There was no peace
There was no decency
No soul or heart
it was neither home nor house
it was cold and dim
the metal trapping me in
isolated but never truly alone
it was all I had
no where to go
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.

Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour
Not sure. I've been editing it for awhile and I give up.
I am the one
Who is never seen
The one who walked away
And who locked the door
The one who couldn't even scream
Within his own room
You all assume
That my birth
Held no worth
But now I realize
That I'm the one confused
I could only see one sky
When you all can see multiple skies
I can't understand why I instigate
And say what I don't mean
It was never fun
To end up so far
Now I remain inside
This tightly locked room
But it was that night
When I was with my friend
Even if we were the abused
There was no need to fight
On that day
Where he didn't choose
For his life to end
Now I'm the one that falls
I was the one
Who controlled fate
I hurt much more
Than any time before
I was left feeling unsure
I cried
In that room
For a long time
I needed a cure
That I knew could never be found
Because everyone that was around
Couldn't get into the locked room
I've looked at the same walls
All this time
While carrying this crime
I've dealt with all their views
And I still don't comprehend
I know I will never be alright
But now I have some clarity
To stand up in that room
There is light
Flowing from the open doorway
Where with sincerity
I can finally show them the walls
And I can see all of their skies
I will proudly bear this scar
And join everyone in this life
Even if I can't bear all this strife
I know I will eventually find my way
A special long poem for the 75th poem I'm posting on here! (In case people are wondering, I do have a lot of long poems, but they are the most special to me so I tend to not post any. I will eventually though!)
Bailey Lewis Apr 9
The light bulbs
Of the body
They can give
And take away light
But always burn the
Brightest in the
Darkest Rooms
CA Smith Mar 30
The drawers are filled, the table is dirty.
It’s way past dinner time,
and I’ve got to be up at six-thirty.

Chaos and clutter,
deception and illusion.
My heart no longer flutters,
after the past’s contusion.

I take a step back and think to myself.
“I’ll just start here, and dust off this shelf.”

And so, I clean it up.
But then the realization comes.
Maybe for today,
after that little victory,
I might be a little closer to finally feeling I am worth more than enough.

A little less mess,
I must confess,
has now gone a long way.

Now my walls are all clean.
The table is no longer dusty.
This heart of mine,
I once thought could be never again be salvaged again is no longer rusty.

Once I look around,
I realize in the journey to tidying up,
it was not just some cleanliness,
but actually, myself I had found.
Her life fades away. Her purity being taken by a man she doesn’t know. She screams in agony but no one seems to hear her. Then she lays there while he’s on top of her she isn’t moving. She scared he will hurt her more then she already is. She’s bleeding more then she should and he still won’t stop. One tear falls down her cheek and he gets up and leaves her. Leaves her on the cold dark floor. She can’t cry anymore she can’t even move she’s hurting but not dead. She’s left in the back room.

                          With love,
This may be a little explicit. But this shows what young girls and women go through everyday and they don’t know how to tell there story. We are here for you. #Standstrong
Cindra Carr Mar 28
Sad little poems in a concrete room
Posters for groups from before
This poem is not shy
The words build to fill the space
Breaking out of that sad space
That place has no space for words
Words shouting whispering working
Hurting or flirting
The feelings that shatter the mind
Words that cripple with joy
These words are more than
Sad little poems in a concrete room

My first and only experience with an open mic, after moving to a new city, was in a back room of a book store. It was a concrete box and the open mic met after a twelve step group. We took turns saying our poems in a circle. The open mics I had been going to were in a private area of a motel. There was music and it felt more like freer space to share. It felt like closer to the idea of an open mic night. I was always terrified, but they were so nice.
It was in my room,
Surrounded by words written in cherry red lipstick,
Screaming hopelessness in the choppy handwriting all the tortured seem to share;

It was in my room,
With half drawn photos of my mother and a dusty guitar that played memories from the time before and the times in between, like a lullaby that haunted me to sleep;

