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MicMag Jul 2018
Sometimes


I fall
Into a bottomless pit

Of despair



Other times



It's a bottomless chasm
The intense realization of utter insignificance is profoundly distressing and in occasional brief moments infinitely insurmountable.
Starlight Jul 2018
We have all the time in the world
She coos to herself
Trying to pull herself out
From the pit she has buried herself in.

We have all the time in the world
We have forever
With such a cursed double-edged sword as life
Giving us freedom and pain.

She claws her way with
Dirtied fingernails
Chapped lips
A crinkled smile like a chip packet
Out of the dark hole.

The sun is too bright
And she cries out like the
Monster
She has become.

'I have everything'
She says, because it is true
She holds love like a dying bird
Smothering its freedom in a hope to keep it with her
She strangles knowledge with
A dark mind
Which thinks of nothing but broken records and the
Repeat of
'I hate myself'.

Life is beautiful
She muses as she spreads her darkness with her
Tainting all those she speaks to
Even with a glance they become ruined.

Why do you love me
She swears like it is a
Foul curse
As her mother stares at her
With too old dark eyes
That speak of ignorance
And biting knowledge.

The wind howls
'I hate you'
As if it were consoling her
Maybe it was.

It sweeps her off her feet
And carries her out to somewhere else
She had been standing too long
Almost looking living
And now needed to die for a week or so
Bury herself again
And wallow
As if her world were imperfect.

She walks to school
Always tugging at her sleeve
Always wondering if they see it
But don't care
If they see her
But don't care
If they whisper about her
But don't care.

She wonders if they care.

'Look away'
She lies
She wants a hug
But she also wants a slap
And a shout
And for someone to say
'Snap out of it, you're not a child.'

She is a child
Even if she is not
Even when she is
Her eyes are old
Yet she has seen no war
Or violence
No one hates her
No one that matters
But yet her eyes seem to absorb the elderly
As she looks around her
Stealing life from others.

'I curse my empathy'
Even when someone sneers she wonders why
She pities them
She wishes to understand their hate
She doesn't heal her bruises
She longs to heal other's bruises.

Yet she is still innumerably selfish.

The cow.

She looks behind her
Someone is there
Always there
Paranoia, hypersensitivity
She sees people who aren't there
Always about to tap her on the shoulder
And she spins around
Heart racing
Breath catching
The anxiety throb in her leg pulsing again like clockwork...

No one is there.

What do they want
She thinks loudly
Hoping they can hear her
And she won't have to say it out loud.

Truly she is selfish
Even if they asked her
She would deny them
For she hates them
All of them
For they are happy
And she is not.

Why am I angry
She whispers mournfully
She should be grateful
Look at her house
Dog
Friends
Parents
Cuts
She is so lucky
She should feel happy
Doesn't she have it all.

It is not a question
She bangs out nonsensically
Drumming away
Her fingers tapping in anxiety
And fear
And maybe sadness
And maybe cryptic malevolent amusement.

She climbs back down into her pit of despair.
Its warm.

How oddly comforting.
Garrett Chestnut Apr 2018
Rats in a line,
All ordered and filed,
For miles, they stretch,
Each tail to a head,
Faces calm and well-worked,
No scuffle, noise or protest,
No words, because they know none;
Every few moments they shuffle,
Further down the dirt path,

Approaching a pit,

A pit, very wide,
The width, of course, not their concern,
The leader stops
Before the pit’s mouth, staring into blackness;

With a thought, he falls, silently,
Carelessly,
Wind rushing between his legs,
Whisking itself up against his eyes, ears, and lips,
In fantastic flight

Into uncertainty

A new leader takes hold,
This one, shaken;
He stares into the abyss,
But soon realizes the
Horrifyingly insipid Earth surrounding him

Soulless branch after branch,
Teeming with filth and despair,
Rays of sun dampened by a
Caustic fog

A nudge from his successor
Forces him out of his
Epiphanous trance,
And into the well of nothingness,
Squealing

Who falls the fastest,
The philosopher or the realist?
Cana Feb 2018
3am
3am. It’s alive.
a faster beating heart
It’s the whir of the air conditioning
Removing the heat and leaving the sticky sludge over the soul
deep breaths to calm
blades to sever thick ship lines to the past.
It’s the drip of the cat fountain.
3am it’s a brutal hour, it’s a painful hour,
It’s a dead hour.
A collection of words I found written on my phone. I don’t remember the process or when it was written. Just that it was.
Mike Virgl Dec 2017
.
.
.
What have you done?
Nothing at all
Sitting here, as the time
Passes; as a candle
Flickering
Out.

What will you do?
Well at four in the morning
There is not a lot.
Except the cold
And the enclosing
Dark.

Why did you do this?
Well can that be said?
Honestly, and bluntly,
Straight out would the
Answer stick?

It would become lodged.
Because words unravel mysterious
And mean nothing all at the same time.

Who am I?
What a pertentious question to ask.
You have no right to ask,
Nor mind to conceive it.

What am I meant for?
Well to live and to die.
Make an impact on someones life,
Good or bad, time has no universal code.

What am I doing?
Looking for an answer
To a question I have about people,
And also about me.

Should you lean upon a crutch?
What if you are a crutch yourself?
What if someone took you away?
What if you merely were a crutch to a table?
How awful really.

But what is the matter? You've found it!
A place for yourself.
You see, you do not matter.
A crutch, a dime a dozen so cheap.

That is what you get from lack of sleep I guess, and lack of meaning I guess, and lack of health I guess.
A crutch that wanders, looking for what it means to be independent or leaned on, and if it is truly a curse or a blessing.

How silly is this anaology?
I think it is downright clear.
But I am a rambling madman
With an end soon near.

As soon I will be gone, this consious shed.
I will wake up this morning, tired in bed.
I will reach my hands and feel a change.
I will no longer feel; it is quite strange.

And I wish I could say I did resist,
But I did not.
For the immoral base upon my kingdom,
Is founded upon my thoughts
And actions of sin.

I laugh and I laugh and I laugh.
How little will do I have?
I am just a piece of dust,
Moved by the slightest wind
Of dismay.
.
.
.
Thoughts at 4 am
Asonna Oct 2017
Feeling something that was once happiness
is now nothing but a memory.
Wretched with grief and anxiety,
Pain in my chest swallows me whole.

Caverns of black and purple,
my heart lies deep within
expelling inks in tones of red,
yet my body feels no lighter still.

I close my eyes, there's darkness there.
But there's darkness everywhere.

Water pours over head,
steam fills up the room.
Crossed legs upon the floor,
tears fall down my face.
difference to water is between my sobs,
the salt lays thick on my tongue.

Fatigued in life, not just my breath
each day begins to drag.
Challenge myself to leave it still,
because harming helps no one.
I'm Tired Aug 2017
You would think
After all this pain,
That I would feel something
Anything
But all I feel is empty
          -The pit inside me
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