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Jack Jenkins Apr 2016
It's easy to say I love you when you are face to face.
It's easy to say I love you when you are inside someone.
It's easy to say I love you when they are caring for you.
It's easy to say I love you when the butterflies are in your
stomach and every waking moment is consumed with one another.

But it's not easy to say I love you when they want nothing to do with you.
It's not easy to say I love you when you know they don't love you.
It's not easy to say I love you when it's been a consistent battle to
remain friends.
It's not easy to say I love you when you always choose guys who
make you feel less than you are.
It's not easy to say I love you when I have been waiting four years for
you to feel anything for me.
And it certainly is not easy to say I love you when there is an ocean
separating the two of us.

I don't love you because I need you, I need you because I love you.
Love is not a feeling, or an emotional connection, or an opportunity not to be alone.
Love is dedication, a choice to knit your heart and soul to another because
nobody else can compare to the joy, peace, affection, and trustworthiness that you have.

So I love you. I love you. I love you.
You may never read this, but it's the deepest part of my love for you.
//On her//
This was my first ever poem, written in December of 2015.
Äŧül Jan 2016
I was a difficult kid,
One who wished till every bit,
Not going to the school.

I still am like that,
But just not that bit I called difficult,
Now I go to the college.
My HP Poem #981
©Atul Kaushal
Faisal Aug 2015
Gazing upon the wretched
She decides at her will,
To spare his life with her eyes,
Or with the same eyes, does she ****?
Formidable they are, for making life morbid
Or blessed still
Yume Blade Jun 2015
After our separation
All I have is remembrance
The sound of your voice
In my memories telling me
If we break up I'll fly to heaven
To find you I'm ready
To leave the earth
The razor kissed my veins
My blood flow
My soul fly
My heart stops
In the far-faraway
Sounds of yells screaming my name
they're sorry and dissolve into tears
& here you are

whispering in my ear :
*I'm still here , I never going to fly to heaven without you , come back to me , we don't care about your parents anymore , don't let me all alone in this earth , please I forgive you for your mistake
A second chance came at me
I can not ruin my life a second time
Come to your senses and keep your distance
How you do it - is entirely your piece of cake
At all times wear a long, pale face around me
Do not as much as smile at my birman kittens

They can't stand your sight or the likes of you
It's unthinkable how I put up with you these years
Said you'll be there for me when you actually mean
You will never come an inch close to my street  

Now, the storm is over or so you thought
Like the wretched dog you are - shamelessly
You crawl your way unto my doorstep, with the
Hope I'd throw myself at you for all its worth

I rather get drown in the middle of nowhere
Than to stand the pathetic sight of you anywhere
Nickols Jan 2015
For all the poems
written on the subject
of unrequited love.
There are far too few
discussed on
being the desire
of the affection.

A difficult topic
to build a
foundation on.
you're suffocating in
debilitating silence.
How could I know
if the words were
never spoken?

Like counting birds
against the blaring sun,
its almost
an impossible feat
to accomplish
battling a massive
lack of knowledge.

--and with the
cataclysm raining
down on your shoulders.
Do you feel cold
and lost in desperation?
A silent hope built up
into a concealed bonfire.

Standing alone.
Burning alone.
Impossibly alone.

I didn't know.
The words never
left your tongue.

No promises made
No catharsis expressed.
Only lustful secret
clutched to your chest.

Sometimes solutions
are not as simple as
they seem.
If only I'd known,
If only I'd been told
long ago;
then maybe
this wretched ending
could have been
something beautiful
of a juvenile mess...
I wrote this and then re-wrote this and then re-re-wrote it again. All because I didn't like how it played out on paper. I think I'm happy with it now.

Sorry If I annoyed you. :^)
Mark Steigerwald Nov 2014
How can one pick up the seams
of a long forgotten past?
How can restoration ever begin
when the heart and soul
has departed from the rest?

Falling leaves
and dying trees,
shattered glass
resounding screams.

