#orlackthereof - Hello Poetry

(let me) in I write to feel sane

0

Apr 28, 2018

Apr 28, 2018 at 11:14 AM UTC

Deviate

1.12 am thoughts

(let me) in I write to feel sane

2

Here's to hoping that day 2 actually happens this time. I'll throw up an "Amen" because I need it and because I want it. So just... Hear me.

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Apr 23, 2017

Apr 23, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC

Swingline

Day One

Here's to hoping that day 2 actually happens this time. I'll throw up an "Amen" because I need it and because I want it. So just... Hear me.

4

I have never felt so sick in my life. Eating feels like a necessary torture, and sleep feels like an unwanted evil. Stuck in the same cycle of waking up feeling disgusting, and not wanting to sleep because the longer I stay awake, the better I feel. But even I can't stay awake forever. But I try, God knows I try. So I still live in these infected clothes in this infected house and I can't help but wonder where the hell my conscience went. I feel weak every single day, and I can only hope that this week... Can change everything. So if I'm crying out to the TV watchers and the music citizens. To my best friends... some of which who won't even talk to me... Help me. I can't wake up tomorrow thinking that this will not pass us by like the sickness it is. Or was... But if somebody else is crying out, I will drop this sickness like a ton of bricks and run to wherever they are. I won't feel sick if somebody needs me there. So I can put a lock on the medicine cabinet. Not because I won't be able to pry myself away from it, but because I will believe with the entirety of my whole body that I don't need anything. My family is made up of some of the strongest people on this planet. I will not be an exception by any means. So maybe I can wake up as a medical zombie, filled with my own drop dead weight. I am tired. But not tired enough. Unlike the first wave of sick. This one cannot be cured by any amount of overdue sleep. Why do you think I write into the abyss of every night? Because there is nothing more for me to gain from saying that I am helpless. So I won't... Wake me up when it's all over. And then I can live again.

0

Mar 26, 2017

Mar 26, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC

Swingline

Infected Part II

I have never felt so sick in my life. Eating feels like a necessary torture, and sleep feels like an unwanted evil. Stuck in the same cycle of waking up feeling disgusting, and not wanting to sleep because the longer I stay awake, the better I feel. But even I can't stay awake forever. But I try, God knows I try. So I still live in these infected clothes in this infected house and I can't help but wonder where the hell my conscience went. I feel weak every single day, and I can only hope that this week... Can change everything. So if I'm crying out to the TV watchers and the music citizens. To my best friends... some of which who won't even talk to me... Help me. I can't wake up tomorrow thinking that this will not pass us by like the sickness it is. Or was... But if somebody else is crying out, I will drop this sickness like a ton of bricks and run to wherever they are. I won't feel sick if somebody needs me there. So I can put a lock on the medicine cabinet. Not because I won't be able to pry myself away from it, but because I will believe with the entirety of my whole body that I don't need anything. My family is made up of some of the strongest people on this planet. I will not be an exception by any means. So maybe I can wake up as a medical zombie, filled with my own drop dead weight. I am tired. But not tired enough. Unlike the first wave of sick. This one cannot be cured by any amount of overdue sleep. Why do you think I write into the abyss of every night? Because there is nothing more for me to gain from saying that I am helpless. So I won't... Wake me up when it's all over. And then I can live again.

27

Long divorced from love, owned three guitars and slept with nine women. Remembers every song, every poem, scarcely recalls their faces; lilt of their tongue as sleep took hold of them- not him. Trigger finger over the snapshot through each baulk and ****** of passion: "this is the poem, this is the verse I can lay down in print and finally live again." Night sky too full of uncertainty. Cannot observe a desert scene without a commentary on each unanswered question. She is dressed in sequins but what for the spaces in between? He cannot accept filler, blank spaces that intercede moments of ineffable beauty. Maddening crowds emerge, bright-eyed and stupid to each early, pink noise morning. He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs, slow to movement; formulation of words. Each night a battle of sobriety as the sun does bleed in the skyline before him. Each night a generation dies, subtle points of light lost in the noise of the modern day. Screams pointlessly, without need: "don't forget me, don't forget me..." would rather leave a scar than no mark at all. Lives for the colours he cannot see, for the common thread that connects everything. Tweaks the string of each broken seam to expose each diversity, each personal loss as a collective sigh; every sleepless night as an off-white lullaby. Born for collision beneath a dying star, long divorced from love; he is married to art.

