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Scarlet Niamh Jan 2017
The bite of your words in my ear, the touch
of your thoughts as they patter like specks of
rain on my skin, the feelings I have for
you, this undeniable and uncontrollable
attraction... they make my eyes glisten with
happiness and my stomach fill with nausea.
I cannot tell if this sickness that you
give me is just fear or if it is the
knowledge of an illusion that my heart
is presenting to everyone. Even to myself.
~~ You scare me because what if none of this is real at all? ~~
I close my eyes
Forgot my mind
Or similar kind
Eaten by flies
I'm all alone
She is sick
Burning the wick
Speaks in groans
She can't breathe
She can't move
Please improve
What's underneath
Bloodied vile
Pills are lies
Make you die
I need a smile
Not alone
Please no
Feeling low
Empty phone
No one gets it
The sorrow
Covered in yarrow
Eyes filled in grit
Poisons my mind
You are gone
Blackened dawn
Wish it was my time
Give you air
Take my strength
Your heart sank
I will make it fair
My time yours
As I depart
Owner of heart
Don't fight any wars
I hope she gets better
Schuy Dec 2016
Sticks and stones may break her bones
But words will give her doubt
When she stands in front of the mirror,
Wishing her stomach didn't poke out
Sticks and stones may break her bones
But words will give her doubt
When she goes to the gym
And tries working out
Sticks and stones may break her bones
But words will give her doubt
As she begins to stop eating,
And days later, blacks out


Don't play with fire is good advice, they knew
So they played with words
Thought it was okay
Obviously, they had not looked from her point of view
This happens way too often, and it's not okay. Help stop this by standing up for those getting bullied and show kindness.
Schuy Dec 2016
He captured an adventure
And never purchased the idea of
Letting this rose go
Every delicious inch captivating
From cranberry lips
To cranberry toes

He longed for her wild
Wanted to explore the depths of her heart's garden
But alas, he had a lack of key
As time progressed
He moved his home into her heart
Their love always purer than you and me

They fought daily
Somehow making it sound like music
Their tone never led to a falling out
But, their love provided sickness
Dark disease struck
Cancer, the only thing that gave Cranberry lips doubt

Cranberry lips, what a beautiful sight
Too bad it ended with Cranberry lips
Cold as snow, a colorless white

He moved out of her heart
Remembered cranberry kisses
Wished to follow her path, be together but dead
Remembered cranberry kisses
Pulled the trigger of the gun situated beside his head

Cutting his life short, his blood spilled

Cranberry red
We had to write a poem for school that used words from Carl Nelson's 'The Heartiest of Season's Greetings.' It had to be at least two stanzas long, have a minimum of five lines per stanza, and each line had to have at least one meaningful word/phrase from Nelson's in it. The     words in the poem that are bold are the meaningful words/phrases. I think the end result is pretty good. :)
Ella Gwen Nov 2016
I've seen pictures of your old girlfriend
on the laptop you let me borrow, I was
snooping, looking for something to accuse
you of. You told me they had all been deleted
(I hadn't asked) you told me everything
was gone.

I've read messages, happy, hinted, flirtatious
coy poetry played between two parts which
haven't been officially scripted.

"It's weird between us now, isn't it?"
berated friendship, bartered love offered
in the gaps which remain unspoken
yet.

He does not speak of her
anymore. I have not asked.

Was it, unsolicited? Or does she tickle
your decadent fancy; you do the honourable
thing now and flirt with her
behind her fiances back.

Each trial has been blond and I fail
at not hating every single golden glinted thief
who stole something before it was even mine
to take.

You rise and I darken; I smile sticking needles
in your misadvised tongue. Still, these words burn
sweeter than those in my head.

Something whispers about that girl
who just walked past. Inside my crypt
things do not look good for me.
sura Nov 2016
I don't have a medical sickness.
I just want to throw up at your face.
I just want to **** the lead out of a thermometer to poison my vital organs slowly.
I just want to crack my head open to see if it's hollow or not; to see how millions of bland thoughts made its way inside my skull.
I just want to scream at your ears
As if I'm being cauterized... Or amputated... Or flayed by a demented surgeon-
As if strapped on a rusty hospital bed,
In a grimy and abandoned hospital building...