It was in my room,
With the ceiling stained by tobacco smoke and the smell of depression clinging to the dirty bed sheets;

It was in my room,
With the photos hanging off the wall,
Half-torn from the night of lonely desperation;

It was in my room,
With sheets draped over the curtains,
Hung there in a feeble attempt to pretend the sun didn't exist anymore;

It was in my room,
That my shadow got tired of following me and instead swallowed up my mind,
Where the birds sang me to sleep and the moon gently woke me,
Where a day became a thousand years and after a while even God forgot I was there;

It was in my room,
Where I scrubbed the walls clean and painted the ceiling,
Where I pulled the sheets off the curtains and opened the blinds,
Where I threw out my cherry red lipstick and my dirty bed sheets,
Where I finished the drawing of my mother even though the nose will never turn out quite right,
Where I cleaned the guitar and sang to my soul with a new found reverence,
Where I asked the birds to wake me and the moon to tuck me in,

And after all that was done,
It was where I finally opened the door.
This poem is about the time I spent isolating myself during depression and remnants of that time
Sometimes I wonder if the razor blades I used to drag onto my skin leaves bits and pieces of itself inside my body.
It would explain why I'm always being pulled back into my room, as if it were a magnet.
It irks me that I always find myself standing in front of my bed and hiding under the covers until a new day begins.
I pull myself out, but I end up in this dull lighted room every single time.
I wish I could stop but my body self consciously just wants to be in here.
Is it the accustomed loneliness? The overwhelming depression? The looming anxiety? It's too much, my brain can't comprehend.
I just think about this while I lay in this god damn tear soaked bed.
I let my mind race while my arm trickles with the damages I've done.
They say blood is thicker than water, but when it's self inflicted drops of blood and bittersweet saltwater tears, they're both just as heavy.
I find myself punching and banging my head against the wall next to my bedroom door.
I can just... turn the knob and fucking leave, but I always stop in front of it as if it were a monster I couldn't defeat.
Am I entrapping myself just to make myself suffer? Do I enjoy this torture? Do I just love watching my knuckles turn green and blue?
I feel like I'm obligated to stay in this stupid room.
Maybe it's the self hatred telling me I deserve to be confined.
Maybe then no one will see my stupid face.
Maybe then no one can hurt me again.
No one else can hurt me but myself.
I know the capabilities to which my own destruction towards myself extends.
Some times I feel like I'm intentionally keeping myself in imprisonment.
I can't love myself because people tell me I must stay away from what I fear.
Fear is supposed to drive me away, not let it become one within me.
And I feel like shooting out my brain will make this white noise fucking stop.
I feel like slitting my veins on my wrists will make everything go away.
It can be so easy to take all this weight off my worn out brain.
All the pain, all the ache, all the hurt, all the suffering, all the torture, all the bruises, all the cuts, all the voices, all the reminders, all the insecurities, it would all just go away.
With just one single movement.
I can interpret this in however I feel would be for the best.
I can either open my bedroom door and run without looking over my shoulder, or I can open up my skin and watch it turn into a red and white color.
I just... need to get up. Move. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Leave. Now.

.... But I can't.
I have realized that I'm somehow always being pulled back into my room.
Your brother and you
sat in the common room
of the abbey: you a monk

and he a teacher, your
conversation carried on
in soft voices. I sat on a

chair by the radiator and
window peering out at the
cloister in the summer

evening below. You laughed
softly at a comment on
some past event; he smiling

at the memory of you two
as boys. The cloister garth
was empty; both moon and

retiring sun occupied the sky.
A black robed monk went
past my view below, then

out of sight, where I did
not know. Soon be supper,
you said, see you before

the office of Compline. You
left and the door closed.
Your brother retired to his

room along the passage.
I watched as the sky grew
dim; the shadows appeared

in the cloisters where light
could not reach. Across
the way a monk walk past

his window unaware I secretly
watched his walk. Soon be
supper in the refectory,

I mused, leaving my window
seat, leaving the radiator
and its welcoming heat.
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