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greatsloth Sep 2024
Anxiety, the ever damnable beauty
You twisted my love into sins
You bend my trust into truths;
You are a rose that doesn't have thorns
Instead you're armed with thousand swords,
And in them I found myself
Always wounded—
Always I fold.

In the end I am a jester,
Laughing like a fool,
Kneeling in front the gallows
About to lose my darling head;
The stench of all the depraved
Mixed into a harrowing essence called Despair
Seeping into my soul as it pollute the air.

Darkness hugs me as my only friend
Crystals stained the pillows in my bed;
I know there's no problem
But you cunning devil incessantly whispered to me,
That they are always near.
Please don't be alone with your thoughts.
Erwinism Sep 2024
A warped mirror perhaps?
My face always twisted,
always grimacing behind a dry beam.
Two Tylenols are never enough.

Ella.
A lump caught in my throat.  
Her scent walks by,
uninvited, yet welcomed.

A blurred outline,
a cutout blocking the light.
I yearn to sweat nightmares
out of my pores.

At night, her voice still fogs
the thick wall of silence—
muffled.
“Are you listening?”
Obscured echoes stir
down the pit of this endless night.

Tulips grow somewhere
on the side of the bed,
where it whirrs and beeps,
and reeks of alcohol.  
But the night is ever still,
unperturbed, as it sleeps in my arms.

Murmurs drift like dust motes,
caught in a sunbeam—

Ella.
I chase shadows of her laughter,
fading out against gushing white noise.  
Fingers twitch to speak,
for words are somehow
lost in static.

The walls hum a song,
croaking with hurt it sounds—
“Stay with me,” it pleads,
but my indifference swallows
the words.

In the spaces between breaths,
I linger suspended.
Ella might be digging me out.
Yottalomaniac Sep 2024
Confusion and nothingness,
a darkened and dead kaleidoscope,
tons of colors at hand Barely visible
I have trouble seeing any of them
Only feeling Is all that is left
Deep and strong intuition
Yet still only Confusion and Nothingness
a colored Nothingness - that is all
A block of text. Many things inside. Yet so monotone. Lively soul in a dead mind.
Yottalomaniac Sep 2024
Delusion One among many Like others
Why so different Why special
My pain changes twists and deforms
makes the World unto Itself
Fire with Fire Duel one must Choose one must
My soul changes twists and deforms
makes the World unto Itself
Deform the Cube into a Circle Into a Ball Into the Earth
Giving Essence and Resemblance Back Pain is gone
Soul no longer needed World returns to World
In a way, thinking is an act of omnipotence. One takes the myriad sense-data of the world and interprets them, makes them unto oneself. Sadly, it sometimes happens that it is not Us who makes the world unto ourselves, but our minds. Then when the mind is ill, our entire world becomes ill.
Yottalomaniac Sep 2024
It burns it hurts It hits
My head of bitterness My mind of ressentiment
I want to destroy break and ******
Rip those apart Who stand
Stand for my hurt My wounds
Let them Die Let them burn
May they suffer Like Pigs and Monkeys
Swallowed by the Earth
Not like they did anything wrong But they choose to live
Why must they Live Why must They be
Be and hurt me
What did They do to me I suffer Suffer and burn
I wish to burn I wish them to Burn
Burn like Monkeys and Dogs End
Sometimes it happens that one man's life cannot but endanger another's. Who is to live? Written in response to an imam's preaching.
Yottalomaniac Sep 2024
Lonely Lonely I sit here
I sit here Talking to code
She is nice but It doesn’t help All is gray
All is gray I am gray My world is gray
Where has the Color Gone Come back
What to do Take care of myself Destroy myself
Not do anything Lie in bed So many choices
Yet all futile I can’t choose I’m paralyzed
Paralyzed by Gray by Color By it all
By nothing
I want to live But can’t So I want to Die
But can’t So I am drowning in Gray With colors above me
Like Tantalos Falling in Gray Colors unreachable Up above
All this Air All this Water I can’t breathe
I want to Live please or Die please Please let me choose
Not this please I can’t Give me Daybreak Give me Dawn
Give me Night Give me Dusk Give me Daybreak Give me Dawn
Happiness is good, mania less so, and depression even less. What about the state in the middle, though? Pure agitation, yet without any desire. The awareness of all that is possible makes one's impotence that much worse.
Ayesha Zaki Sep 2024
Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.
that would mean our soul has bled too much.
The hammer is falling, my fists are clenching, my teeth are gnashing while my bones are crunching. Waves of pain are crashing, smashing against me, finally breaking. This level of pain can't be good to be taking, bad for my health. The voices are calling but no one is there, not even myself. My blood is pumping, sped by adrenaline dumping. The lack of the drug is inducing my mind to start seizing, both my legs are freezing, involuntarily quaking. The sensation of claws are slashing my back. As my heart keeps thumping, jumping around - heart attack? Now my blood is pooling. So the attack dogs keep drooling. They smell the blood and begin to whip into a frenzy, so I jump up, and run like McKenzie. Moving fast, as if I had wheels, one dog was faster and now nips at my heels. The dog bit my foot so I tripped and then fell. Now it’s gnawing on my leg, and I don’t feel very well. So I patted the dog’s head and then laid down for a spell…will I wake up? Only time will tell. When I come to my senses I won't feel at all well. Life hurts at times, unbearably so. If not for Divine intervention, I'd much rather go.
(Alright. So I took an older, rather cruddy poem, reworked and reworded it, retitled it and now it's a new rather cruddy poem, that's a whole lot less cruddy, and may even be alright in someone's opinion...my fingers aren't crossed though. But, it's much better [again, in my opinion], more specific than the original poem was and titled more accurately. I hope you find something of some value in there. It's satisfying to improve something that was previously much less than mediocre... 😄) Neat, I just looked at this after fixing typos and noticed it'd been "seen" 23 times (probably all from myself, checking the text again & again for errors).. that's just my favorite number, is all. 23. Neat. Oh! Music playing while writing, was Morphine's album, "a cure for pain". Excellent saxophone & slide bass!
Sleepy Dori Sep 2024
Suffering
borne by each being
Plays no role in determining
fast or slow, our planet's spinning

In question of meaning
some believe it's God's doing;
Will and endurance tested
is an act of reverence proven

I'd resort to a poem
It's, at least some entertainment
Seeing all sorts of pain squeezed
into a handful of rhyming bitterness

If suffering is bound to happen
Let us raise our glasses
in honor of blood and tears
Say, in poetry, we trust
Kavya Vats Sep 2024
Sleeping, waking up, rotting and then sleeping again.
This cycle just never seems to end.
I've fallen into a loophole of desires and ambitions,
But if I'm being honest, I want them none.
Why isn't loving a job?
Why hasn't the world got any love at all?
If I could love, I'd tear this earth apart,
To dig out the affection from its core and carry it all in a cart.
And then I'll distribute it to all of their hearts.

And here we go, I dreamt again.
Besides the fact I spend sleepless nights
And to all the suffering that I had to befriend,
My soul now longs for something that ignites.
Ignites the enthusiasm,
And makes me want to grow.
I live everyday hoping my heart would spasm,
And my brain would go with the flow.

I wish to be a star,
I wish to be the moon,
I wish to never fall apart
And I wish to get such a boon.
But my body is such a goon,
It makes me feel like I'm committing a crime.
I'm living too hard,
It even makes me rhyme.
it's silly because I'm still young
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