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Time is never ending.
I am never ending.
And yet I end.
My story is a leather-bound book in a forgotten school library that smells like rain long after the clouds have left.
I am small and I am full and I am insignificant.
I am homebound in my poetry and I dream of my night in the woods,
My chapters are stolen each word an ink blot from a pencil, night diving in a landlocked state.
But my narration feels unreliable,
My voices are blurred,
Unable to escape my themes of pessimistic paranoia.
Every paragraph and line I do nothing it grows,
Every minute I lie vegitating, it questions and queries,
Because life is good but where do I start?
Because act one is ending but what now is the plot?
Where does it begin, where does it stop, what is the pacing, where do I start?
I ignore. I think of home underground. I breathe in Arcadia. I return to my island.
I think about my three wishes, what they would be, and I lay down and pray, pray, pray that at least some of it is real.
I grapple, demanding this to be one of the classics, and knowing it was written in absurdism.
I spread my cards. They have been neglected and I am weary.
My mind is not yet clear enough to clear my mind.
I plead to the fae,
To tell me,
To whisper in my ear,
What questions I should be asking?
Where do I start?
I suppose it's
I wrote this with a goal and theme and it was completely taken over by my actual real world problems and feelings, the poem itself is an amalgamation of my vision vs my reality, my wants, my mood boards, my aesthetics, shifted by my conflicts.
Let me tell u a story, about another worry.
It was cold in September,
and it's something you remember.
How a man talked, as he walked.
He had a lost in his eyes,
and a life in disguise.
The man told me to look away,
when he shot me, with a killer flame.
And as that drop of bullet found it's way through my skull,
I heard a flying seagull.
The seagull told me it was all a lie
,,you are dreaming", he said, about your life.
How you give in the deep,
when you walk on a simple street.
,,Walls are closing in on her" , the bird told the man.
,,How can I even hear you, when I know I’m dead?"
Then both of them turned to me.
,,You dear person are not dead,
you're just lost in existence,
when in fact you should be in persistence.
You are alive in any way that's not dead,
but that doesn't make you real,
because you don't know how to feel.
And that's the answer, to your :
,, how come you don't see life's glory,
when it's right there", swore he.
rivy Feb 22
when you stop reading their horoscope
when the things you used to find charming
start making your stomach churn
when the butterflies turn into eye rolls
you know that it's over
you know that it's time to go

when the love that you give is bigger and brighter
than whatever it is that you get in return
when you realize that loving you is a lesson they'll never learn
when you run yourself dry
by watering a lover that will never grow
you know that it's over
you know that it's time to go

when you're more enemies than lovers
when you start sitting across from each other
when the kids become witnesses
of dinner table cold war battles
when those three words
turn into silent screams in the depths of your throat
you know that it's over
you know that it's time to go
Grace Jan 19
I've never known you,
but I've passed you many times.
I envy how easy you make it seem.
I wish you'd notice me.
I -
never mind.
I really don't know what I'm doing anymore.
Max Dec 2020
Stop asking for whom I love
I do not feel that
I only feel numb
Stop trying to upset me when I feel nothing
No clue what you’re trying to do
But it’s something
Scream, cry, beg; whatever
Your punches feel light like feathers
Be angry all you want and sad
I don’t feel anything anymore
Max Dec 2020
I am done,
Trying to keep people in my life is exhausting
Whether they try to stay or don’t
Can’t handle myself, let alone someone else
No I don’t hate you or talk of you
No more sad thoughts about you
Stop thinking about me it’s not worth it
Was I ever here, you won’t know
But it’s better that I just ****** let you go
Max Dec 2020
I haven’t been feeling good.
It’s not because a person or situation though
It’s just me.
So after manic episodes and sobbing loads
I go to the hospital
I go once, twice, three times
By the third I’ve given up and scream for help
But with no such luck
So they give me more meds
Say I’ll be fine
But how am I fine if I’m numb inside?

I write
And then leave
Unfinished portions
Unable to trace back to the thought
Weaving in new
Words sewn together
Unknown the patterns
The words blink
Then stick to each other
As they always do
Trying to make sense to themselves
And whoever reads
The thoughts
Of irregular patterns
In sync with mystery
To the writer and words...
Wherever thoughts and whatever words  :)
Sorry,  had been busy being happy  :))  the last few days
Much to catch up here  :)
Hope you all are doing well  :)
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