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❝ i am a dead tree
   that kids fill with carvings of 'i hate yous'

   sticky webs of old lies and deception
   clings around my withered branches
   that sit dead and blind my sight

   my roots are watered
   by polluted streams while
   acid rain runs through my veins
   like a fracking well with oily leaks  
   that causes me to choke
   and cough up bad blood

   angry winds pass though me
   and i stand engulfed with stillness
   for i am afraid the slightest of movement
   may cause me my demise

   i remember the days
   when i was but a young tree

   i provided home for the birds
   and shade for the people
   to protect them from the sun's raging heat
   but now i am useless
   and hated
   and left alone

   but lo and behold
   i see my farmer striding towards me
   with an axe in his hands to chop me down

   he delivered blows to my body
   that led me into bits and pieces
   to be thrown in the fire

   i smiled and thought;
   at least i was still of use for warmth
   during the cruelty of cold days

   but as i fell from once my might
   i had glimpsed on a little green
   a sapling growing from the earth
   reaching upon the skies

   in this i had learned
   life and death go hand in hand
   that from ashes unto ashes
   and to dust we must return

   but alas it is not the end
   as for the end signals a new beginning
   and as so does chances of a new life ❞
Kids who get bullied in the alley
In school and kicked out of college
Try making it to a league of good writers
As they learn how to punch the keys and I just bleed on paper
Also, letting out the anger
My dad never drank or smoked
But, he loved me a lot
Maybe, I was a bad kid who never loved anyone before
Because I never was treated well in school
One fine day, I stayed after school
Losing to my friends in a fist-fight
After a few years, I got into psychedelics and misfortune
Kept reading in the meantime
Barely processing all those drugs
Let alone the literature
Soon, I started a career as an underrated writer
Influenced by Hell and it's angels
Talking to myself, and making clouds of thoughts in my head
I thought I wouldn't be the only angel head who would become a poet in this day-and-age of hippies and world leaders
So, I wanted to be an author as I kept writing out my epitaph while figuring out nothing
Quite like India without the politics
I never liked mixing the two
It should just be country and God
I always believed God gave me my folks
I gave myself my life and my mess
It was titled mess.
Meg Thompson Sep 27
Sometimes it burns,
The feeling of your heart when it’s hollow, when there is nothing.
It’s just wood, and it burns so easily.
It leaves you with nothing, just dried up pieces of what was there before.
It aches, and it can never be the same again, ever.
Do you know what it feels like to beg?
Do you know how it feels to be so completely desperate, you’d sell your soul?
You’d give up anything just for a touch.
It’s drugs, it’s flesh, it’s all heart.
That is how it feels, because I’ve felt it.
It damages the deepest, most vulnerable parts of who you are as a person.
It has the power to change you.
It has the power to mold you into something completely different from who you were, and what you started out as.
It changes you, and it is so easy, to.. just let it.
To form a person, as if they were clay it is so easy because I’ve let that happen and it hurts.
But to ache for something, to need it, to crave it.
That hurts too.
KNS Sep 24
I am not tethered
Not yet
Not ever
I exist exclusively outside your gaze
I belong to myself now
You will not keep me here,
In fear and in folly
And I, I will not stay
Though I am weary of what awaits me
No!
Let me rise, now
The strength of my atonement and courage
Will protect me
As I wonder into a page without your expectations of failure.
Yes!
I choose to be free.
I have chosen sobriety for nearly six weeks. This is an ode to myself and everything I am becoming.
Ren Sturgis Sep 22
On the blank pages I
write,
trying to understand why my heart feels so
contrite.
Staring off into the distance,
shutting off thoughts to which I don't want to
listen.
Pain and sorrow etched in so deep
we have become One.
I've always had hope,
but sometimes it feels like I've lost.
Like I've lost Me.
Who is Me? Why is it Me? What do I get from this? Where will it lead? When will it End?
Endless questions.
They're all devoid of answers.
Will someone just hand me a **** lifeline already?
Everytime I feel like I'm drowning.
I am.
I AM DROWNING!
or am I learning to breathe underwater?
Only time will tell.

Time takes too long.
This one has been written by my Soul.
catsmeow Sep 5
The best art I make exists in those that are untainted
Words that are solely mine
To take and to recieve and to make transformations behind

From emotions to feelings, to creation and birth
Takes away my pain, fill my lungs with clouds
And everything else just slowly passing by

It exists in those that are sad, extreme moments
Or happy, delighted smiles
Vague, trance-like quick inception of messages
Visuals that tells stories and memories I keep in mind

It doesn't follow rules
A fish swimming in the bluest blues
Just as vast as the space
I belong nowhere but everywhere else.
Entry from my past self, every day, hour, second, we're constantly changing, and we have the power to change the way we think and how we can also help people widen their perspective in simple words we subtly wire on their minds.

Hold your words responsibly,
Your notes filled with heart and ink,
In shadows casted on daylight scenes,
We change things little by little, in poetry, and actions we make.
I work but I don't feel the money I earn is mine.
Buddy T Aug 24
I leave this work untitled
Like every book on the wall
Like the wall, I hold these works on me
No names, no faces
I look into the mirror
I see no face, no name, no title
Just a book, an unfinished piece of work
No work on this wall is complete
And thus, deserves no name
The untitled works, the poems and novellas
The epics, the short stories, the sagas and chronicles
All unfinished, all untitled

It’s hard to find a piece of writing
When the covers are all the same
All white, all blank, nameless
If I set fire to this room
It would be like nothing had been destroyed at all
They sit on their wall; waiting
I lay on my bed; waiting
Waiting
We are waiting
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