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Linespace Sep 27
I believe happiness lives in Blood.
Whether our own, or that of others is the question.
I remember when I first realized it;
You were the reason I was unhappy.
The shattered vase recognizing the hammer that destroyed it.
The broken heart spotting the surgeon who haphazardly carved it from its home.

I remember realizing that my happiness was stolen and by none other than you,
And that if I wanted to be happy once again, I had to free my happiness from your blood.
But what's the fun in ******, when it's so easily accomplished?

I decided to destroy you.
To make you regret being born just as I had;
To make you taste the saltiness of your own sweat and tears
As you sat in a pile of ash you once called your beloved and cherished sanctuary
Was my idea of "salvation".

I dismantled you, and your family's life.
I disrupted the dismal peace you all so boringly accepted as your lives
And by stirring the waters, I brought out the worst in all.
The pestilence grew within your home
And quickly leaped from your family
Onto mine.

Suddenly, the plan backfired.
You steered into the chasm of life that I spent years mapping,
And all I had to do was whisper in your ear and sew doubt into your skull.

And yet,
This backfire;
This single moment of social dissonance,
Reshaped the earth we both stood on.
The dark corners I once knew became twisted and corrupt copies.
My mind became a new place to explore and learn about.

I just wish the last image to bless my genesis
Had been of you
Swinging gracefully, and peacefully
From your neck.
Nicole Sep 27
You keep telling me our lives will not touch

And I'm starting to believe it.

Unlike the time my sister sat me down almost

2 years ago

And told me this herself

With worried eyes and palms extending.

And the worst part of waking up from that terrible nightmare

Was realizing that even you were imaginary.
Max Aug 6
The night silence screams in my ears after I startle awake.

Another nightmare.

The crying whistle of iron, wood and fletching echoes in the night
Memories of a dead mother sinking in a sea of vibrant autumn leaves
dead eyes commanding me to run
but I don't run

The girl needs me.

Tanya, child of chains, of blood, of regret, of sin, of... hope.

She taught regret like its something I lost
Like it wasn't torn from my chest and replaced with hammers
and blades and chains and blood dripping in silence

I see in her eyes a seed, something that grows in a land that hasn't seen green in a century
And footsteps in the night herald our death, heed my words, a life of such misery and cruelty brings only misery and cruelty in return.

We tear our skin on greedy grasping and groping thorns
fleeing the howls another night again

Black hair like the stars were plucked from the sky just to give something to liken it to
Brown eyes that sound like chains rattling on stone, so I don't forget my promises.
She speaks of hope, as if it's something tangible and abundant, enough for everyone.
But like a stubborn candlelight in the winter night, fighting the wind for survival, it does warmy my heart.

Perhaps the road does not have to end.
Perhaps we have bled and fought and wept enough, and we have finally paid our dues.
Perhaps we can find it in ourselves to find forgiveness for the wicked things we have done, and if not, at least we have found forgiveness in each other.

Perhaps life without pain is possible.


The night no longer screams silently, but speaks the hidden language of footsteps, of drawn daggers and ill intent.
Years turned a child into the promise of a young woman.
The promise of a life lived in peace.
But as I know, the enemy of peace is the cutting midnight whistle of an arrow, and the earth itself opening up to swallow anything I hold dear.
She sinks into a sea of dead leaves and tides of blood.

It was not a ******. It was a theft.

A theft of the last good thing in the world.
The last star in the sky, snuffed out, to leave all in darkness.

A theft of a promise, made to a naive child in early summer.
Where once a promise stood, now a blade named Vengance.

A theft of lives, not one.
But regret was not something I lost. It was torn from me. The ones who gave me my hammers and blades are the ones who took my child.

And now, I go to return my hammers and my blade.

And to take back my regret.
A poem about a couple of characters I've written. The main character was as a child taken by a ruthless gang of outlaws. They killed his mother in front of him as they attempted to flee.

The gang took the boy in and trained him to be one of their own, making him their de-facto torturer, his prefered tool being hammers, hence the title.

During a raid, the main character finds a young girl hiding in a house, and he takes pity on her and takes her as his own, and by doing so incurred the wrath of the outlaws. The main character and the girl fled into the woods and lived many years as quietly as they could, the girl teaching him to be good and kind, and to seek redemption for the people he had hurt.

Eventually, the outlaws find them and as a petty act of revenge they attack them both, killing the girl. The main character takes up his sword again after many years and heads to **** the outlaws.

(For anyone curios, it wasn't mentioned in the poem; but after the main character wreaks havoc on the outlaws, he lives a life of kindness, redemption, and peace.)
Cat Lynn Aug 5
After two years of trying to figure it out
When the root of the problem ended up being upside down

Every piece of the puzzle now perfectly fits...
But God... I was not expecting this kind of plot twist
Still trying to fully grasp it
Ikigai Poet Jul 18
You were the plot twist
in this young man's story.
-Ikigai Poet
Everybody needs a plot twist, no?
Devin Ortiz Jul 12
The finish line is a delusion.
We run the race at our own pace.
Some walk. Some run.
Some crawl. Some quit.
Everyone dies, no one wins.

Suppose there is no other side.
Suppose you just keep going,
Until you don’t.

Is it an uphill battle?
Is it all downhill from here?

A little of both, a lot of neither.
Going, going, gone.
Luís Jun 15
Neste dia a minha lamuria tem dois metros,
O meu amor é este fragil ramo.
A minha vida é esta cadeira.

Neste dia ponho-me a cima da vida.
pois o momento de atar a minha lamuria ao meu fragil amor chegou.
Assim tenho um bilhete só de ida
Com esta atitude pontapeio a vida
a minha lamuria estica,
pois ela assim me farta
e a minha ultima esperança é que o meu fragil amor não se parta.

On this day my grief is six feet long,
My love is this fragile branch.
My life is this chair.

On this day I put myself on top of life.
For the moment of tying my whining to my weak love has come.
So I have a one-way ticket
With this attitude I kick life...
my grief stretches,
for she's making me sick of it.
and my last hope is that my fragile love won't break.
c May 30
I am impatient with information
I flip to the back of a book
To preview the ending
I don’t like surprises
I read the plot for a movie
Before I ever see it
Just so I always know
Exactly what comes next
You cannot read people like a book
And there’s no plot guide
For relationships
But I always try to spot the end
Before it’s near
The other day I caught you staring,
I don’t think you realized because,
When my eyes met yours we broke into uncontrollable laughter.

The incredible feeling of being in the presence of pure love,
Intertwined instinctively

Remember to never grow a day older,
But always grow a day wiser.

And know our love is a pre-written plot from the very beginning
A script sent straight from stars

           —letters to my sun ☀️
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