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oh, to live with sadness, so deep — it has started spreading;
i can feel its crushing weight: a stampede.

my trampled bones have started to resemble
wildflowers as they decay
and the soil flinches at the sight
of something so pure —
something so tainted.

behold, the lamb of god
has become the big, cruel wolf;
this is what happens to delicate things
after they're done breaking —
after they're done rotting.
this is what happens to pure things
after the sins and sacrificial rites.

behold, the lamb of god —
the scapegoat
has become the wolf

and one day, it will outrun the forest fog — spreading —
consuming.
devouring.
one day, it will outrun the howling in its chest.
one day it will outrun the ironic aching of ribs, long emptied.

oh, to be a girl and not a wolf.
to live with sadness and trampled bones.
maybe one day, i too, will outrun myself
fray narte Aug 24
this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;

my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?

why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.

and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.

i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.

now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.

now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.

now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
It was raining over clouds
I found he is searching to get a shelter
He never lost  a hope
What triggered him to attempt his best

As he walked every mile
He heard a soul speaking to him
Just as he heard, it was me standing in pain

He felt we need to move on
Irrelevant  even if what it may
Just as he heard my cries
He took a lead to show me a shelter
and
He left himself alone in rain forever
Marissa LaMarti Nov 2019
There’s not much left,
other than a soft ash that covers the branches.
I could tell you it was angry,
I could tell you I’m covered in acid burns
Shaped like words, it hurts.

I could tell you the smoke filled my lungs
to the brim,
And left lesions of soot
across my low beating heart
At least everything is still.

There are no more leaves,
the only hum I hear
is the ringing in my ears,
and the tears,
are dry now, too.

I could tell you how comely
this all looks
The destruction, the debris-
but you deserve your own pity;
Abandon me with mine.
Kaede Jul 2019
When he left, it was never new to you. There was no such thing such as shredding of tears. There was no kaleidoscope of memories. There was no hopes urging you to pull him back. There was no poem written in your notebooks. There was no entry in your diary. There was no wishful thinking while waiting for the wishing stars. There was no such thing like trying to talk to him and discuss what and where did you go wrong, because you knew from the very beginning, everything was wrong.

And then you dated him. You talked about your recent scores in your quizzes while eating ice cream with him. You celebrated your 19th birthday with him, and it was magical, the nicest feeling you never felt for so long. You had long conversations at night with him that you even dared to each other who sleeps first must treat the other. You have shared about the little things that made your day happy. You both have prayed for true love you thought you both once have. You found yourself motivating him through rousing words and so he does the same way to you.You say every single good night every dozing off moments at 2 or 3 am. And while the rest of your family was in dreams, you were there beneath your blankets giggling at his corny jokes while yawning. Your smiles to each other was in utmost real when you bumped each other on the busy hallways at school. When everyone stares at you both because of your weird chemistry, you could not give a **** care at all. You realize you don't want the whole world, just him in it.

And when he left, right after your 19th birthday, it was never new to you. There was no such thing such as shredding of tears. There was no kaleidoscope of memories. There was no hopes urging you to pull him back. There was no poem written in your notebooks. There was no entry in your diary. There was no wishful thinking while waiting for the wishing stars. There was no such thing like trying to talk to him and discuss what and where did you go wrong, because you knew from the very beginning, everything was wrong.

With no throe in your heart, you accepted everything--the way you used to.
He really left me after we celebrated my 19th birthday. After I felt so much happiness with him is just when he left me behind. Just when I am opening my heart for them, that is when they usually leave my heart unlocked. Sad. Igit hahahaha. So I said that our smiles to each other is in UTMOST REAL? No, it was forced smile ey hahahahha
fray narte Jun 2019
i have a graveyard of letters;
relics dug up from plath’s oven
now, trapped
in the gaps of my ribs,
paper-cutting through the bones;

some are reduced to debris
coming undone like angels,
falling from crumbling buildings —
crumbling minds —
columns that snap
like they’re the threads of my life

nevermind the punctures,
nevermind the fall;
broken spines
and fractured bones —

they all hurt
just the same.

nevermind the metaphors,
nevermind the words;

poetries,

and suicide notes —

they all look
just the same.
Letters for Anne Jun 2019
A witch howls with pain
As the full moon becomes clearer in the sky
Reminding her the death of her lover
Letters for Anne Jun 2019
Park benches, coffee, and cigarettes
A morning picture with you
Sometimes a book in hand, with my head on your lap and we would call it a nice day

On rainy days, we would curl up on the couch
Blanket wrapped around us, and I would wear your most coveted gray hoodie.
Switching tv channels, we would never find something interesting enough to watch
We'd instead nap and still call it a nice day

We went to a Sunday mass once even if I never prayed since my grandma died
I never believed much in anything,
Not even in angels nor the saints
But I wanted to believe you're a blessing.
That Sunday was such a nice day
the only way i can catch my sleep
is to count the reasons why iloveyou
but until now, i'm still awake
oh i forgot to remind myself
that my love for you is always
endless
Disha Bhatia Mar 2019
From gloomy eyes to happy feet,
from being homeless to finding home
in a heartbeat
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