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Want to be
That one that
Can be
Poured into
A wound
That needs
Hoping it wont scar
anotherdream Jun 20
i am who i am
and that will never change
i am the same as i was a year ago
when the roses start to fade

i guess i'm not enough
to make tears run down your face
i still wonder if you care
if you even know my name

i don't understand
why we cannot co-exist
i never wanted to hurt you
with my poisonious lips

how deep are your scars
for us to make it this far?
there's a hundred million friendships
but all i wanted was ours
haven't posted a poem in a while and these are just some thoughts i've had recently
your eclipse Jun 12
when you grow up
five, four years from now
seven, six months older
no need to wonder; never suffer

splitting head; broken bones
one more crush, three more crunch
stolen fingers; freshly sliced flesh
three wounds to bleed, more cuts to heal
—don't forget to heal.
N May 29
I could swear I’ve felt your touch once,
I wonder why you couldn’t
bare seeing my raw wounds?

You know,
it is never gentle to disturb
the dead with the promise of love
So why did you do it, darling?
To fly above the white clouds,
Walk on the moon.
Dance with the stars,
Step out of your comfort zone.

To astonish the world with your creativity,
Fulfil your dreams with great accomplishments,
Stay productive, stand out among the crowds,
Break through the chains of your comfort zone.

Your pains, sorrows, and wounds my friend are
Your bridge to a breathtaking life, 
Full of hope, adventures, and excitement,
With a new dawn, and a new day!

Hussein Dekmak

I'd rather you use bombs and knives,
I'd rather you use guns and swords.
I'd rather that we would have fights;
that you'd leave me with open sores.

I'd rather you find a different weapon,
a different tool to use on me.
I wish you'd make me feel a pain;
I wish you'd leave me weak and ******.

Yet the sharpest tool is what you use;
you leave me dead inside.
I wish you'd tear my heart out;
I wish I would have died.

You open your mouth and the weapons spill out,
you're armed with words that you scream and shout.
The pain is unbearable, the torture indescribable.
I know there's no point in putting up a struggle.

You **** me, one by one,
your words an open ****.
They slice me up in pieces,
making me feel like trash.

All I can be is silent;
I know that is the best.
I try to block them out,
but they're already in my chest.

Your words are killing me;
a slow, antagonizing death.
Each word you say cuts me,
each wound raw and fresh.

I wish you'd let me be,
I wish you'd leave it unsaid.
I guess you just can't see
you can't bring someone back from the dead.

Only God can do that...
Aspen Apr 1
Open wounds are bleeding cuts exposed to the sun
Caused by a knife or a scratch from a run
They are lines on the skin that fade after a while
At least that is what it is in people’s mind files

But sometimes blood is not the only thing that flows
Sometimes tears or numb expressions are the only thing that’s shown
Sometimes they are not simple lines that just fade away
For some they run deep, they are there to stay

Some wounds feel sharp like a knife on skin
But to some those wounds are short moments of relief, heaven
Compared to the wounds inside their head
Telling them that they are worthless, they are better off dead
If people look on the inside they will realize, they will find
Not all open wounds mark the body, they can also mark the mind
Starting off poetry month 2022 with the prompt: open wounds. TW: there are mentions of s*icide and s*lf h*rm so be mindful of that when reading.
I S A A C Mar 23
im a lil scared, my mom is unwell
i am reliving fears, i know this feeling all too well
each hospital visit, each tear filled eye
oh god why do you make my family cry
sadistic incision into my heart
idealistic vision into my art
i don’t want to feel good or bad, i just want it to end
i dont want to hear news good or bad, i just want to hold my mama’s hand
friends, family, it all hurts the same
constantly shifting frames, day in day out
labour hard, echo chamber scream it out
its hard, its hard, it hard
waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering where is the next empty spot
in the christmas dinner, thanksgiving dinner
dreams of the deceased, am i a sinner?
I'm uncertain if
writing poetry
heals me or
dilacerate my wounds
if you open up you become vulnerable, but if you keep all to yourself it hurts even more
I S A A C Feb 10
perfumed delusion, unruly exclusion
time bombs ticking and toking
vibrant illusions, visual pollution
cutting all the ribbons and strings
you tried to tie me up in, you tried to rub the salt in
to my many many wounds
I felt so lonely in crowded rooms
crowded stadiums, your eyes never met me once
I was too nervous to confront your fronts
shy away from topics that we needed to discuss
performing necromancy trying to keep this dead love up
checking the pulse, it's so gone now
we are both adults, you remain disavowed
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