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Chloe Jun 24
I look for my body
And find self inflicted pain
Buried behind new scars
The kind made with love

I look for my body
The one I gave away
The one that was taken
The one that was barely mine

I look for my body
The one that was wanted
Somehow the one I wear now
Still feels the torture from before

I look for my body
Inside my own
So that I may mourn
And atone

I look for my body
The one I once knew
No lazy breast tissue
Tortured skin, scars of love
The end
prayer of hope, for young and old, who suffer from the slings and arrows sadness and the loss of love; I offer up this prayer of hope and offer you my hand around your shoulders until you no longer require it

more than once,
for lengthy periods,
by events, other people,
my self was eradicated
and limping from day
to night, and J faced
absolutes, choices choking,
alternating alternatives that
offered zero, or even less
than zero, and the inkwell
wasn't refillable, and I could
point to nothing yet encouraging a mystifying purposed existence

then came a woman

who asked nor proffered
conditionals
pre, prior post or otherwise
and
offered up the miraculous
drink, human kindly notice,
snd it
drained the bitters,
began fluid replacement,
and slow resuscitation

and then
poems rebirthed me,
 liberated the angry sacred
gory sadness words devoid of glory,
with a reworded score, and
the eyes could write without
a patina filter of jaundiced hatred,
and whispered private internally
many times a beloving
hallelujah

and when ever the remembrance of
the near misses are crackly occasionally appearing, the surge dissipates intact quick
into a netherworld for suppressing
and bid "away with you," and a
thin lipped smile part sneer
for having survived
even
prospered when
                    then came a woman

and the self, the my self,
returned
after an absence of destructed
decades...deadening decades

and I smile when
the grandchildren tell me
knock knock jokes
and gently knock me on the head,
to make sure I'm alert,
then came woman
who had already~all ready
knocked me on the
heart
lipstadt  reflections of self
Jessica Jun 22
Our selves float and drift on

an ocean of memory,
lives that come before us

In the absolute language between
the poem on your lips and
the blue of the wave
you are the music of silence  
only echo of infinity
the unlikely root of words
Maria Etre Jun 20
The moment I let life unbutton my fears
and slowly remove my shirt
undraping my shoulders
exposing my skin
to the sun
we the
mo
me
nt
I
f
e
lt
re
bo
r
n
Lord Aconite Jun 15
My bane, the unseen—
The part of me
I never want to meet.
You grew in silence,
A writhing mass of shadow,
Born from loneliness
And self-defeat.

Oh, how I hate you.
But I can’t.
Because hating you
Means hating me.
You’re the sum
Of all my wrong turns—
And still,
I run back to you.
Because in the end,
Only you
See the real me.

The world outside is a jungle.
They walk on two legs,
But bite with their words.
You became my cage.
And though the key is in my hand,
I hold it like a blade.
I want to break you
For the pain you bring—
But you’re also
My only comfort.

I locked you away.
Still, I run to you.
Banging and banging
On the walls I built—
Trapped between black and white,
Running from both,
Neither offering understanding.

So here I am—
Your jailer.
Your only friend.
Your enemy.

And I wonder,
After all this…
Do you care for me?
😵‍💫😵‍💫
Alisa Jun 15
Sometimes love isn’t about loving someone else — it’s about learning to love yourself.
Don’t give up on yourself — you’re the one person you truly need. Stay strong!
ash Jun 14
i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."


"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

i'm just kinda roughed out at the edges
is it adhd?
Ian Starks Jun 21
The box said
‘1,000 pieces’
Yet the picture is complete.

I watch from the lid—
unfitted.

There was never room
for 1,001.
Ian Starks Jun 12
The rocky vessel
I’ve stood on
My whole life

Still leaves me swaying—
Though I’ve since stepped
Onto land.
Roni Hall Jun 10
Even though they control my *****,

claim over my lootie,

and they attempt to gaslight my sovereign multifrequency

I haven’t forgotten I am a certified Duesy!

You’re bumming off me, little mousie.

Even if you thought I was a loosy,

I adore my *****.

I mean just look at the way it oozes,

sweet nectar that makes you goosey!

I’m too busy

keeping you alive from my *****.

Orgasming at light speed to my divine presence, to behold you’d require a diamond koozie.

Call yourself a flouzy

for not respecting this sequency.

If you truly had one too, you’d understand why I am reclaiming my dignity.

They want to own what they do not revere in secrecy.

I can’t be bothered to slow down for you to drain my juicy.

I am too in love with my *****.

They try very hard to downplay my power, so sussy.

Bow down or drown in this *****!

Ordained into structured flowies,

life is mine, fulfillment With me can be so easy.

But if you’re not with this *****,

don’t get too close you Will get dizzy!



So much life is brewing inside my *****.

It’s ironic, all these dictators came through my *****.

My lips spit you out even though you pretend to be so bossy.

True Power can’t be manipulated you fool, I’d be triggered too if my mind was that lousy!

Are you put off yet, *****?

Awww, don’t be so fussy!

Thaw that heart out it’s too icy.

GET OUT of my *****,

go elsewhere to be pissy!

Just not on my planet crazy,

you’re on your last mercy!
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