I just want to look at my blood sample under the microscope
to make sure it's not crawling with little red demons.
I just want to throw this bowl of hot soup at your paper-gowned skin when you come to check on me...
If I'm still worth reviving,
Or if I'm still worth killing,
Or if I'm still even worth gazing at.

I just want to lie in bed all day-
Feeling like a boiled carrot;
Feeling like a wet dog drooling away under the merciless sun;
Or a creature with no bones.
Feeling like a wilted flower, lost of all its glory...

I just want to stuff my mouth with so many pills and prescriptions,
And pretend to like the idea of dying, self-induced.
I just want to sweat this fever out.

I'm so sick of myself.
A poem I made last year.
vea vents Nov 2016
I’ve been treating myself like there is something very wrong with me, particularly my emotions. Every emotion I get (most often, my “negative” ones), I’ve been monitoring and trying to control, when all I simply needed to do was to allow for their expression and not do anything. For a long, long time I’ve considered myself to be someone ill and in need of healing; what a difference a label makes. To be “ill”, in essence requires that someone “do” something to fix themselves as a “problem”. The very nature of thinking yourself “ill” promotes action and effort. I’m glad I don’t go to a dr, can you imagine how many other disorders and syndromes I would have to “fight” and contend with.

A lot of the time when someone gets traumatised, or undergoes some sort of negative event, they always look to the happy part of themselves as the “real” them, or at least the part of them deemed to be acceptable enough to be “real”. They lament losing the “real” them. But who are people really? Are they only who they are when they’re happy? Does the extent of one’s being only pertain to their happiness? What if a part of me is in despair, what if a part of me is in intense fear and anxiety — aren’t these parts of me also real and equally valid as happiness? Particularly if they’re perfectly natural reactions to intense suffering and pain. These parts of me scream for catharsis after having been invalidated for a long time and instead of allowing them, I've condemned myself as being ill for feeling them. This is why society is in part sick; repression is healthy and expression is deemed ill. We drug away “negative” emotions for fear we are somehow damaged for harbouring them.

From now on, I am no longer “ill” — what a difference such a perception makes in how you treat yourself. Whatever you do is acceptable, whatever you do is allowed and expression is an inevitability. My intense sadness is not a problem, my intense pain is not a problem, my intense fear is not a problem — do you know how freeing such an attitude towards self is?
Josie Oct 2016
The sound of divorce is resounding
It makes my ears bleed
The fact that you would do this to me is astounding
And still my ears bleed
The sound of divorce is intolerable
It makes me feel sick
You've made me extremely vulnerable
And the sickness grows.
This is for a class project.
C J Baxter Oct 2016
Benzo, blur my mornings and bury my feelings.
Beat down my misery and banish my ecstasy.
Steal my sweetness and turn my stillness sour.
Spit out a new me, and the old me, devour.
You stick in my throat like a longing to say
something I had too soon, too easily forgotten.
Trapped and helpless at the tip of my tongue
is each little thought and each one turns rotten.
Now all my worries wash grey and bore me asleep,
as time stops his march and slows to a creep
that claws through my head, and the worries unsaid
are left to fester in a foul and filthy old heap.  
Though they may reek like flesh on a dying fire,
I could take them or leave them just where they are.
I have no heat, no bold and burning desire
to do anything but nothing, and, so, to nothing I retire.  
Leave me be beeping alarm that screams like a maniac
so desperate to jump to his next brewing thought.
Leave me be roaring traffic, so equally manic,
leave me here in my head to lose this loose plot.
Medication. The third day without meds
Last Arpeggios Oct 2016
It’s the season of sickness.
The ruminant roars,
disarms me with hunger,
Feeds me

poison, contagious
violence; ****** of my
Control, spiller of
my Secret:

‘I am gross.’
Bathroom lights stare at me,
Toilet flushes betray my ears.
Only Courage,

Hanging on
the edge of a lash, leaking
with every pause of breath,
can save me.
written October 2016
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