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i know
the raven quoth
and croaked
himself horse
for Lady Macbeth
while the crow
is an omen
of doom
or a messenger
carrying secrets
for the gods
if i saw
one of these
blackened birds
in solitude
i doubt
i could tell
which it was
ryanë Smith Jan 2018
It takes two things in order to twirl a pencil between your fingers.
The pencil and enjoyment of the activity enough to make you want to do so. Take away the enjoyment, and you'll wish to drop the pencil. All that's left now is to convince yourself into letting go.
ryanë Smith Dec 2017
There once was a king who stayed in a castle

He loved story tellers and listened to them often but mostly at night. sometimes before bed they kept him awake. the story tellers always kept him wondering what happened next so he never stopped listening.

If a story didnt have a happy ending he would have the story teller banished to the dungeon never to be seen again, true or not its time to believe them. he didnt allow them to tell stories of faiding species, the hardships of surviving.. Here.. and how we are all doomed eventually. He only liked stories about books written by ancient deciples, Wounds being healed, lovers meeting from past lives and infinite impossibilities. Those stories with the least evidence most easy to believe.

Some days the king corrected his story tellers “no no no its like this. I’m the king and i know how it goes” he said, “anyway you like your highness” spoke the story teller. The king realized the story made no since so he sent the story teller to the dungeon and asked for a new teller. The dungeon door opened to reveal all the lost story tellers had become ghost on there way to take the king to the dungeon. He tried to ask his gaurds to protect him but they disappeared along with all of the tellers he had in his castle, and he was doomed to spend the rest of his days in the dungeon incased in a dark void of silence
Pointlessness metaphors metaphor
L Seagull Jul 2017
Tied by a rope to the image
Of familiar comforting predictable
Misery seeing not the truth you cling
Like a baby to the cold hateful mother
She drags you through cities and islands of
Solitude filling you up on hate like
Rotten breast milk
They say you're a hopeless case
Unfit for true greatness for you have
So little to give
I say you Fear life more than death
Too many chances to take
Too many disappointments to endure
For the fickle heart Lost and confused
Child full of love
Don't listen to it's song
It only aims to fill you with disdain  
To embrace the hate in you
As one more comforting hateful failure
That proves it was right
All along
Something on a sense of pointlessness you get when watching someone digging its own grave. "He" or "she" doesn't really fit for a person who kills ones own humanity and intone who believes in it

Sometimes people mean so much to us for no apparent reason. And sometimes those people are so full of self hateread they'll **** you just to prove how hatable they truly are. Even if you are the only person in their life who cares about them, and they do care about you somewhere deep underneath all the layers of dirt they cover themselves with for protection. So you stay in the periphery because you are a solid enough person to understand it all and not let in the spit of a snake you knew was venomous. And because nothing it hisses in your direction matters unless you already though that about yourself. And if you do - the thing you need to deal with is yourself, not the snake. But it's impossible to have relationships with those types. So you just stay in case they need you, in case they ever dare to let humanity in. It is oh so scary to them, those little neglected and abused children full of hate
Scarlet Rose Mar 2017
Everything I do
Everything I say
Everything I think
Is just a motion.

What is the point?
What is the purpose?

I used to get excited
I used to be sad
I used to enjoy life
But now I am numb
There is no feeling

I scream in frustration
I do not understand!
What has changed?

My life is the same as ever it has been
It is only my view that has changed
And now I wonder
What is the point

What is the point of getting up
What is the point of working hard
What is the point of eating
Or sleeping or talking
What is the point of fighting the monsters
When they always come back

What is the point of my life?
Can someone please tell me my purpose?
Can someone give me a reason to keep going?

I do not want to die.
I want to live again.
Would someone please tell me how?
Christian Bixler Mar 2016
I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.

Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.

Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.

She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.

I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.

I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to

I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.

My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking mind is blank, as I pull
the roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.
The father of a friend of mine shot himself, while caught in the crawl of traffic, as his fellow commuters strove to begin their work day. This, is for him.
Akemi Dec 2015
The city was hungry. A mewing came from an alley. A hollow exchange.
The innards of the district had been gutted by libertine sons.
We were scared of the silence, so we filled it with shootings, and lynchings, and stabbings, and rapes.
You came an empty reflection. It was the night before the bombs fell. I remember the way my atoms shifted. You lying there in the morning.
We fell into one another, like rabid dogs at corpses.

Limbs lined the streets.
You were distant that day. I broke ******* climbing over a fence, and lined them with the rest.
The radio tower looked abandoned.
You told me three years later you didn’t care either way. I walked you to the bridge and watched you swim the Styx.
I’d never cared from the start.

The world ended soon after.
The moon’s belly cracked, guts spilling onto the earth.
Children pelted one another with flesh. Parents stood in doorways, smiling.
The swell stretched infinitely, reaching neither peak nor fall.
I fell asleep on your grave, nestled in the cold of yesterday’s ache.
4:32pm, December 12th 2015

No hope.
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