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Jeremy Betts Jan 13
They tell me, they promise me, I'm not alone
But I can only go by what I've always been shown
Unwanted, undesirable, freek show, just a small sample of all I've known
I wish my inner abuser would adapt another tone
I don't own my own thoughts, any positive feeling is only on loan

People act like I hone in on this curse to be worthless
Like I thirst to be anxious
Like I have to coerce this anger and bitterness
Like I enjoy being immersed in the hopeless
Like my first thought is the worst on purpose
Like I enjoy all my deep rooted issues constantly rising to the surface

Then comes the question that brings me back to reality
"What are you doing to get control of this? Not enough certainly"
Honestly that's another cog in the circle mosh pit of misery, part of the continuity
I'd give anything for it to be as easy as everyone claims it should be

Because what most people see from me is rehearsed
My final diagnosis can not be reversed
The totality of my issues couldn't possibly be unearthed
But that doesn't change the horrible landscape I've traversed
I wouldn't be able to tell you what I'm worth, all I know is...
...I am this, for what it's worth

When the ****
hits the fan,
the things I want to hear
and the things I need to hear
are rarely the same thing.

It’s usually the hard truth
that I remember most
in the wee hours,
when anxiety swirls
around my head

When the time finally comes
to exit the whirlpool
the words that my heart
knows are true,
are the words
that fuel the change.
Like the song I was singing with soul, for years before I lived it, before I had the experience for it to really make sense. Like my mother’s wisdom that I didn’t want to hear, but it rang in my ears after the outcome of my foolishness is fulfilled. Will I always learn the hard way?
marshay lewis Sep 2023
Where are the ants trying to go?

The ones littering my bedroom floor

Skittering in crevices unwanted

Finding their way to my skin

What do they want with the scars and marks

Sinew and dirt tainting the surface

Unfit for habitation

Nowhere to go

Nowhere to cling to

To sink and burrow and build

My body is not a home for you

Any more than it is a home for me

Your little bodies traverse the surface

Like hands and fingers never have

I itch with your touch

Sting with your bite

And you choose to stay

In a way no one ever has



i have asked but
it remains unclear
if it was planted
by somebody
for some reason
unknown to the rest
or merely discarded
within a pile of
offcuts and waste
following a frenzy
of gardening chores
regardless of
whether it was
intended or not
it has taken root
it has bloomed
bright and proud
brilliant cherry red
against dandelion yellow
and uncut-grass green
one solitary red tulip
amongst the weeds
Lo Feb 2023
I feel like the chips
left at the bottom of the bag.
Too much to throw out
but too little to be
the first choice
next time you get hungry.

Waiting there in the pantry
until you get
a strong enough craving
to finish them off.

The longer you leave them
the more stale they get.
You reach down only to find
a shell of what they used to be.
birdy Aug 2022
Around every poorly lit street
the ones with cracks in the road
and coin beggars in the shadows
you will find my unwanted poster
a picture with clarity through time
from child to adolescent
the poster remains scattered
throughout this ****** city
a poem about feeling unwanted your whole life
Nylee May 2022
I feel like I am a rodent
for you, kind of a pest.
Not welcome but stuck,
Not my home, but make do
with what I want.
You hate the sight of me
don't want to fight me.
You feel I am drinking
the life out of you.
But soon you plan to
get rid of me, permanently
plotting to execute,
the plan to precision
leave me out in the cold
not to be your problem anymore.
Eyithen Apr 2022
Why do we distort beauty?
Beauty can be power, but it can also be a burden
I never understood, but now I do

When we are not bestowed with it,
We cage it by any and all means possible
We mock those who lack it and hate those who have it

Green monsters rise in us
We blur the pure with cold blacks and angry reds
We blame them while we try to be them
I suppose jealousy is a fickle thing

In the stories of old, they say one is blessed with beauty
To gain the admirable attention of others,
How it must feel to be dotted on

But then comes the curse
Of having too much attention
Of getting the wrong attention
Of being objectified and not respected
Of being catcalled in the streets and attempting to ignore crass comments and rude remarks.

Like the attention
Don't like the attention
To be called beautiful is such a nice thing
Until it's not.
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