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Carolina Aug 2020
Depression isn’t always crying
Depression isn’t always suicidal tendencies
Depression isn’t always sad music
Depression isn’t always black clothes
Depression isn’t always sleeping
Depression isn’t always over eating

Depression is sometimes built up laundry
Depression is sometimes fake smiles
Depression is sometimes forced laughter
Depression is sometimes ***** dishes
Depression is sometimes that little extra make
Depression is sometimes the little black dress
Depression is sometimes an overflowing trash can

Depression is sometimes in places you’d never guess it to be.
Toxic yeti Dec 2018
I am shunned
Because of my
I can’t help it.

I am a lepersy patient
When it
Comes to finding love
No one wants me.
Because I am scary
I can’t help it.

I am told
I am ugly because
Of ethnicity
I can’t help it.

I am an out cast
Because of
My intelligence
And knowledge
I can’t help it.

I am evil
Of my
Mental illness
I am not evil
I can’t help it.
Jaron Chandler Jun 2018
I never understood why theres a code in masculinity
A title shrouded by a defining stigma
That one mustn't break down to a weak mold of vulnerability
As if we aren't allowed to feel or express what hurts us

I try to hold back the tides
theres a finite point to how much I can take
The flood is building, higher it will rise
Until the waves crash over as my sea wall breaks

It will be rebuilt, taller and more fortified
But the waters will find a way inside
They flow harder and with rage intensified
All because of this world where my feeling are forced to hide
Wilhelmina Feb 2016
Forget everything you've heard about *******.
It is not pathetic. It is not *****. It does exist for women.
It is not replacing an absence of ****** fulfillment.

Concept: we all posses the power to be our own ****** fulfillment.

Yes, you posses magic that can send lighting across your trembling skin. Your hand needs no navigational assistance; it moves with the wholesome earth of your body, the rolls and valleys of flesh, all while following networks of crackling nerves and goosebumps.

Feel your heart beating in your chest!
Feel your ***** thrum with life and vitality,

Your digits are like brushes, learning the canvas they paint.  The wet paint dripping down your leg is a sure sign of a masterpiece on the horizon.

The spread of the sky, like the spread of your legs, is vast, and not completely known. Your fingers are long skeleton keys, keen to unlocking your own passionate ****** and sweeping pleasure.

That majesty and mystery of what dwells in the valley of your thighs, the mouth of your womb, will draw many to the mountain silhouettes of your bent legs.

Of course, the keys that best fit will always swing from your keychain.

There is no shame in knowing the bounty of your own body,
the same way that no one blames volcanologists for
the study of hot, flowing earth.

We are privileged to explore our own unique topography, memorizing maps of our rises and falls, creating a seismic shift beneath our skin, and letting loose pent up pleasure and pressure and sensation.

It is our own divine action. We are gods of our own earthly bodies.
if this poem made you uncomfortable, that only proves my point
cyanide skies Jun 2015
I tried to talk to caterpillars once
and when they didn’t talk back I thought
there was something wrong with me
but when they finally replied I
there was something wrong with me
and maybe I tried to fix it
or maybe I didn’t
either way,
the fuzzy caterpillar voices
never stopped
and I tried my hardest
to avoid the tomato plants
skirting around them
in the garden of my thoughts
but there’s poison ivy around the edges
and I’m sick of the rashes
of losing it all to a half-bloomed rose
to the promise of growth
and the reality of a frozen season
of leaves being eaten
by the caterpillars
when I could’ve told them to stop.

— The End —