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Jean Oct 2018
I want to write something.
I want to feel the words dripping from my fingers
like they are a faucet of poetry.
I want to feel all the similes and metaphors
run through my veins.
I want to write something.
Composed 10.23.18
someguy Oct 2018
Here in the darkness I lie alone
Letting her raven wings cover my ******,
Her gloomy and dreadful mystery runs through my veins,
As I slowly become one with her.

Time goes by, I’ve already fallen into the abyss,
Immersed with its darkness, my soul has been obliterated by it
Blind, deaf and emotionless, I’m fine with it
Since it’s warm and peaceful inside it, like in mothers’ belly.

But what is this?.. a light?
Haven’t seen it in years, decades of time
It burns my eyes, it kills me,
And though some say light is a savior,
For me it was just a destroyer.
A Oct 2018
1500 seconds after, I tripped over my own boots.
I fell onto the sidewalk and scraped my knee,
a dusty indigo mark.
today i might’ve made a friend;
she asked to share my notes and I gave her the date.
I forced my arm into the closing train doors
because i was taught to fight for what you need.
I let my words flow and ebb and my thoughts consume me,
follow my veins up my pallid legs through my fingertips,
and let them sink me.
because you taught me to journal.
miss u
Sometimes, I wish my soul
Wasn't so sensitive
I extend my exposed hand out
For others to grab
Sometimes, my reach
Is acknowledged and held onto
Other times, it's crushed
With the overwhelming and
Presumptuous weight
Of being a burden and
A disappointment

This pain is very strong
This suffering tugs and
Drags me down
A sinkhole that I don't even
Notice I'm falling through

Until it's too late
Until I feel lightheaded
When my heart beats
In fluttering patterns
Until my chest tightens
And I feel a knot in my throat

It's hard to swallow this air I breathe
For at times, it's so dense and thick
But there's no fog, no illusion
Just allusions to the fact
That I'm tired...
Fatigued...
Exhausted...
A barren tree
A lot of life to give
But an abandoned seed
In my mind
That's what my demons tell me

This is my story of triumph
That I'm still writing
This is my journey
That I'm still fighting.
This poem centers around my anxiety. It's something that I struggle with, and as of recent, I've dove into writing more about it. It definitely helps chip away at the marble every time I shape it into a form of art. A reminder to anyone who struggles with anxiety and depression, that you're not alone, there are ways to cope, and you're loved, always.
You live to be gold -
your blood, veins, nerves, heart, thoughts, deeds -
or just gold-plated.
stopdoopy Mar 2019
Little beads,

Jaded by time.

Bouncing.

Roll on the floor.

The end is here.

Fire Blooming in lungs,

Burning out what once was,

Creating fertile ground for the new.

Flowers weaving through veins,

Bursting through the heart.

Badum Badum Badum.

Excavating the chest,

Tearing through skin.

You see me there,

Rotting on a cracked floor,

Moss seeping through;

Long forgotten.

A smile on my face,

"Thank you for coming"
inspired by some fire ecology and, as always, personal feelings.
cozyjune Sep 2018
electric birds paint trails of color over my head
as i lift my freckle stained face to the blanketed sky
I'm drawn to an addictive presence on the stage before me
my heartbeat drowns out the sounds
surrounding me pulsing through my veins
suddenly we are all on fire
i drop my jacket to the floor
can anyone else feel this?
is anyone else burning?

his ******* lips are against my neck and his nails are digging into the small of my back and every dream i have ever had turns into the color of his eyes

can no one else feel this?
im blind to everything but the forbidden fruits dangling from his heart
his one single glance wraps around my throat like a snake suffocating its prey
i don't know if it was the acid or the *******
but that beaten up boy
******
my
soul
to
hell
i am burned.
Pyrrha Sep 2018
My poems of love are empty I feel
Because I haven't met someone to fill them
So to whomever may be in my future
Though they aren't about you now, they will be
I desperately desire a day when my poetry feels real
And no longer appear as letters dressed up to look pretty
One day I hope they are filled with something warm
As if my love for you will flow through them like veins
And jump-start the heart of all my passion stored and saved for you
Isabella Sep 2018
Wan flesh stretched thinly
Against brittle bones,
The flower of youth much
Wilted by the bitter moans
Of winter winds and
Snows, and such;
She traipses through so dimly.

The surface so ghost-like—
Sickly, pale, anemic—
Though she makes the Madness
Seem so vivid, so scenic
Against drab backroads,
Gray towns, and the sadness
That longs, aches, to strike.

And I wonder what are
Those cracks in her skin,
Violet line-art patterned on
The wan flesh stretched thin;
They creep up to her eyes and
Within moments are gone
By a blink, a single star.

Her fingers are shaking
When she tries to speak,
Like spiders spinning nervously
A web that must be solid, not weak,
To carry the weight of several—
Thus, they weave it fervidly
In a manner quite breathtaking.
I feel as though this is incomplete...
Kora Sani Aug 2018
i always said
i'd die young
i wouldn’t make it
past 40
was that my depression talking
even at age 12
i had that feeling
running through my veins
it just didn’t have a name yet
it's starting
to make sense
now
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