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Isabella Howard Aug 2020
Ticking time bomb friends

Will lay themselves dead

Before you can understand

What's going through their head.

Death filled minds

With death dripping hands

Might include you

In their end of life plans.

You'll see the knife wounds

Cross hatching chests

You'll see the pills

That one day will put them to rest.

Death filled minds

With death dripping hands

Might include you

In their end of life plans.

They'll show you razors,

Knives and blood.

You'll never ask why

They'll never mention it again.

You'll excuse the rope you find

Filling up corners

You'll ignore sturdy beams

With chairs underneath them.

You won't think twice

When they ask for one bullet.

Maybe you'll be the one to put it

In ticking time bomb hands.

Death ridden minds

With death dripping hands

Might include you

In their end of life plans.

It's not your fault.

How could you have known?

You've made an art out of ignoring.

You assume the blood and gore meant


It was just a bad night.

It's not your fault.

How could you have known?

It's not like you've lost

Every other one you've known.

It's okay.

It's really not your fault.

You can never stop

Death ridden minds

With death dripping hands.

You can never help

Your ticking time bomb

Written word used to be an
extension of my mind; my
       thoughts imprinted onto paper
   in neatly formed sentences.

but now                              
they are jagged
malformed.                    ­            

I can't seem to put the words
together into sentences that  
have meaning.                      

The razor edge of my words
cut me, bleed my body dry
until there's nothing left    
but dust.
I'm tired....
The Nine Doubts Jun 2020
You don't have to love me anymore
But I'll always love you
You'll always have someone there
A wide open pair of sliced-up arms

I used to dream of you laying on my chest
Now all that lays there is razor marks
I almost don't mind if they scar;
They can represent my pain like a crest

I'll never be able to hear of your country
Not even see the southern cross
Without remembering your eyes
I'm so broken, I can't find it in me to cut ties

And so as you move on with life
I hope you know I still wish you the best
And I know you don't believe me, but I'll be here
Dragging the next blade across my chest

I know you'll be happy
And one day, I pray I can be too
But until then
Australia still makes me think of you
She doesn't love me anymore. She loves someone else. I want her to be happy. I hope she is, that's all I want. I don't believe I'll ever be, but I care about her enough to pray to a god I don't believe in that she'll be happy.

Whatever this is isn't organized, I apologize for that. It's not even poetry, it's just lines of words. I'm sorry...
Poetic T May 2020
The tears that razor emotions bleed,
                  can we ever recover from

those momentary eclipses

that smother light from the darkest needing..
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Ben Sana Mecburum (“You Are Indispensable”)
by Attila Ilhan
translation/interpretation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch

You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?

Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...

Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.

A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...

Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?

Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?


Original text:

Ben sana mecburum bilemezsin
Adini mih gibi aklimda tutuyorum
Büyüdükçe büyüyor gözlerin
Ben sana mecburum bilemezsin
Içimi seninle isitiyorum.
Agaçlar sonbahara hazirlaniyor
Bu sehir o eski Istanbul mudur
Karanlikta bulutlar parçalaniyor
Sokak lambalari birden yaniyor
Kaldirimlarda yagmur kokusu
Ben sana mecburum sen yoksun.

Sevmek kimi zaman rezilce korkuludur
Insan bir aksam üstü ansizin yorulur
Tutsak ustura agzinda yasamaktan
Kimi zaman ellerini kirar tutkusu
Bir kaç hayat çikarir yasamasindan
Hangi kapiyi çalsa kimi zaman
Arkasinda yalnizligin hinzir ugultusu

Fatih'te yoksul bir gramofon çaliyor
Eski zamanlardan bir cuma çaliyor
Durup köse basinda deliksiz dinlesem
Sana kullanilmamis bir gök getirsem
Haftalar ellerimde ufalaniyor
Ne yapsam  ne tutsam nereye gitsem
Ben sana mecburum sen yoksun.

Belki haziran  da mavi benekli çocuksun
Ah seni bilmiyor kimseler bilmiyor
Bir silep siziyor issiz gözlerinden
Belki Yesilköy'de uçaga biniyorsun
Bütün islanmissin tüylerin ürperiyor
Belki körsün kirilmissin telas içindesin
Kötü rüzgar saçlarini götürüyor

Ne vakit bir yasamak düsünsem
Bu kurtlar sofrasinda belki zor
Ayipsiz   fakat ellerimizi kirletmeden
Ne vakit bir yasamak düsünsem
Sus deyip adinla basliyorum
Içim sira kimildiyor gizli denizlerin
Hayir baska türlü olmayacak
Ben sana mecburum bilemezsin.

Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Attila Ilhan, modern English translation
Poetic T Feb 2020
Hitting you up side the head,
concussion from my lyrical spread.
You got cerebral haemorrhaging as
my words hit you with a even spread.

Your ears are bleeding,
            dry mouth as nothing said.
My words drip from your ears
                       enough you said.

But im not the one taking
                weak **** shoots.
You tried an failed,
now your get syllable assaulted.

But no prosecution,
cos the only
          witness is incoherent mumbling.

If you come at me again,
better get those words sharpened,
       cos they need to get  past

your breath.

As they blunt at the moment.

My words are a razor cutting your throat,
     you'll bleed out but, ill smother your

Haemorrhaging silence,
On bottom of my shoe.
As i throat choke you,
                  listen to that...

Its the silence of you,

And I looked at my watch,
      your the last second past,
uninteresting and not worth remembering.
Lydeen Jan 2020
Up and down,
Written in my
Own personal language,

Crossing my skin
In a sharp,
Bitter, language- personal

To me and
My skin, an
Ode to life
gia-marie May 2019
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 2019
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
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