Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
K Apr 27
if you were to call me today
and asked me to stay
i'd be on the first flight home yesterday.

when my friends ask me why
i tell them i had to try
even if it was the hardest goodbye.

i wonder if you have any regrets
if there are things you wish we said
personally, i wish i caught on sooner
and i wish that knot didn't come undone.

and when i woke up, alone, neck bruised
breathing shallow, police at the door,
all i wanted was I'm Sorry

an explanation that actually made sense

I wanted you to see me.
no one will see this until it's too late
how will you react when you find out i'm gone ?
Countdowns have always seemed bittersweet to me..
The steady ticking away of time
The trickle of sand through the hourglass.
The fading of connections not curated.

I’ve always been morbidly aware of my own doomsday clock,
Slowly beating, decreasing, releasing my
Seconds into the atmosphere around me,
As I wait, sometimes impatiently, for it to hit zero.

Some days, I hope for my hourglass to run dry,
And while I know that that isn’t a healthy mindset,
Some days it is all that I can do to not hurry it along.

Not to take that revolver in my dad’s lockbox,
Not to take those pills in the medicine cabinet,
Not to take that rope and the one wobbly stool
that has sat at our bar for the past five years…

Just beckoning me.
Just wanting me to take that final step
into sweet, sweet oblivion.

If I do take that final step..
Who would be there to pick up the pieces for them?
To clean up the mess that this disgusting body left behind?

Who would be there to finish my paintings,
To sing my unsung list that is ever-expanding,
To write these words that have seemed so forced these past months?

Who would be there for them, when I could not be?
Someone, I am sure, but I have been told that I am irreplaceable,
And while I may not believe that,
I am scared of leaving a mess behind
That my mother cannot bring herself to clean up.

I am scared of leaving behind a mess that would irrevocably break my father,
A mess that would torment my brothers,
A mess that my sisters would never even remember.

And maybe..
Maybe I am scared of the call of oblivion..
Or scared of the unknowingness of it all, rather.

Or perhaps I am tired of thinking
of myself as a mess to be cleaned up,
Nothing more, and nothing less.

And maybe
That is all I need
To survive one more day.
I haven't been as active as I used to be.. Life gets tiring after awhile.
Bipolar Poet Nov 2022
behind dark humour
behind a confident fake smile
behind a humble demeanour
behind growls and random sighs

behind seemingly a character's eager
behind lonely quick responses to one you like
behind oversized clothes over scars on your figure
behind acting like you can walk on a thin wire

behind jokes of saying you're much bigger
behind pretending you're not waking up tired
behind thoughts of shooting shots on a tiny trigger
behind explaining dreams of burning passion—fired

behind a simping hero, playing self villain's vigor
behind seasonal seasoning of a season to cry
behind truthful scripture, and thoughts of a sinner
                                  suicide lurks behind a mind
soft Sep 2022
Isn’t it kind of funny how poetry comes easiest to us the closer we are to death. When everything else is a struggle, the words just seem to flow.
Anggita Aug 2022
I appeared that one random day some years ago when the stars were galloping.

since then each step I take picturesque the clip I've been rolling.

I remember that day when mom told me that to live was to encounter a blessing and struggling was the way we inherit a trophy for generations that lived.

I was deceived by the unrealistic heroism of many martyrs who died before me.

in fact, the spotlights were not meant for me as I expected. fate put me far removed from any truth I’ve worshiped.

some days I move in urge and fly very high. I heal my wounds and forgive people who randomly get me to taunt.

some days I scream without words and get drowned in my own nightmares. I drop death thinking of any chance to collect my own mythical strikes.

after all, I still reopen my eyes to a bizarre sight; I wonder if it is the answer to all the prayers I've murmured in my solemn nights

or perhaps it is just the doom I've been daydreaming about all the time.

of the truths spoken and the marks of my barefoot steps, I pledge for an eternal gaiety. And a place of my own kind.
Filomena Aug 2022
The solution:
I want my tukey fried.

The evolution:
I think I almost tried.

The conclusion:
I guess I haven't died.

From confusion
To inclusion
With those to whom I'm tied.
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 41.
jǫrð Jul 2022
I felt the light die in my womb
& I wanted him more than I wanted you

Bled out on my side of the bed
Whilst you laid down your languorous head

You turned to me once, crying out and said,
"Stop" and at once I did.
The History: I wanted my baby. I wanted to be able to rely on you but you left me alone in every way.
hiraeth Jul 2022
answers to the question
i was never asked

yes, my brain is on fire
it burns at a million degrees
all those mistakes
that I’m made of
are slowly breaking free
like pompeji
i‘m buried underneath
the ashes suffocate me, still,
even if no one else can see
Bipolar Poet Jun 2022
Felt suicidal on the wrong side of suicide,
not wanting to die; but so uncomfortable
being alive. Wearing this human flesh,
I've slept with so many with my eyes peering
it's imaginations of all desires under a dress.
Lustful thoughts always left me so **** depressed.


Likewise with liking a girl, never taught
how to truly love. Never focused on the looming
dark backgrounds; as my eyes focused on stars.
I'd shoot them down, with the same gun to **** myself,
wishing it doesn't jam this time. Look closely;
to the burn marks of my tongue, not being just bite scars.


I once put a knife to my chest at ten years old,
"I can take my life at any given," telling myself
casually in bold. Must of been an angel holding that
knife back; before my body went cold.


In my teen years; these crazy headaches and
mixing pain killers for the numbing pleasure,
Thinking if I never woke up, it would ease
the echoing ringing of my head's pressure.
I felt the reasoning of being; being alive, being
strong, being present; getting lesser and lesser.


Wanting to drive at 120km/h off the road,
either crashing into a wall, or doing a couple rolls,
Losing my vision while driving, or losing the car's
controls. Or bashing into one of the streetlight poles.


If maybe the roof fell over my head where I lay,
crossing with an armed thief on an unlucky day,
A drunk driver speeding my way, or a brain
cancer to leave my mind to decay.


I've just changed that statement nowadays to:

Next page