I open my eyes and see a city of gray
a collection of broken people.
The product of a broken past.

I look upon the waste that lies before me
I view the rubble with despair.
This was once a golden dynasty,
a land of abundance,
a city of white.

Now decayed,
fallen into rot and ruin.
Distraught and dying
of intellectual thirst.
The haunted look I see on the faces
the frail cry echoing in the night,
the silent torment
the unheard agony.

Children lie in the street
mothers weep.
Powerful men
keep their power to themselves
They hoard and keep
they watch as their city falls
they gaze on upon the gray.

Oblivious to the torment
untouched by the tears
the heartache and the hurt.

Mountains of ruin
rivers of blood
oceans of tears
growing like a mighty flood.

The dying and the sick,
the weak and the poor,
the famous and the rich,
those wicked lords.

I see them all,
all alike,
I open my eyes and see them.

Somehow, someway
they are the same.
Behind the hollowed eyes
and the overstuffed bellies
the thick fur coats
and the naked flesh.

They are so alike
so similar
these creatures.
They are as one being
one soul,
one flesh.

Shivers coursing
through my veins,
slivers of fear
falling like rain.

Tired and sore
wretched and poor,
weak and frail
I open my minds door.

I enter into a land
A land where no hurt,
nor wrong can ever touch

A place where what is,
is really not,
and what was thought to be remembered
is truly forgot.

I walk through the streets
with new eyes
And gaze upon the ruins
and all their lies.

How things,
then seem so changed
how things that were,
really are not.

The rich were truly poor.
Their souls filthy
***** and wretched,
their hearts blackened
broken and ruined.

Yet those the poor,
and the wretched.
The ones that I had so surely thought
were worthless.
Were truly lords
and conquers

For they controlled their destiny
they governed their hearts.
Kept the undying
innocent and free of all wrong.

And now with this new found vision
A hope arose inside of me

For I then saw
what there truly was to be seen,
a land beyond the physical
a nominal realm.

Wretched and distraught
broken and forgot,
they are beautiful
these ruins.
They are the glorious ruins
of a long lost past.

Through the eye of the father
by the grace of love.
The miracle of salvation
the glory of these shattered ruins is revealed.
Mark Steigerwald Nov 2014
I can feel the pain
growing higher.
Growing like a monster
to the heat of the fire.

Its a beautiful kinda of pain
broken shattered glass.
This ****** rain
of tears and pain.

Washing away who I was.

I draw ragged breath
from the depths of my shattered heart.

I fill my lungs one last time
with the putrid air.
As I feel my spirit crumple
under this heavy despair.

The lost cry in the night,
the eerie screams.
The watchful eye
eying the pain
of my waking dreams.

Beautiful this pain is to him;
that eye so cold,
so very cold.

Shivering bleak depths,
staring straight through my torn apart soul.

Fear dripping down my spine
like melting ice
my heart it surely shall find.
Hopeless underneath
that wretched black gaze.
I fall into the depths one very last time.

In spite of him that horrid eye,
I rid myself of all fear,
I choke him of his life source
I fill my heart with joy and blessings.
I rid myself of him.
The beautiful pain,
my darkness agony.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2014
Small HP playground,
So many Godawful writers,
  .  .  .  Recess is over.
Olivia McCann Oct 2014
Wretched love murmurs
Sweetly as bitter bodies draw close,
Sporadic beating of hearts,
Hardly in sync,
But the ribs touch,
His more than hers,
And her ******* flatten
As his proximity
Weighs on her chest.

Wretched love breaks,
As one returns home,
Going back to smoke
While she goes away
To the corner she's
Made in her room
And she writes wretched things
While he thinks them,
Until she tires
And abandons the literary task
She feels obligated to pursue
Under title of "ideal career"
And now he's smoked enough
To to stifle the anxiety,
Numb the thoughts;

The love isn't wretched
But only shared
Between wretched individuals
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