you consume more than i alone can give you. you consume more than i would part with, even if i could.
if a home with you is a haunting, a house alone is a half dug grave.
but at least theres work left to do.
at least i wont be rotting alongside you.
A poem about refusing to be consumed by something that claims to love you.
e 5d
there's a ghost in my room, a chasm in my core
a hurricane inside me shakes, moves the floor
the nothingness surrounding me is heavy, I need mass
a hefty body to hold me down, to fix my mess
I long for a dream to fill my wandering soul
because my god doesn't comfort me anymore
The piano sounds so much more sombre
When I write my feelings on paper
I only noticed it few months ago
When I actually started doing so
I wanted to be heard
I was in pain, an injured bird
I wanted to be heard
But never was
Then, I started writing
And I was happy
From the mere realization that I exist
That my happiness, sadness and everything betwixt,
Mattered, and could be heard
And so I wrote,
And imagined, and thought,
Got lost in past, and creating stories
learned about myself,
and others and lovers
It helped me to be heard
The love, the madness, the pain, the anger
I put in every word
And so I was heard
Maybe in the future I will return,
come back again
And continue the journey, started by the younger me
lost in thoughts sitting in a train
This was the last poem I wrote in my artistic outburst I had 3-4 months ago when I started poetry for first time. I wrote 60 or so poems continuously.
But then I took a break for a while, this was last poem before that break
Nought 5d
People tell me all the time,
That personal poetry is the best,
But I'm sorry to disagree.
Personal poetry should be the best,
But I'm afraid it's not with me.

Personal poetry is hardly as clean,
Emotions spilling off the page,
It's really rather messy.
Feelings too raw, too much, to express,
And not a single thought can be conveyed,
It just seems like a waste of energy...
So sorry if my poetry isn't the best...
- Nought
Foresee the strings
They bleed to tell the tale of you
Struggling to smile and weeping vibrato
Symphony of blight to cry tonight
Orchestral somber and tonal allegro
Ahmad Attr Feb 16
Don’t fly away, stay at home with me
Let’s play our favorite games, me and you
In a little room we built for two
Don’t fly away, the world’s scary place
Your wax wings will melt away
And you’ll fall in the deep sea, so stay
At home with me

I know it’s our time to leave
Our birthplace, our safe place, our nest,
A home we call at best
I know it’s time to end our disbelief
And spread our wings
But I can’t fly yet
My wing’s will get wet
From crashing waves of the life
And I’ll fall in the deep sea
So stay at home with me

Don’t fly away, I’ll chain you to ground if you do
Trust me it’s not my first time to stop you
It’s just that I cannot move, so stay
In this little room we built for two
A poem about jealousy and sabotaging others to appease your own unwillingness to grow
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