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Words
are like
w o u n d s
that
never heal:
impactful,
deep and
something
you never
forget
- SkullsNBones
View more poems on my instagram
www.instagram.com/SkullsNB0nes
Scars are the evidence that wounds can be healed...

but scars are also a reminder of how those wounds got there...
Scars... Beautifully sewen so we can move on...

In the damp morning streets of my mind
a smell of words so foul
phrases that bind
and forever hidden underneath a dark cowl

Walking neath a hollow sky
a living, breathing, stone-cold vaul
as a lovely darkness constantly spills over my mind's eye
but never reaching thy heart, this empty hall

Words luminous like stars
reflecting on the sea below my feet
my mirrored self gripping onto bars
this is where truth and make-believe meet

I ask the Great Ones to give me the wounds
I ask for those that I deserve
Waited to bleed for many moons
this body is eager and so is every nerve

I cannot live another day
living of the starlit night
hiding my sole purpose away
this fragile human shell, my endless fright

Is this my Anathema?
I feel endlessly accursed
This mind's life is nothing but a phantasma
and it seems nothing can collect what has once been dispersed

Am I not dead yet?
Is this not dying?
I was not hit but still I bled
Why have you taught me how to be death-defying?

Blinded by what is illuminated
I'm always drowing in the space between
a warm light that has faded
and a bright and terrifying fire burning so keen

So just finally set my flesh ablaze
break through this agony, a heart so tame
let this sea of blood erase
and overflow this frame
Her touch,
an ointment
for my wounds.
Marzia 7d
I have never thought that feeling empty
could bring me happiness and relief
and I would have never said that I
would be laying, cold and alone in my bed
at 1AM on a Saturday night, believing
believing that the best is yet to come and
you've finally set me free by breaking me
because who will find a better piece of match
for my shattered body and soul, stuffed with cries
than my own hands, my own legs leading me the way

I've certainly written a scenario in my mind
and I've been rehearsing to play this part for too long
astonished, I've read it a thousand times
paying attention to everything but details
and oh, what a fool I've been promising myself
that I would once find the pattern in the stars
that had led me to you, broken and bruised
oh, what a fool I am not for reminding myself
I know my own self the best
having created the concept of my own existence
and passing it into your hands, without realising
that my own demons were always human
without a doubt crossing my path only to bring
the only things I've ever feared, but still
I find my heart more of a decoy than a perception
of all the events existing only n alternative universes
and yet I still manage to underestimate my experience
and keep re-opening the wounds, cutting deeper

why would I ever trust myself
when my own body wants to reach self destruction
putting me on the edge with every decision,
when did I lost the ability of longing to be my own
have I ever belonged to myself anyways?
very personal
Sandoval Sep 12
I bleed
words

not blood;

so if you hurt me,

I'll scar
verses,

not wounds.


*Sandoval
Repost from a while ago. ♥
Sara Nelson Sep 5
My thoughts return to you
Like picking at
An infected wound.

Satisfying,
but unproductive.
Greg Jones Aug 29
Persistence mixed with resentment
Has paralyzed
The life that you're used to.
Flood of Maclin and 3rd
Left you drowning in the street.
You try to compare moments
But you're too far removed.
Feel the skyline
Sinking beneath you.

A picture hanging from your locket,
A constant reminder
You're drowning underwater.
Water from your eyes.

Time will visit.
Return you
To the surface.
Resurface.
Everyone started to feel like they came back to life now.
Everyone begs for a kiss
Everyone begs for more time
While I wanted to burn inside.

And all the girls have their heads in their lost dreams.
I want to be stoned not to get involved.
They have forgotten how love hurts.
It seems they are not afraid of the smell of love.
I do not want to inhale the scent, the last time I did it completely destroyed me.

I'm going to smoke cigarettes.
I'm going to shake my head.
I put the red lipstick on.
I will drink .
I'll get the best outfit.
I dance the love songs.

But I will not talk about emotions here.
Because it seems like everyone wants to romanticize broken hearts.

Dreamers like his strong scent.
But it is not the smell of broken hearts, it is not the smell of summer on our skin, it is not the smell of flowers springing in the spring, nor of innocence.
It's the smell of love.
Love is in the air
In the land of cold hearts.
In a place of empty hearts and vibrations of misunderstood beings.
The smell of love still seems to be in the air.
It spreads as fast as if it were disease.
So I'm going to get stoned so I do not get it.
It spreads so fast and gives false euphoria.
In the end, it disappears.
We were disappointed after that.

We with unhealed wounds can not be involved in this communion of dreams and fantasies.

For some love is the only reason they exist.

Everyone seems poisoned by love.
 Because it will satisfy their unreal needs ...
But knowing that it toxic and disappointment is unlimited.
And when the pain comes , nobody wants to get involved.

Do not use drugs .
Do not use love.

It seems to be metaphor for little poetry.
But it is the nostalogy of love not understood.
japheth Aug 28
i thought
our love
was deep
enough
but
apparently,
the wounds
you
inflicted
were deeper.
that’s why im taking my time to heal now that your lashings are gone
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