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gia-marie May 23
the first time, it was cold.
a dark November night.
what else was I to resort to?
there was nothing.
my mind fuzzy.
my vision blurry.
I reached for the slick piece of metal.
the sharp object that would soon be my saving grace.
the answer to my questions.
the right to my wrongs.
it felt better just to drag it across my thigh at first.
feel the scratching of the metal across my untouched skin.
to barely leave a mark but still feel the pain was my intention.
but soon it turned into more.
six lines in a row everyday over my beautiful skin.
a punishment for the things I thought I had done wrong.
soon my untouched skin turned into a scarred masterpiece.
something so horrible...
but yet so beautiful.
something I hated...
but yet was so proud of.
but nobody was supposed to know of my masterpiece.
it was supposed to be the secret between me and my demons.
the ones I fought everyday.
the ones I still fight to this day.
and finally I let the secret out.
I just wanna say that this is not me telling everyone for the first time that I self harm.  I have already gone through rehab, been to the mental hospital and I am on the road to recovery.  this is to show people they are not alone.  much love,
Jaxey May 1
i watch the ink run down my arm
the pen, writing the feelings
i could never explain with words;
sitting on my bathroom floor
never led to anything
but unwanted art
pain isn't worth unwanted art
fearfulpoet Mar 22
Why they call me the fearful poet! (The Razor Thin Difference)

”but who am I to complain
the  razor thin difference tween
blessings and curses so thin,
sometimes are they not, the same thing”

Aug. 2018


this familiar line, well traversed, lives on the maps
sketched indented on your palms and brow,
at the edges of the crow’s nests, the eye’s keyboard witnesses,
recording every stroke

we tap in seeings, forming letters,
letters into lines, lines into verse,
as we alliterate, we walk unawares,
of the razor thin difference tween blessings and curse,
indiscernible until concluded, perhaps, not even then,
the stanza’s probable outcome,
always unsure, unknowing destiny’s decision

so we walk, tread, plumb, shoutout
“vive la difference,”
hoping the blessing messengers hear us first,
consummating our pleas on their favorable sight & side,
ever fearful, we do not shout loud enough,
do the blind hear,
need me, possess my sacrificial offerings,
my trepidations, burnt on the Temple’s altar

who will breathe their smoke and understand
their fearful origins?

so we-write, cajole that our every moment’s fear,
find the difference, that we don’t bleed from life’s razoring,
the thinner thinnest
needle threaded,

and fear is the threat,
and fear is the thread,
that holds me together

until the unraveling
requires me to write again,
the fearful poet
3/21/19 4:15 am
ronnie hunt Dec 2018
Razor on the bathroom sink and the smell of pine and aftershave
Calloused hands
Dirt fingernails
You packed and formed the soil like clay
Like paint
You were an artist, silent in the morning
Coffee before work
One beer after
One beer after and a warm dinner she made
Pine and aftershave
on the stairs
on the carpet
on the carpet on the stairs
Lean in
Lean in, kids
Lean in and I’ll tell you about them
You said,
You are an artist,
Silent and coffee in the morning
Loud and beer on the stairs,
on the carpet in the afternoon
Leather seat
Newspaper dogear
Brewers turned on
In the leather seat,
‘Turn it up,
They’re winning!’
They’re winning
They’re winning
Screen porch
Wooden door
Screen porch through the wooden door
Bumblebee Boompa
Bumblee Boomps
In the garden
On the sink
In the kitchen
On the stairs
In the living room
On the porch
You are an artist
Silent in the morning
Loud in the afternoon
and winning
Lorrin Jan 27
She paints a pretty picture
with her paintbrush running red.
Her laugh rings out the loudest
to drown the screaming in her head.

She paints a pretty picture
her paintbrush gleaming bright.
Curled away inside herself
to make it through the night.

She paints a pretty picture
to hide her every flaw.
Falling ever shorter,
she’s reached her final straw.

She paints a pretty picture
with her canvas running out;
her smiling face is silent.
Inside she longs to shout.

She paints a pretty picture
her canvas soaked with red.
She cannot paint another stroke,
this painter now is dead.
Frank DeRose Jan 23
My father shows definite signs of toxic masculinity.
Always with the "man up" or "toughen up"
I think he was afraid I was too sensitive.

When I was a kid, he told me it was okay to cry.

Then I guess I cried too much.
And it was no longer okay.

I learned to swallow my emotions,
Pills so big I thought I would choke.
My voice caught,
My feelings were strangled.

I learned, too, to listen and observe him more.
Yes, there was the homophobia,
There the unmistakable reek of feared emasculation,
The lines about how certain things were "effeminate,"
Including things like the way I sat,
Or wore my long hair,
In my own home, no less.

I don't think he thinks me very manly.

Never mind my compassion, loyalty, or steadfast, stubborn nature.

I've learned not to care so much what he thinks,
Though the very act of not caring hurts.
I'd like to be able to share who I am with him,
But I think he disapproves who I am,
The way I choose to live.

Never mind I am straight,
Though it would be no excuse if I were not.

Never mind I have a beard,
Though it would be no excuse if I were clean-shaven.

Never mind any of the qualities that I am,
Any of the things I am proud of,
Any of the reasons I call myself man.

To him, I am not masculine.
That knowledge sears like razor burn,
Leaves scarred tracts of pain and resentment.

Doth a man not bleed?
I suppose not.
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