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"bitterest" poems
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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13.4k
Eve
"While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore. "How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown Squandering their sweet breath Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the tree of death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover;-- O wanton eyes, run over; Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin and ****** His tongue out with its fork.
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70
**ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY** Executive Mansion, Washington, December 23, 1862. Dear ***** It is with deep grief that I learn of the death of your kind and brave Father; and, especially, that it is affecting your young heart beyond what is common in such cases. In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares. The older have learned to ever expect it. I am anxious to afford some alleviation of your present distress. Perfect relief is not possible, except with time. You can not now realize that you will ever feel better. Is not this so? And yet it is a mistake. You are sure to be happy again. To know this, which is certainly true, will make you some less miserable now. I have had experience enough to know what I say; and you need only to believe it, to feel better at once. The memory of your dear Father, instead of an agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before. Please present my kind regards to your afflicted mother. Your sincere friend A. LINCOLN.
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Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
ABRAHAM LINCOLN’S FAMOUS CIVIL WAR CONDOLENCE LETTER TO YOUNG ***** MCCULLOUGH ABOUT DEATH, LOSS AND MEMORY
for you, we bundle into the car, the littlest (half my brother and twice my nuisance) and the middlest (14 going on favorite) the bitterest (only girl and pen-in-hand) and the biggestest (20 years of bombastic nonsense) 30 minutes and four cornfields later he'll start. "i have to *** "there's a bottle up there, dad." "dad, i have to *** "dad." "dad." "dad." and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours, sloshing and yellow too dangerously close to the color of something you would actually drink. the two youngest will get into some sort of argument some sort of argument that i will intervene in. "shut up!" he'll say. "chill out!" i'll shout. "you chill out!" and my father and my stepmother will eye from the front seat until one of them turns around ("relax, madeline!" sharply). and then the oldest like clockwork will act like he knows more than he does about something (my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss, "madeline!" as if i've killed somebody even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do). he'll make a face at me and i'll make a face at him. the littlest will inevitably stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second which i will not be able to stand, and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me versus the whole car (afterwards, much stewing, and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go). 9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later we'll get there. we'll make it. we'll only be a little worse for the wear. we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts our nine billion uncles and our three billion cousins, like we always are. someday something will be missing. first it was your back, and the postponement, and eventual cancellation of our trip. then it was your surgeries (why weren't they working?) and then it was a series of words i don't understand stage                                                                                                           inoperable                                             3                                                                                                                      cancerous                                                      mass lung                             malignant                                                                                                               radiation                                                  therapy                                                                                                                          chemo you may crumple in on that blackness inside you, that's eating you alive one lung at a time, pushing, on your back, until you can't even stand. the fabric of our family is plucked by this disease. this is my poem, my plea for you and for us, that you not pull into the blackness, and that you fight the tumors and the tests and that you win.
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Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
the fabric of our family
for you, we bundle into the car, the littlest (half my brother and twice my nuisance) and the middlest (14 going on favorite) the bitterest (only girl and pen-in-hand) and the biggestest (20 years of bombastic nonsense) 30 minutes and four cornfields later he'll start. "i have to *** "there's a bottle up there, dad." "dad, i have to *** "dad." "dad." "dad." and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours, sloshing and yellow too dangerously close to the color of something you would actually drink. the two youngest will get into some sort of argument some sort of argument that i will intervene in. "shut up!" he'll say. "chill out!" i'll shout. "you chill out!" and my father and my stepmother will eye from the front seat until one of them turns around ("relax, madeline!" sharply). and then the oldest like clockwork will act like he knows more than he does about something (my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss, "madeline!" as if i've killed somebody even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do). he'll make a face at me and i'll make a face at him. the littlest will inevitably stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second which i will not be able to stand, and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me versus the whole car (afterwards, much stewing, and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go). 9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later we'll get there. we'll make it. we'll only be a little worse for the wear. we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts our nine billion uncles and our three billion cousins, like we always are. someday something will be missing. first it was your back, and the postponement, and eventual cancellation of our trip. then it was your surgeries (why weren't they working?) and then it was a series of words i don't understand stage                                                                                                           inoperable                                             3                                                                                                                      cancerous                                                      mass lung                             malignant                                                                                                               radiation                                                  therapy                                                                                                                          chemo you may crumple in on that blackness inside you, that's eating you alive one lung at a time, pushing, on your back, until you can't even stand. the fabric of our family is plucked by this disease. this is my poem, my plea for you and for us, that you not pull into the blackness, and that you fight the tumors and the tests and that you win.
