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If you're into poetry and people who're into poetry, join the community to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
lips red
eyes glossy
heart beating
tired of the things you cannot control
feeling like a failure

but what you don't know
is that you're the voice that tells me no
you're the person that lets me know
that no matter how hard things become
that i will always pull through

because what i can achieve
is up to me
it's in my hands

and i'm always in your thoughts
or so you say
there’s something remarkable
about the magical realisms
between the admixture
of writing and driving.
of course, it’s a difficult task
to literally write while driving
and I don’t recommend it
to anyone but the ideas you
can come up with in your head
become evidently transparent
like a clearing through the fog
and if I was given the chance
with a reliable car, a mixtape of
good tunes, a decent amount
of time to road trip from
Portland Maine to Portland Oregon
and getting lost in the
reverie of elucidation
and neglected dreams
along the countryside
and over the mountains
and through the Great Basin
I could easily write an overkill
of poems in my head and if I
could just get them down on
paper would be a
magical realism
in itself.
I know of no man, throughout the history of mankind capable of escaping the duality of existence. That of Spirit and Flesh; Ether and Clay.  Except maybe those of fictional characters imagined from the minds of drunkards and wretched souls . I myself have sought out ways to escape this madness only to find myself behind the bulwark of my inevitable being, but I now urge myself to delve deeper, deeper into the hole of darkness away from the gleaming ideals of perfection.
I too am wretched, drunken, and my lips, darkened.
I don't read poetry anymore. It's not that the writer's aren't good.

Or that I've lost interest.

I don't read poetry because everyone seems to be either in love
(and I'm not)
or everyone is heartbroken
(and I don't want to be reminded)

Or perhaps I just don't believe they can relate to me anymore. (Yeah, don't consider the possibility you can't relate to them anymore)

Who else had given seven years of their love to their best friend and it remain unrequited?

Who else finally managed to fall in love with a different girl only to have her taken from you?
(You blame her family, but she probably just hated you for fucking her life up)

Or for your last ditch effort at love, she ends up cutting contact for no reason, only for you to find out months later she was pregnant?

That's the one that finished me.

Unrequited love turned to a sex addiction that destroyed so many people.
(I was so selfish)

Don't say it doesn't have a price because I can take you to the grave of a girl who killed herself because I couldn't reciprocate that she fell for me.
(It's been two years and i still blame myself. i'm so sorry)

So the sex turned to alcohol and I wanted to feel numb. Just make me numb to it all.

I want to love someone who isn't married. Who doesn't already have a boyfriend. Who won't give up on me.
(I've long since given up on myself)

But I'm just a time bomb in their lives. An inferno that leaves permanent wounds.

Maybe that's why my best friend never fell for me.

I don't want me either.
I just need a moment to vent this. The circle I go through in my head.
To poetry,
There is all kinds of women out there, women in the physical form, it’s only their personality is there difference is & where I value, soft spoken voices, touches over poetry curves, breathes & gasps, eyes like stars I gaze upon, addiction to romance, lets us talk in deep discussion, if not, let me glare deep in the eyes that you own, experience life together, let me experience you, love is a deep concern of mine. But such concerns I cannot commit to pen & paper that produces poetry. Love, bleeding into one soul as neo-enlightenment.
It was a tough time to beat. 19 seconds? It’s actually faster than getting hit by a car. Reeling lights are flashing and suddenly all of it makes sense. Every piece of thought dismantled and was put into its rightful place. There was no beginning and end, only Now. This is where Time rests and Truth is one with the stars. 19 seconds and everything shifted. Blink once, stand still, and look up. Tell me, what do you see?
I seem to reward myself for bad behavior, and while others don’t understand it to be bad, it gnaws at me. Grows like a tumor, because even if an accident, or happenstance, I still seem to shrink, but not before my body rebels and solidifies into making me gorge on fiber until I lose the nerve and rush to other means. I’m not supposed to do it on purpose, not like Lori, and I hold myself back, convinced that my weight-loss is not an extension of my personality, but I cant help but admit I’m obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with an anti-me. My therapist doesn’t see the pattern, and maybe she is right, but I am too busy worrying about becoming obsessed that I have become obsessed with being obsessed. A hundred and seven pounds, and I have had to seriously fight to control myself not to create harm, and when my stomach doesn’t seem to want to let go of food after days, I can’t help but go to my medicine cabinet, find the laxative, and let my body suffer in such an embarassing way.

I watched Lori do it, and I swore I wouldn’t. But I am, even if for the sake of relief, of release. And I swear it’s not a habit, but that means nothing come every Monday when I have to be the beacon at the group weigh-ins, to mark some kind of false sense of hope for others. They call me an inspiration, and even if not intentional, I feel like I have been cheating.

My grandfather asks me every time I tell him about my weight-loss, “Are you sure you aren’t hurting yourself?” and I am reminded of the decades of humiliation he wrought upon me due to my obesity. What right does he have to ask of harm when he helped drive me to four hundred and more pounds? Maybe this is punishment for all the times his words cut deep enough to make me keep eating in anguish. Maybe I’ll just keep losing long after I hit my goal until there is nothing left– not even dust to be carried along with the wind.

Thoughts like that make me worry that it has evolved from lifestyle change to pure, unadulterated obsession. The kind I have seen time and time again.

My family has always been riddled with addicts.
being squeezed like strawberries
red and porous
until the juices come
squirting out of us and
we must retire to our
fantasies of escape
because we’re choking
choking on self-involvement
choking on lack of confidence
choking on bad commercial music
choking on stupidity
choking on laughter
choking on living
choking on media
choking on stress
choking on words
choking on the dread of work
and just when we gasp for  
a breathe of fresh air
there’s always gonna be
someone to approach you
and tighten down the pressure
around your neck again
with their fingertips
and if you can’t breathe
you can’t fight
and become more docile
and subservient
to the hard pill of
commanding superiority
to swallow

supervisors and managers
are like road construction
on summers break,
making it more difficult
for you to get to where
you wanna go when
things are already
running smooth

I’ve seen too much enforcement
and not enough leadership
to last a lifetime
and I no longer
Zia 4d
there was little wonder
near the end of our tether
we decided we wouldn't linger
smiling at each other
we said good-bye for ever

i replay the scene over and over
and I can’t help but wonder
has he moved on to another?
is she much better?

i don’t want to remember
but it’s like I have a fever
in the middle of summer​
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