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Samuel Feb 15
Always assumed to be the villain,
Lingering in the shadows of a crooked path.
Am I misunderstood? Or is it just my destiny—
To be the star of my own one-man show? Isn’t it funny?

The irony is, promises were made.
Friendships did indeed fade.
But I am here, still at the restaurant,
Sitting in the corner I haunt.

A ghost of Christmas past,
Watching time slip through the cracks.
Thinking of the roads I never took,
And the weight of the past on my back.

Is redemption just a wishful dream?
Or a fate already cast?
I sit at the restaurant and I wonder-
When The Prophecy changes at last.
Samuel Feb 7
From afar, I see what looks like paradise—
Is this why I paid the price?
I endured hurricanes, rainstorms, and floods;
Yet nothing, I find, is thicker than blood.

As I approach the garden,
The waterfalls turn black,
Roses wilt,
Bushes burn,
Sand dunes lie unturned.

Still, it draws me—
Like a moth to the flame,
Like a bee to the flower.

I reach for a rose,
To admire its pose,
But scarlet-red blood ****** through my fingers,
Staining my white shirt.

Is this death—or rebirth?
Zelda Jan 13
I'm not a poet
Don't speak the language

Death follows (a lantern-lit, moss-draped carriage)
Offers me a ride (so kind)
But it's not my time (for—for;
give me,
get me)

I'm not a tortured soul
Just trying to be understood

Please? Won't someone save me?
(Where—
oh
where—
am... I?)

I'm just writing on this journey to the end
Jan 13,2025
i feel tortured in winter, the fog  reminds me of good times
when my gray world turned to blue
i feel tortured in autumn, a season spent missing someone
a total love blackout
i feel tortured in summer, a summer meant to be full of love
turned to gray
i feel tortured to see rain, it reminds me of weeping nights
and when i was in pain
a tortured poet and his tortured seasons
a tortured poet forced to be tortured by torturous peoples
because of their torturous sin
a question why did i associated my memories
and made my seasons tortured?
i'm not declaring myself as a tortured poet.
Josie Mar 2024
On world poetry day
I'm a tortured poet
When my ambiguous words
And meanings
Touch your soul
Happy World Poetry Day!!
Jeremy Betts Jan 2021
The only role I ever land is "outcast tortured by the cruelty and pain of his past" I sure didn't choose this path, feels more as though I've been typecast, or maybe I am a *******, holding out for every last ounce of pain before I blast this trader living in my head for the last 30 years off my shoulders, through a window pane, then, just as fast, turn to the vast hole in my chest that once held my heart and press the cold steel to it with the mass of my dread firmly in my grasp, gun fire drowned out by echoing laughs, fulfilling a prophecy of my future while neglecting lessons from my past, the game of life feels less like a game of chance and more like a test that's harder to advance than all the rest and wouldn't you know it, I fell asleep in class and didn't pass, apparently I even tuned out the emergency broadcast. Went and amassed a losing record that'd be impressive if not for the direct contrast the win column presents and the enormous shadow my downfall casts. Harassed by the devil on each shoulder, I thought that maybe once I got older, if I could just stay on task and remain steadfast, I would be able to open a can of whoop a$$ and trespass the evil within this house of glass but alas I must telegraph my every move or they've seen a future telecast because they lambast each strike and I'm not sure I'll outlast these issues, I'm gassed, plus, problems have started showing up in mass from a much higher weight class, they must have bypassed the weigh in process but I've always known who the deck was stacked against, hence why I never win, I only survive and my methods would flabbergast most, the truth finds it's way to the surface and I find myself aghast, crying like I've been teargassed with no gas mask but I've surpassed the point where waterworks will bring forth empathy, gotta own my involvement in the crash, volunteer to take out my own trash and this time I'll throw my pain out with the bath water and be free at last...free at last, free at last, no thanks to god almighty I'll be free at last

©2021
Tony Oquendo Dec 2020
I welcome every day with a facade dancing in the sun while in the shadows little by little my soul dies.

Hi, how are you?  I'm fine.

What a lovely day.

No, please.  Allow me.  I write the most beautiful lies.
Nina May 2020
I spent my entire life
Getting hurt

Being mistreated
Used

Pain?
What's that
I've gotten so used
To all the bruises
To all the bleedings
I've gotten used to the verbal abuse
Emotional pain
And mental effect

Nothing can hurt my anymore
In fact
I've found comfort in pain

So hurt me
Like how people hurt people
Hurt me
It does not matter anymore
I will still hurt myself
At the end of the day
Pain keeps be safe
Pain makes me sane
Winter Sparrow Mar 2020
At night, as the cool breeze starts to kick in.
At night, when only the moon lay above,
When only the leaves are there to bounce off sound,
When only my brain creates the storms we lack in this desert.

I think of Autumn.
That one Autumn that changed it all.
A strange occult sort of feeling.
A sort of divine period, a different worshiping.

The period, when autumn leaves were grey,
Skies were orange, and clouds were starry.
When I worshiped a Muse as a deity.
A period that haunts me at night till thus day.

Like a ghost, taunting me, haunting me.
She visits on most nights, sometimes in a different skin.
Like a chameleon, shifting from one to another.
Different looks, but the same sapphire eyes.

What torture is this? If it is at all torture?
Is this my judgement? My atonement for the wrong I did? If I did any wrong...
My mind lingers to find the hidden message.
To decipher the code that are those kisses at night.
My mind lingers, by my hands write.

In a swift Autumn breeze, out of grey leaves.
Slithers a severed snake from Medusa's head.
One of many to haunt me every night.
A different hiss, a familiar kiss.
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address
by Michael R. Burch

(for the victims and survivors of the Holocaust)

We saw their pictures:
tortured out of our imaginations
like golems.

We could not believe
in their frail extremities
or their gaunt faces,

pallid as our disbelief.
They are not
with us now ...

We have:
huddled them
into the backroomsofconscience,

consigned them
to the ovensofsilence,

buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.

We have
so little left
of them

now
to remind us ...

It was my honor to work with survivors of the Holocaust as we translated their poems and prose accounts into English as a way of preserving them and making them available to larger audiences. Unfortunately, time waits for no one and the Holocaust survivors I worked with are no longer with us. But their words and testimonies remain, if we will only take the time to read and consider them. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, victims, survivors, mass graves, pictures, images, tortured, frail, gaunt, skeletal, emaciated, thin, malnourished, golemic, horror, terror, inhumanity, madness, racism, antisemitism, slave labor, slavery, death camps, concentration camps, gas chambers, ethnic cleansing, genocide, memory, remembrance, memorial, tribute
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