Vyscern Jan 30

Smoothing out my imperfections
Lessons learned from past rejections
How can he develop, when it hurt so bad
To reflect upon the times, he fell

And he knows
That he doesn't know where to go
He knows where he's been
Forgiven his sins
Now is time to begin,
Anew

A mistake in progress
An object to forget
Trying to improve
But not done yet

Despite the hate,
A tidal wave
Gasping for air
It's just not the same
Now he must start, again

Rinse and repeat
March in defeat
He's learnt time and again
There's no substitute for the mentor
Called pain

"He", huh.
Dhaara T Jan 10

You've been away, a while
I didn't miss you
You promised to stay
But I didn't kiss you

You held my hand
and my neck too
Hello again, you return every while
Why do you?

After all the lows
You've put me through
You still think you'll win
You have no clue!

I listen to my heart
But to my mind too
I listen to my soul
To ME, not to you

"You're just a voice in my head. You don't control me."...I wish (and hope) everyone fighting depression sees this, understands that there is always a way out. You have the power, even if you don't see it yet, but I hope you do, and soon! <3

He sleeps. An enigma, his life bereft -
He lived then died once his angel had left.
It happened as simply as anything might,
As from day there follows the coming of night.

The poem at the end of my favourite book. Presumably co.mposed by Marius Pontmercy to honour the life of Jean Valjean. One day I hope to translate Les Miserables in full, until then, here's a very small section of it.
Emily Nov 2016

I'm used to being loved and ignored
But I never experienced being hated
Perhaps you receive what you give
Hating someone is out of my league
'Cos I believe respect must live
But then again
No one can escape judgment from other people
And that's (not) okay
People will jugde and hurt you,
Over and over again
You'll be the gist of their fun
Their game made of insecurities,
lack of knowledge,
a bottle of pride,
and an empty box of respect.
          Never give in.
               Let them play their game
                    But never ever play with them.
                          Kill them with silence.
   And by that;
You will always be the victor.

|truth slap.

It's a tale of revolution and dread
Where most characters wind up dead
Some end up insane
Some end up in the Seine
And all of this over some bread

The wind is blowing tirelessly,
Delicate flowers are falling,
Branches are all shaking vigorously,
And I learn something from them,
No matter how hard the wind may blow,
They only move,
They don't change their shapes and colours,
The flowers may fall but at some point they allow the same wind to blow them into the sky and make them fly.
So I learn that hard situations shouldn't change who we are,
We only need to adjust our attitudes,
Struggles are there to make you a victor,
Like the flower being made to fly by what brought it down,
You let your struggles elevate you.

evocatory Sep 2015

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Theodore Bird Feb 2015

Skin as pale as lilies,
     now livid with interrupted bloom.
Bruises as dark as that Irish lake,
     five of them, of a brutish nightshade hue.
Body as limp as the towel they used to rub you warm to no avail,
     dotted over with dirt, your shirt torn through.
Eyes as vacant as the echo in a tomb,
     once blue before, now glazed over with vitreous dew.
Oh Clerval, how I have forsaken you.

(Inspired by my great grandfather)

Capt: Albert Victor Champion RHA

Children of the Somme, men of mud and water
killed by lead and steel, for them no last supper
no last meal. Children of the Somme, consumed
by mud and water, sent in there thousands
to their slaughter.
Nerves that were shattered,breath that was shallow
felled in fields that were lifeless and fallow.
Hearts that were pounding, bodies that trembled
as in the trenches men assembled.
like an order from god they awaited there place,
to go over the top and stare death in the face.
Men of all nations men of all ages; condemned
to there death and the history books pages.

Lest we forget..................... Remember them.

Abigail Shaw Dec 2014

I am science, I am fiction,
Victorian youth, opium addiction,
I am addicted, no rest for the wicked,
I am not what these glorious stories depicted,
I prayed for my mother, I asked for a saviour,
But scarlet’s a varlet and I couldn’t save her,
Faith laughed at my pleading but science was pliable,
Boundaries were broken, I made fact unreliable,
Doctor! Doctor! Blood’s beginning to boil,
As you work by the light of the Tesla coil,
You’re polite, once contrite, not particularly odd,
Now you’re trapped in your lab and you’re playing at God,
You were robbed of a woman, held hands with her breath,
Your disillusion excluded you, so you made life out of death,
And the blood and the murder and the bruises on throats,
And the ghost of a sibling that grasps at my coat,
And I strived for ‘it’s alive’ but that’s a misquote,
It was never alive, that was not what I wrote!
It was pale and abhorrent, thread unraveled it’s head,
It’s lips moved but I knew it was made from parts of the dead,
Graves invaded, made empty, just so it could rise,
My shovels were broken, decriminalised,
My secrets unspoken were hard to ignore,
And it was only myself, since there was no Igor,
And my brother was gone, my father, my wife,
So if you seek to threaten me, be it with life,
Nothing left, I fear no death, in fact I seek it with vigour,
But I am no mad scientist B-List horror movie figure,
I am bigger, I am bloodless, I am the lightening’s whine,
I am all that befalls the name of Frankenstein,
I’m disturbed, I’m depraved, afflicted with my plan,
But above all I am only a conflicted young man,
And I cannot compete with tainted world’s so dark and neat,
So call me Victor as I retreat,
I am the monster I must complete.

Personal favorite poem
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