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90
for Karlotti ~ And a flower on the borders of winter. an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept the greatest joy of man will ever be anticipation there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud, be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple, the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance the greatest curse of man will be the changing seasons *La mayor maldición del hombre, Las estaciones cambiantes*
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May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC
the greatest curse of man, the changing seasons
Hot cocoa, so saccharine, so sweet, Warm me through the bitterest winter, the iciest claw of the wind Hot cocoa, melting on tasteless tongues warming my tiny, gelid hands You trickle and run down numb throats leaving milky, brown streaks on colorless lips Hot cocoa, rolling and tumbling in nippy stomaches as my belly rumbles and thunders for more
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May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Hot Cocoa
My hand, a little raised, might press a star-- Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun, So shaped before Olympus was begun, Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar. Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far, But now, as if around my heart were run Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone. Of all my tears, the bitterest these are. Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways, Begging the brambles that her robe had passed, Crying her name in corridors of stone, That day shall know his weariedest of days-- When Beauty, still and suppliant at last, Does not suffice him, once they are alone.
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Sonnet On An Alpine Night
head sways from left to right arms swinging back and forth walking traipsing treading the careful surface of your teacup filled with the bitterest coffee no sugar no cream no teaspoon to save you from falling do w n
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Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
surface
Among the silent, thunderous halls of the mind, there are pathways one should seldom roam, for, often, the bitterest of fruit grows between the walls of an intricate cognitive labyrinth. Still... I walk the very walkways that will either lead me to complete self-destruction or to enlightenment and divinity. I walk quietly, tiptoeing around certain memories, so as not to awaken them from their slumber, and incur their wrath. I walk on glass footsteps, as the shards make their way in through broken arches, in search of a place to call home, among the ruins of a broken spirit and a bludgeoned, weeping heart. Such is love and life and the ever present shadow of remembrance, and still I walk, leaving scarlet footprints along the way... to remember where I've been. -by Mercurychyld Copyrights
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Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
AS YOU FOUND ME
She’ll wander back to you again, but drawn by the string of ineffable instinct—kissing the sand of your beaches still damp by the routine of her departure. Yet as she recedes, you already ache her homecoming as though longing for an estranged relative. You count the years by the bitterest point of every winter, and value your harvests against the cruelty of the drought— and even when she rearranges herself nightly, by increments you’ve already calculated by meticulous observation, somehow good fortune owes you eternity, even as it crumbles under the weight of its own impermanence. You’ve never dealt well with entropy; all that came before you, which also happens to survive you—an honorary god. Stranded on earth, you monitor your greying scalp as grimly as you decry a darkening sky above you succumbing to the certainty of winter, but even she is ebbing, too. You curse her departure like an abandoned child, but she had never sinned against you— that was your idea. You mourn the day she repossesses with mortal anguish, yet you still find a way to forgive her when she sends Dawn to shine his light between the trees.
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Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
"Komorebi"
WE have cried in our despair That men desert, For some trivial affair Or noisy, insolent sport, Beauty that we have won From bitterest hours; Yet we, had we walked within Those ******* towers Where Helen waked with her boy, Had given but as the rest Of the men and women of Troy, A word and a jest.
