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Kitt 1d
Sometimes, such as on days like today
I sit and I mourn for my long-forgotten faith
I miss the certainty of a Most Divine Plan
Those self-assured speeches of a holy man
Assurances he speaks for the Ordained Track
Promises of a Supreme Being who's got my back
On these days when I wish, reminisce and long
I can't help but wonder where it all went so wrong

It's not that I Believe that There Is No God
Or even that I am unsure whether to believe or not
I don't bother questioning if god is real
For there is a bigger issue at play, I feel
When I became faithless, it was just in HIS eyes
"Faithless" I am not; there's just so much to surmise

I have Faith that the sun will warm each new day
I have Faith that these heavy clouds will give rain
I have Faith in the ground solid on which I stand
I have faith; just not Faith in the Words of a Man

See, I have come to accept that I soon will die
More surely, in fact, than the sun that may rise
Any day that sun may not appear
That day of darkness that we so fear
I accept that any moment May advent my end
I accept that there May be a sunrise just round the bend

With my flawed, weak powers of human perception
Dependent as they are on my senses' inception
I cannot Know a god, not many nor One
Just as I cannot Know that tomorrow will come

Maybe it will, and maybe there is
after all,
But truly--
who among us can Know anything
at all?
Lately I’ve felt as though every little sound and feeling and smell and sight is grating at my nerves and chipping away at my sanity.

My clothes feel constricting and too loose and scratchy and smooth and not right

My ears are full of constant ticking and ringing and noise

My skin wraps my frame too tightly and I want to rip it apart and off of me but then I’d be cold and miserable

It’s all too much and everything is loud and jarring and I feel frenzied and too stuck and not stuck enough and all I want to do is jump in front of a van because then everything would
Blessed and sought-after and evasively, quiet.
Sensory overload *****.
Fianna Beth Jun 8
words swirl in my head
and dance between the lines

antsy hands tingle

I know the way out
but I want the way through
lillia Jun 6
listless, tongue twist
the litany of love, call and response till death do us
standing on a street corner in his head,
'c'mon baby', rubbing legs like a cricket,
recalling playful jabs as he carefully tears them apart-

again and again and again.
the clip- clop of a police horse is the soundtrack to a rapture
hand slips against the condensation,
the thrill of fire and ice, cold burns
the moon reflects in his eyes, lunar purity
in a puddle of stale water.
Katie Jan 3
I'm suffocating
Isolated from nature
Cut off from freedom
madison curran Aug 2021
when I say last year I hit an all time low,
I mean that I spent two hundred and eighty nine days without sunlight,
I’ve never known a rose to grow immersed in eternal night -
auctioned off my heart for the gift of sight,
I wonder how long I’ve lived my life blinded by the rose tinted glass?
false love will have you struggling to distinguish between gold and brass.
I draw out the sequence.
your palms met her flesh,
my reflection in the mirror is reduced to ash.
I feel my heart hit the floor,
blood stains in the carpet - proof that love does not live here anymore
next time just wrap them around my neck,
I get the same hand of cards
out of every single deck.
from love,
suffocating, choking,
that is the only sensation I have come to expect,
you know that better than me,
extinguished every fire set to your trees,
don’t you remember?
she left everything around you to burn,
choked on all the smoke,
still you fixated on all the ember,
if this body was ever not hollow,
I wouldn’t remember.
two hundred and eighty nine days,
I spent treading in the shallow,
moulded my existence out of clay just to fill another persons shadow.
don’t cheat, walk away. </3
Kitten Yvad Mar 2021
this blue
cloud sheep squish
and right by my face

like baked goods
and i wonder as
my anxiety rolls over
me in waves

why does the
cloud sheep squish
smell like this?

like the acacia bakery
under my window
it hints at baclavas

the warm ever ambiance fights  back against the cold blue air,
which is heavy,
baby, rolls with
waiting water steam;
baked good steam
like fresh laundry
freshly baked laundry dreams

i touch it by my face
i know its there
use as a face pillow
not to wonder what
its saccharine insides

i fall asleep anxiety
faint idea of
fresh baked pastry scent
blue cloud sheep squish
and peppermint
Andrew Rueter Feb 2021
When the cold rain enters
it makes me remember
lifetimes of past Decembers
and their nasty embers.
Each drop a designer
momentary reminder
of a recreational resigner's
unchecked timer.
I am not reborn
in the rain's misty scorn
I see Satan's horns
in rain clouds formed.

Sensory recall
makes me fall
into the needle
of a lifestyle fetal
crying for my mommy
of a ****** haunting
my past life is flaunting
through raindrops upon me
their ripples are bombing
my mentality modeling
of the unguarded godly.

in descent
in cement
mixed with saline
so I may dream
maiming Maybelline
makes me made to scream
drowning in memory
separating what's ahead of me
with the possible death of me
after a moment of leveling
water brings devil's wings.

I guess I'm like this forever
mainlined or severed
would've been much better
than stuck in the nether
between order and chaos
mortars of raindrops
show where my aim lost
and the insane cost
of the water in the syringe
raining into my veins
so I cry and I cringe
when it rains all the same.
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