To be honest
I’m not sure how it happened
For as slow as it came
It went — life, I mean.
All about routine
Nails cut, hair straight
Shirt tucked in
Spent waiting to die
If I keep still
For much longer
I'll disappear

I won't vanish into thin air
Like a blow of a cigarette
Or a cry of dispair

I'll stay,
Pinned to this bed
A petrified marionette
No longer attached to the strings of this net

So you ask,
What trick do you play
To fool your own self
To step out on this day
As lonely and grey
As it might come your way
Or as you may portray?

A touch of oneself.
"A sheepish remedy!",
You might complain.
"You should feel shame!"

What can I say...
At least,
It gets the heart pumping
As I go out lumping
To tick the boxes on this never ending list
Hoping to find unexpected bliss
Pao Jun 5
Not with a smile spread across my lips
Or an energetic laugh
Making my two friends holler with joy
As I spill out a witty remark.

But rather
With downcast eyes
Glaring at the shadowed pavement
Hoodie dangling from my shoulder
Stack of binders desperately trying to slip from my grip.
The moon beginning to make its descend
Behind the towering bus stop
Teenagers huddling around each other
Whispering into the muggy dawn.

My brain fuddling with sleep deprivation
I was always exhausted
Nothing satisfied my body  
Not the ambitions
Pumping in my veins
Strolling down the bustling streets
Of the city that never sleeps
Committed to land a position
As a front page writer
For the New York Times.

This routine of waiting
For a dream so far out of my reach
Is monotonous.
A cycle I can't quit
Even if I was granted the choice
I wrote this for a scholarship opportunity during my senior year of high school. I didn't get the scholarship.
Carolina Jun 3
I try to find something but nothing's there.
I try to talk but my mouth's stitched.
I try to walk but I have no feet.
I try to crawl but I have no energy.
I try to move but I'm boneless meat.
I try to feel but I am machine.

And no one notices.
Or worse... No one cares.
you have done wrong
you know it
you hate it
you cannot undo it

how do you cope with it
how can you
look at your face in the mirror
and live with it
how can you heal
the pain and hurt you caused
the wrongs you did

guilt is a dangerous friend
strong for some time
full with repetant deeds
   you go widely out of your ways
   to make up for past mistakes

yet over time
this may become a habit insincere
  you do the proper things
  but in your heart
  the hope diminishes
that they will show
an exit from the past
   into a brighter future

leaving you
in a world threatened by fake remorse
   where penitence becomes routine
   the rituals of asccusation and defense
play themselves out like in a loop
   in endless repetition
    without relief

the pain you caused
the wrongs you did
are thrown up in your face
with unrelenting fury
each time a knife
   twisting in slow motion
   right in your heart

each twist draws blood
and gradually you feel
   your lifeblood flow away
with each renewed attack
   determined will
   suffers another blow

temptation to give up
grows stronger and
   at times
seems like the way
   to ease
   tormented souls
   to break
   the self-destructive circle

if you fight on
   a battered knight
   in shredded armor
it is not out of guilt
but out of love
   that wants to heal the wounds
   you cut in selfish moments
out of responsibility
   for what you did
of which you are ashamed
and cannot love yourself
until she loves you back


          * *
s Dec 2017
When you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your thoughts,
and stories that lack plots,
It makes me wonder
what boredom means to me
and why it’s beauty that I find
in apparent mundanity.

You colour my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing and poetic, underrated way.
Grey is the soul of every colour in the world.
Invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all things well designed ought to be.

Or maybe because grey
feels like routine
and you’re the everyday
that's to come and
that has been.

You are where I set my bar for normal;
You are my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense,
and my reality check,
my perspective lens,
my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette
I've come to adore,
painting magic
in monochrome.
Em MacKenzie May 24
I speak inside my brain
and then my heart replies.
I've lived my life as the rain
falling down from the vacant skies.
I told you that I loved you
and truer words were never spoken,
but how much can one person do,
when paradise is broken?

I turn my back on memories
but they still slap me in the face,
the emotions get the best of me
when I'm standing in the wrong place.
I told you that I'd keep you dry
even though I myself was soakin'
but how hard can one person try
when paradise is broken?

The pastel colours were fake,
except the black and white,
I shaded it all for the sake
it was not pleasing to my sight.
In every single dream I drown,
I always give up on that fight,
until I'm buried in the ground
I'll dream that struggle every night.

Heaven is over occupied
they stopped letting just any folk in,
and purgatory is mystified
'cause paradise is broken.

I long for the free birds
with their hazardous flapping wing
and the way they spin their words
into gentle songs we sing.
I told you I was missing my mind
I just could never rope it in,
how much can one person find
when paradise is broken.

The pastel colours were fake,
except for the black and white,
I needed the blue for a lake,
and the red for the bloody fight.
In every dream I'm alone,
I try to change that with all my might,
you spoke aloud in a wrong tone
but atleast the words were right.

Heaven is over occupied
I wish I never had woken,
and Hell is now justified
cause paradise is broken.

You own; each beat from my chest, both lungs and every breath,
what I have and all the rest,
my life until my death.
Sadman Apr 27
I think with rules in my mind
But memories follow behind.
I feel shame; then regret,
And so my goals aren’t set.
What should I do today?
What should I ever say?
That’s why I watch it all
And follow each roll call.

My thinking never ends.
The poem that got me in here.
Pray beneath, knees wet with dew, baptise in morning,
all eyes close. Hum with the choir of words forgot.

Wishes made with superstitious smile, the stars fall,
the night sky open and a comfort now, though--
the artist hour so dour in decree.

Now another eve for the principle reprieve, soak
in water not clung to blades of steely nature.

Churn. Reach. Dreams escape, throat gape.
Vanilla blend from Tahiti,
flesh malleable as black male masculinity.
Lend ear to me, now shoulder, now more.

Ever more.
You forge.
For me.
Never we.
The first coffee on the back porch before class, enjoying the morning dew and lost in the thought of every hour the night before.
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