What I Feel Apr 3
I won't say I'm bipolar because I'm
permanently enduring unstable.
My feelings are consistently inconsistent at the moment.
What I Feel Apr 3
Internal convulsions occur when I
at that body that people tell me is beautiful,
but all I can comprehend is that slab of undesired waste
piled up on that heap of toxic reoccurences
that I am too cowardly to face.
My body confidence is at rock bottom.
What I Feel Apr 3
Why must a heart beat?

To keep a rhythmic marching time through life?
That common tempo keeping order in
our lawless world of hate and fear death.
Each heartbeat rallies troops across the globe,
a single feature shared in every life,
an army built on spirit, crying out
with every thump that we are one.

But what must hearts beat for?

To beat we mean to say 'to fight,'
and for what better cause to fight than love?
That painful pleasure wielding power both
to wreck lives and create them,
the strength it gives to those from whom it stole in battles past.
Enamoured and encased in armour,
steeled against the pain before
as drums beat faster
palms grow sweaty
the tempo quickens
gazes steady
you brace and lean in
and surrender to his kiss
as he gives in to yours,
your battle won by both
as both your drums keep time in perfect synchrony
your breaths the perfect melody that keep
the perfect peace.
As long as there is life, there is love.
What I Feel Apr 2
A heart that beat
in tempered time
but skipped-

tripped up
and fell on you.
What I Feel Apr 2
An inkblot tarnish that bleeds through sheets
of work, an all-consuming blackness that eats
through my morale like acid through a petal,

that slow and steady browning tainting
the pure white of that spotless rose,
imperfect now, and damaged,

the bruise that seeps across capillaries
of hope until all thought of life is tender
and sore to touch,

false colours marking things that shouldn't be,
my failure marked in bold for me to see.
Haven't written in a long time; revision for my exams has taken over and has left my state of mind in tatters. For those of you who followed my work, I was pull-free for a little while, however the stress of exams has made me start to pull again, which is what this poem addresses; a small failure - a bald patch - that grows, like a bruise.
What I Feel Sep 2017
This thing I have,
it makes me sick;
I'm tired of life
just drumming on
the same as life
the day before,
my hair receding
more and more,
and nothing stops
this ruthless train
from ploughing down
my tortured brain,
the scars it carves
are deep ingrained,
and split my soul
in sorry halves,
each impulse sparking
shots of shame
that jab my spine
with pricks of pain,
each choking breath
a living death,
a rhythm that
just picks up speed
with every whine,
a whispered threat
that only tortured
ones can heed-


So I will shave my head.


My broken slate will be wiped clean.

This sorry life I'll now grab back

and brand new paths I'll tread.
I am trying my best to overcome my problems now. I just thought it was relevant to write about my demons again.
What I Feel Sep 2017
A poet writes upon the heart
and sings among the shining stars,
each scribble painting portraits vast
as each mind hums and wanders past
their secret dreams and battle scars,
and turns thoughts into glorious art.
For everybody on this website who has doubted their writing, or who are surrounded by people at home who don't understand.
Next page