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jg 10h
You ask why I no longer write,
But how on Earth am I supposed to?
The parts you took from me were the best
that I could do

The day you slowly flew,
from the utter mess of what we were,
from me and my life,
You took what used to be a joyful soul
before the wound
of your manipulative knife,
And you left it here
to rue seeing nothing
but black and blue.

You ask why I no longer write,
But you still miss to understand;
You have taken with you my fragile arms
through your deceitful but compelling charms,

You have taken with you my sensible and thin fingers
With the way your body used to linger,
Millimeters away from mine,
just enough to make it impossible for me to live without.

And you still ask why I no longer write...
This has been so far, my favorite poem of mine. That is why im reposting it. Hope you enjoy!
I ate a cheese string this morning
I looked in the fridge, empty again
The thought of pouring milk onto cereal was too much of an effort
I wanted something already there
I peeled it out of its **** packaging, an illustrated version of it plastered with a grin
I bit into it and chewed, it tasted like its packaging, plastic and grim I ate it with no grin
Yet I finished it and mourned longing for a taste more real, far less artificial
But there was nothing, unless I made something, but eating that cheese string had taken a bit of life out of me
I ate a cheese string the next morning
I looked in the fridge, empty again
The thought of pouring milk onto cereal was too much of an effort
I wanted something already there
It’s forced smile beamed up at me, welcoming me a familiarity
I bit into it, chewed, still despised the taste of plastic on my tongue
But I still didn’t have the energy to make something yum
The vicious cycle began, every morning, a cheese string in my hand
I had grown used to the fakeness of the taste and how processed and hard these strings of cheese are
I couldn’t bring myself to make anything decent that I knew I secretly craved and I did pray that I could bring myself to say no to a cheese string one day
A cheese string to me is like an edible depression
Tasteless, gross, plastic and fake something you know you need to escape
But you get used to the ****, it becomes a daily routine, you want to break out of it
But are not quite sure how you see, you don’t quite have the energy even just to create something as simple but tasty as strawberries and cream.
idk man cheese strings are like an edible depression ? so i wrote this
Today is a day for writing
I tell myself this
As if it actually means anything
Instead I take a walk
The air is crisp
The trees gently sway
With the soft october wind
And I sigh
For how could I ever describe
The architecture of nature
The careful precision of tree roots
How could I describe
The luminous patterns I see
In every creature
Every plant
What justice could I bring
So I walk home
And I tell myself
Today is a day for writing
And you will try your best
The world is beautiful in so many ways
And i want to see and tell of all those ways
Sillva 1d
Has the bitterness of my lips reached
The aromas of spring.
My Dear -
I say
I open backdoors where doors were never ment to be.
I unfold the moon as if I drew it out of thin air.
I dissolve worlds an make new ones,
as if I was the true created.
I whisper in a soft voice an say
"I now live in pages written with my own blood".

P.S It's not how much you write,
It's how you begin to grow roots and gloom in darkest hours.

                                                            BY E.R.S
These poems come from dreams,
From places where there are no rules,
No conventions,
Where there is more rhyme than reason.

These poems come from dreams,
From random scattered images,
No connections,
Where things just allude to what’s real.

These poems come from dreams,
From a way to communicate,
No clarity,
Where feelings overtake the mind.

These poems come from dreams,
From a desperate need to be heard,
No filtering,
Where raw emotions author words.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at www.insightshurt.com
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at store.bookbaby.com/book/insights-hurt
Temptation red as Carmine

Tears as thick as cerulean

And here lies I shedding to your core

Vivid gradients expressing

What I need is more.

Such a strange contravene

What dwells inside never dares to be seen

Mellow yellow daydreams remind me of the laughter

But vivid gradients expressing

What I yearn for is thereafter.

Melancholy rests on mahogany busts

And just like brights, present turns to rust

How a beating flame disintegrates from the folds of my clutch

Vivid gradients fade

And submit to touch.
Writing is very cathartic for me,
In the same way,
Bleeding is cathartic for plague treatment.
After drenching a page,
I sit,
Corpse-still, Catholic cathedral still,
Echoing off my abandoned adorned walls.
I resent many of my own works,
And I resent having to write them,
Such dreary ****.
But It’s what I feel and my hand writes,
As a suicidal turtle,
Though may place his head underneath an elephant’s foot,
Cannot stop himself from pulling back under his shell.
Jarene 2d
i don’t know
where i’d be
without poetry

one with the
flowers and trees

a forgotten
drifting in the wind
among the leaves
On rainy days,
I tamper with my words while
my feet get wet,
and the aroma of coffee escapes my mug.

On sunny days,
I find you in the heat that
bathes my body,
while the sky is too crisp
to formulate the
softness of clouds.

And on the snowy days,
when my breath tangles in spidery flakes,
the blue hues will remember my stanzas
until next winter comes.

\the changing of season\
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