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Arasynya Cain Aug 2013
If notebooks could talk...
What would mine say?

If it could erase itself...
Would it wash my works away?

Would it scream in my face...
That my words have no taste?

Would I regret ...
Letting my thoughts run free?

Would you take that all away from me?
Nad Dec 2017
an old dusty box left in the corner
in the nook of never stepped hallway, like a boulder
all alone in there, it could be a mourner
stayed in, for what felt like an eternity
isolated from being, morbidly

exploring the tantalizing sound of
silence
wondering its mesmeric and ecstatic balance
that left her, delirious and lustful for guidance

lights shined through the window, sooner
the wind came, rigorously blew dust further,
old ***** dust flew sporadically in every corner
that She could watch
float flawlessly forever

an old dusty box left in the corner
She begged to be a no longer.
East Wind Nov 2017
I start with, “I don’t know if this will work”
I gradually move to, “This might not work”
A little later I will say, “This won’t work”
And I end it with, “I knew it would’t Work!!”
~Do you start doing something with as little hope as possible? And if so, is it because you don’t want to end up disappointed?~
Sydney Wilson Oct 2017
my name is
it’s okay if you don’t have time for me
but mostly
I go by
I’m sorry
.
I’ve recycled all the ways to apologize
but I’m sorry
is the simplest
the sweetest
the one that makes me feel most
like I deserve to be wrong
.
Some days I apologize
so much
I’m sorry
for being sorry
and I still cant help
but think
that I’m not good enough
.
I’m sorry will be the words
I remember
when I’ve forgotten everything else
so I can make sure to say
I’m sorry for dying
but also I’m sorry for living
and mostly I’m sorry for taking up your time
.
If there's a word that you're holding back, say it.
If there's advice in your brain, let it out.
And if anything helps, then I'll take it;
But no man can assuage all my doubt.

I doubt that I'll ever quite make it:
I doubt that my dreams will come true.
I doubt night and day, but I fake it
In case they start doubting me too.

I don't think I can catch my breath now,
I doubt that this air will be clean;
Don't know if I'm close to my death now,
But alive? I just feel in between.

Come and steal away all of my guilt now
Make me sigh and admit I was wrong
For of all of the things my mind's built now
I distrusted self-doubt all along.
Jules Jun 2017
why
as the blade runs through the flesh,
blood starts gushing out

she cried,
she screamed,
p a i n f u l l y
repeating it all over again
with a sense of hesitation

a miasma of burning cigarettes
and stale alcohol hung in the background
with bits of despair and tears

——

why can't she do it?
why can't she end her life?
why can't she save herself?
a friend Apr 2017
I think I use the phrase "I think" too often.
Kewayne Wadley Apr 2017
Most people avoid her because of her heart.
One minute she is caring, the next she is overbearing.
The next she pours her heart the next she takes it all back and remains silent.
Too many mood swings, too many off brand medicines.
This was the reason that most people would avoid her.
Catching an aliment of her own,
The amount of hurt that she keep to herself without knowing how to release.
Finding various labels to print on her forehead.
Printing sticker on-top of sticker.
Marking her down for quick sale.
Some stickers faded. Others stuck from a different sales reel.
Manifests long forgot about.
Pushed back farther and further back on the shelf.
Negligence from those whom always marked that she was there without actually pulling her forward.
To ensure that she was alright, to knock the dust from her bottle.
To encourage her to move her to the front of the shelf.
She preferred to be alone for this same reason.
Most notably hid in the dark far from the edge of the shelf.
Out of sight out of mind, Content in her own little word.
Where no-one could poke or pry, to make her feel uncomfortable about being herself.
Her lid air tight when in reality all she wanted was to give herself.
Finding a fear of searching hands whom picked over and put others before her.
She'd sit at the back of the shelf where she was perfectly content until the day she could give all of herself.
Not realizing that she pushed those away that truly cared about her in the process.
The only prescription that could heal the sick and remove the ache of weary bones.
A weary heart, more than a handful of reckless thoughts.
She was a beautiful soul in a pharmacy full of sick physicians
From the thousands of lines drawn.
The pastel scribbled and smudged.
Paints graced onto blank spaces.

Why do I do?
No money, no acclaim.
But all the same,
I still do.

Notes strangled from guitars,
or arranged on staves.
Sound shaped to unseen geometry.
Heard by the occasional ears.

Is it all junk?
I'm no too sure
But all the same,
I do more.

Words thought and typed,
wrote and re-written.
Nonsense and sense,
some may have read.

Is there skill,
or sense in my sentences?
Or am I lost in
my own pretences?
Why do I reach out to comfort the whole rest of the world
And have no pity for the little girl that hides in my dark corners.
Why do I extend the hand of empathy to everyone but me.
Why is it I don't find me worthy of the love I give to others.

There is no answer to those painful questions.
No one to ask - no book to read.
I either find a pathway to the sunshine
Or content myself to live in shade.
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