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Cherisse May Oct 27
one less spoonful.
i repeat, and eat less.
one less kilogram.
i repeat, and eat less.

as i look at my own reflection in the mirror,
as if to mock me,
it's all the same;
i am still not enough.

one less craving.
i say, as my stomach grumbles.
one less meal.
i say, as the bile comes rushing in, forcing its way out.

one less spoonful.
i say, as i head to the comfort room after a meal.
one less kilogram.
i say, as i force my fingers into my mouth, expelling the contents of my own stomach.
i need help.
Senti Mental Oct 17
All its weight is on my head

As I lie awake in my bed

Feeling I’d be better off dead

But that’s not what the doctor said



I get the feeling that he lied

To rid my tears and hush my cries

At the end of the day his hands are tied

Would it just be easier if I died?



To float up from the bed I lay on

And travel to whatever’s beyond

One final breath without yearn or long

And all of a sudden the weight is gone.
Old man with his Atacama tongue
dusting off stories of his youth
forty-nine knock outs he spattered out
heavy weight champion travelin' the world
stories of tribes auctioning off slaves
that they couldn't sell
that became that nights meal
pieces in a stew
how it could make a man cry and cry
oiling up trees so the lions
slide right off
tent births and baseball cards
a preacher neighbor who beat a woman
then had his teeth knock out
by the holy word
then points out his bird houses
only to dive deep into something else

"Old man" says I,
"I have to return to work
but next time I will save
your stop for last. There's
an oasis in that head of yours
and I tend to bask in it."
sometimes
I cannot seem to find
what I am looking for
though I hold it in my hands
it has no shape or weight,
so senselessly existing
for reasons
I cannot fathom
whatever I see
I know it is
only half real
the other half
that's missing
is the part that I have yet
to touch, to feel
the hands are the eyes
of existence
translating the language
of a barren universe
we, Her great grandchildren
must be the ****
through which She gives birth
to everything
that we cannot see
Maegan deme Oct 8
it's hard to write when you don't feel.
because then you just throw around words with meaningless weight .
i try to embrace my trace amounts of hate,
but even then.
nothing comes, weird how that most seem.
I'm happy...I think,
well i'm not sad at the least.
so, then, what am I?
or,
what should I feel?
should i be happy because i'm not sad,
or sad because i have to be sad in order to be happy.
or do i need either to feel either?
I just don't know.
or,
i just don't feel
well, i think i became emotionally detached. bets me this is a poetry website not a blog i can complain somewhere else.
Don’t be afraid my darling.

There is no false hope in the tenderness of my touch.
I carry the weight of truth in my words,
and I have no intentions to bring harm to your heart.
Your being is safe with me.
You’re free to conquer your fears and take the leap.
I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.

And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.  

I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.
They ask me a question every day,
They ask me 'Oh darling! How much do you weigh?'
And I answer this question every day,
I wish to tell them,
'I am not made up of flesh and bones,
I do not weigh on scales and stones.
I weigh the love letters never sent,
I weigh my heart I gave on rent,
I weigh all my insecurities,
I weigh Ganga's purities.
I weigh the prayers of my mother.
I weigh the hard work of my father.
I weigh the thirty-two-inch smile I carry and flaunt every day,
I weigh the fears which haunt me every day,
I weigh all the love I have for him,
And I am certain that weighs more than the stories I dream,
I weigh the fairytales I've read,
And I weigh the kindness I've fed.
I weigh my hope,
And I weigh my dreams.
I weigh my faith,
And I weigh my screams.
So I weigh the lightest I could ever be,
And the heaviest you could ever imagine being.'
But then in the end,
I murmur the words '47 kilograms',
A lean and skinny girl is what I am.
Amanda Oct 3
Memory is an anchor
Dragging down my heart
This weight is slowly sinking me
I'm just not ready to part
Sometimes the very thing we are holding onto is what is holding us back
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