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Neissa May 12
I walk the earth with the undying feeling of all my insecurities being engraved into my skin, beaming for everyone to see.

Every encounter with a human being i'm attacked by a deafening melody of inadequacy.

In a crowd my flaws inevitably come out, bounce off of every soul in the room and come back to burn my bones.

I am blinded by the reflection of my distorted self in every pair of eyes i come across.

Self consciousness - unpredictable, untamed, merciless - she shoots out of my brain, makes a trip around the world at the speed of light, comes back to stab me in the chest. Multiple times. I stand no chance.

I'm crippled. I'm vulnerable. I'm retreating behind my fragile little glass wall.

I'm trapped in my own hidy hole again.

I haven't even said "Hello" yet.
old willow May 12
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the lake,
There was a peony.
Amidst a solitary night, bound by sorrow,
I Inquire the peony.
For whom do you shed your petals and leaves,
for whom do you bloom?
old willow May 10
Sitting ashore, I offer my friend a cup of wine,
I ask what place he is headed to.
To my regret, there is no-one to hear.
AstralPotato Mar 23
Moving on isn't about
Taking the pain away
Or making it obsolete
It just becomes bearable
Emmanuella Dec 2019
I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!

I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.

“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!

I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.

I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.

I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.

And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.

Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.

The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.

But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.
Inspired by The character Lillian in Morris Panchy’s play: 7 Stories.
annh Dec 2019
I write the night away in my quiet corner of the universe,
Hoping that my words will reach you;
That you may recognise yourself reflected in their distant glow,
Catch hold of one bright star in the twinkling density of the darkness,
And wish upon it.

‘Solitude gives birth to the original in us,
to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry.’
- Thomas Mann, Death in Venice and Other Tales
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
The solitary beat
of a beating heart

The solitary heart
of a heartless man

The solitary man
of a crowded world

The solitary world
of a ludicrous dream

The solitary dream
of hideous music

The solitary music
of incoherent beats

The solitary beat
of a beating heart
A Beating Heart resonates throughout the vast fields of the universe impacting and being impacted. Consider the impact of one solitary beat.
F A Pacelli Oct 2019
alone at last
a blessing it is
to remove my masks
in solitary bliss
no more acting
and trying to please
just me myself and
my mind at ease
Jon Thenes Jul 2019


I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed


Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out


Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed


Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting


Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity
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