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Jan 7, 2017

Jan 7, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

The Artist

Long divorced from love, owned three guitars and slept with nine women. Remembers every song, every poem, scarcely recalls their faces; lilt of their tongue as sleep took hold of them- not him. Trigger finger over the snapshot through each baulk and ****** of passion: "this is the poem, this is the verse I can lay down in print and finally live again." Night sky too full of uncertainty. Cannot observe a desert scene without a commentary on each unanswered question. She is dressed in sequins but what for the spaces in between? He cannot accept filler, blank spaces that intercede moments of ineffable beauty. Maddening crowds emerge, bright-eyed and stupid to each early, pink noise morning. He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs, slow to movement; formulation of words. Each night a battle of sobriety as the sun does bleed in the skyline before him. Each night a generation dies, subtle points of light lost in the noise of the modern day. Screams pointlessly, without need: "don't forget me, don't forget me..." would rather leave a scar than no mark at all. Lives for the colours he cannot see, for the common thread that connects everything. Tweaks the string of each broken seam to expose each diversity, each personal loss as a collective sigh; every sleepless night as an off-white lullaby. Born for collision beneath a dying star, long divorced from love; he is married to art.

51

Don't read this I warn you You might be able to relate too well to this Huh still here are you Alright I guess I'll have to go on then My friend, my advice is simple Never date a poet Unless you want to be endlessly romanticized To be able too see nothing but a torn form of affection for you and writing in the eyes If you don't want the burden of being a never ceasing muse Being paired with someone who's hearts taken all kinds of abuse And if you abhor not talking, but constant wordings about what's truly on the brain Then for the love of God don't do it, it'll drive you insane So please, unless you want these things and aren't afraid to show it. Then don't, Just don't date a poet

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Nov 22, 2015

Nov 22, 2015 at 1:16 AM UTC

neroameealucard

Don't do it

Don't read this I warn you You might be able to relate too well to this Huh still here are you Alright I guess I'll have to go on then My friend, my advice is simple Never date a poet Unless you want to be endlessly romanticized To be able too see nothing but a torn form of affection for you and writing in the eyes If you don't want the burden of being a never ceasing muse Being paired with someone who's hearts taken all kinds of abuse And if you abhor not talking, but constant wordings about what's truly on the brain Then for the love of God don't do it, it'll drive you insane So please, unless you want these things and aren't afraid to show it. Then don't, Just don't date a poet

15

"How do you keep so unattatched?" What do you mean? I hear this question so much. I guess you just dont see. I'm not holding back Or doing anything I just don't know how To hold onto anything I never had a home Or any long term friends Letting go is manditory Everything ends This isn't a good thing I don't know how to love Don't try to be me It hurts. It's numb I'd rather be attatched Sown at the hip Helplessly heartbroken Longing for your lips Instead i despise you For latching on so tight I just want to run I know that isn't right So don't ask me that again There's no special trick If i could love i would If only i could stick

0

Oct 16, 2014

Oct 16, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC

NotAWriter

Harshly Independent

"How do you keep so unattatched?" What do you mean? I hear this question so much. I guess you just dont see. I'm not holding back Or doing anything I just don't know how To hold onto anything I never had a home Or any long term friends Letting go is manditory Everything ends This isn't a good thing I don't know how to love Don't try to be me It hurts. It's numb I'd rather be attatched Sown at the hip Helplessly heartbroken Longing for your lips Instead i despise you For latching on so tight I just want to run I know that isn't right So don't ask me that again There's no special trick If i could love i would If only i could stick

28