Remember this,
but I can't be sure,
if I spoke to him or not,
if I left my door unlocked,
if I lost my books upstairs,
if I started what I needed,
if I even brushed my hair
because my mind refuses stimulus
and all I know is that it clears,
everything from my memories
leaving me in a haze, protecting me from something,
experiences I can't remember why I fear,
making it harder to rationalize my emotions,
as if I needed more paranoia
if I could remember
what he said to me,
when I closed myself off,
when I left my guard down,
when I began noticing these trends,
when I stopped caring if I was okay,
and all I know is nothing
from what stings,
leaving me all alone in a horrible fright
of thoughts I can't resurface.

rip me, gotta love when you actually cannot remember events and then go into this spiral of doubting any of your emotions having validity because you ACTUALLY CAN'T REMEMBER ANYTHING- I woke up from a nap the other day and couldn't remember anything I did that day at all, nothing, not even if I had gone to class or ate

Warm color palettes can't cover up a cold palette heart.

Had this as a skype status for a while, liked it a lot.

I've got to hand it to you,
the curvature of your palms
are so impeccable,
that they easily slip into
the palm of another,
with skin smooth or roughed
by work, and yet even those fingertips,
slender, stubby, even some missing or bent,
can delicately intertwine
as if all gestures could be made together
and your skin and fingerprints could merge
with each touch like a puzzle piece
offered in twos,
designed to craft and to hold on

Original prompt said to write about a body part so I chose hands. Let this poem lighten up the place since I'm spamming my feed rn.

I have squandered so much energy
hoping to understand you,
that I regretfully left none for myself,
and anything learned is naught;
next time leave me a blank letter
since that gives more substance
than simply walking away.

Tired man, so tired. Nothing makes sense.
Lee 1d

Picture this: a buzzing room,
its white walls and ceilings
dancing faintly against
your dripping lips.
We call this emptiness
like the love we refuse
to talk about—
we call this history
like the bodies we refrain
from holding with tenderness
and gentle sighs.

I imagine you
like ripples in the water.
I've told you once
and a thousand times
that I envy the water
the way I am angry at the honey
you lick from your fingers.

I keep bleeding for the wars
we never finish.
I keep breathing for the life
we never dreamed.
Here, take my heart
(or what was left of it)
and turn it to dusts.
Maybe in another life, it will
skip and spin like stars.

Maybe in another life,
it will be the silence you succumb to.

Rhyming verse is a woman scorned
to whom lip service must be paid.
Set free from meter, unadorned
Her lyric fury waits, delayed
as she rambles on in a free verse swoon,
oblivious to whoever's listening,
babbling to the crescent moon
illuminated, horned and glistening,
bathing her deluded mind
in lunar metaphors of doom.
Do not provoke her—treat her kind
and let her pass to a padded room
or an attic space beneath the eves
where she can rant and find release;
until her frenzied soul believes
that words have meaning...
                              and rests in peace.

NaPoWriMo #21

Just want you to know:
Gender is given by God
So don't mess with it.
Nora 4d

We cannot maintain
Twenty years of change
Hoping things still might
Be the same, even when
You and I well know how
Far apart we’ve grown

We cannot pretend
That our love didn’t end
When I ran off without
Goodbye, wanting nothing
But for you to thrive even
If I struggled to survive

I cannot return
To what we once were
Ill suited from the start
Older man and the young
Bright lass, the dame
Who stole his heart

insp. by goodbye, my fancy (1951)

The steam was heavy
My hands in my drenched hair
Her tearful speech beyond the shower
The blood-soaked kleenex on the floor

I forgot to take my meds
I was a decanter
Full of bottom-shelf spirit
Vacillating on the edge of a table

Her shaking midnight voice
Dropped like hot water
Against the hyacinth curtain
When she told me to get fucked

In this world of socialness and social media there can only be one God. And he does not share, comment, like or retweet.


Written a long time ago in a fit of honest rage.


Well... Not really rage. Call it annoyance at how things are.
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