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When Helen Lived
a shimmering lightness of white rolls playfully across the tips of slender bladed greenery the delicate dancing of that yet-to-be-mown grass grown long beyond what building aesthetics           should permit a gentle play of low-lying sun glanced upon frosted and thawed alike the cold breath of wind ruminating between a delicate breeze or           those chilling gusts harsh yet homely while blanketed in the warmth of this merino wool even the bitterest of winter mornings will feel nothing but picturesque
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Jan 19, 2024
Jan 19, 2024 at 7:38 PM UTC
even the bitterest
It seemed like a story For Schrödinger Time and distance ensured that They were All things and Nothing At once And, in this way, they stayed in perpetual orbit She wondered if In another life      In another place           Time                Universe Their lives would have intersected Instead of diverging      Unrequited To haunt her with all that could have been It was the bitterest irony When at last their paths swerved together That both hearts had already been spoken for Somewhere      The Fates were surely cackling           As the air hung heavy                With all the possibilities                     That died on the vine Because time was never on their side How could one even cry for something they’d never had? She found herself heaving uncontrolled sobs Shaking with unfettered grief In mourning      For all the things           She had wanted to live All the bright dreams of their teenage years That had seemed so perfect Shattered by the bitterness of Growing up And that old ******* Father Time If she were honest with herself She’d admit it was not him She actually loved all these years But all the things he might have been —or rather— All the things she might have been with him What a different life she might have had if      One day           She had followed her                Wild teenage love Instead of living in this cosmic joke She’ll never know But she’ll heave sobs For all the parallel lives she is not living And the orbit she will return to Knowing she’ll never be satisfied      She’ll always wonder           Always be gazing off                Trying to glimpse a galaxy Where things turned out better
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Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
Cosmic Joke
It seemed like a story For Schrödinger Time and distance ensured that They were All things and Nothing At once And, in this way, they stayed in perpetual orbit She wondered if In another life      In another place           Time                Universe Their lives would have intersected Instead of diverging      Unrequited To haunt her with all that could have been It was the bitterest irony When at last their paths swerved together That both hearts had already been spoken for Somewhere      The Fates were surely cackling           As the air hung heavy                With all the possibilities                     That died on the vine Because time was never on their side How could one even cry for something they’d never had? She found herself heaving uncontrolled sobs Shaking with unfettered grief In mourning      For all the things           She had wanted to live All the bright dreams of their teenage years That had seemed so perfect Shattered by the bitterness of Growing up And that old ******* Father Time If she were honest with herself She’d admit it was not him She actually loved all these years But all the things he might have been —or rather— All the things she might have been with him What a different life she might have had if      One day           She had followed her                Wild teenage love Instead of living in this cosmic joke She’ll never know But she’ll heave sobs For all the parallel lives she is not living And the orbit she will return to Knowing she’ll never be satisfied      She’ll always wonder           Always be gazing off                Trying to glimpse a galaxy Where things turned out better
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Bleeding world content with wounding still Dying casualty Catalyst of the apocalypse Clammy hands Static pins & needles Ethereal, acid skin Shivering sweats Ever-corporeal mind Expanding skull Temple pressure Tightening screws Mechanical Frankenstein Peripheral vision loss Drunken babble sober talk Mouse voice Flat tongue Mini seizure coming on Clock winds and winds Pain still resides Cigarette blood The gift that keeps giving And I'm burnt out Machine breaking down Little by little Another ***** dies Mental disease Physical need- All the same No sense left Life with no taste Words can't express This is the only place where Sadness can be heard in its most bitterest pitch Heart palpitates On another spoken word What's the message? How can I string them together? Twisted Mandela on the ceiling Don't let it be the last thing I see Miss the days of bended knee Believing words transcribed to holy holy Brain graffiti, mind confetti Panic, panic Delirium Attack, attack Merry go round & round
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Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 9:07 PM UTC
Dull Thunder
Do you know how much I love you? I’m going to tell you: You are my everything. You are the breath in my lungs, and you are my heartbeat. You are my sun, my moon, my stars. You are my sky, my galaxy, my entire universe. You are my North star, my guiding star, the light that I seek to guide me through my darkest nights. I would give my last breath for you, I would give my heartbeat for you. I would take a bullet to the heart or a knife in the back for you. I would move mountains, part oceans, I would move the heavens and the Earth for you. I would walk through the bitterest blizzard or the cruelest flames for you. In ancient India, there were Sati wives. A Sati wife loved her husband completely and unconditionally, and if her husband was killed in battle or in hunting, in work or in illness, then she would grieve with all her heart for him. And when the day of his funeral came, and the funeral pyre was lit, the Sati wife would throw her body onto the flames in a final act of love and devotion, because she would rather die than live without him. If we lived in ancient India, I would be your Sati wife. If you were to die, I would throw my body into the flames of your funeral pyre, because I could not bear to live without you. I love you completely, unconditionally, purely, thoroughly, with all of my heart and with every single cell, fiber and molecule of my being. Every new cell that forms to replace a dying cell loves you more than the last, and as a result, I love you more every single day. You are everything to me, and I will never stop loving you, never stop caring for you, never leave your side. Even when I’m far away, I will still be with you always. I love you. I love you so, so, so, so very, very much. ♥
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Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
Heart On My Sleeve
Do you know how much I love you? I’m going to tell you: You are my everything. You are the breath in my lungs, and you are my heartbeat. You are my sun, my moon, my stars. You are my sky, my galaxy, my entire universe. You are my North star, my guiding star, the light that I seek to guide me through my darkest nights. I would give my last breath for you, I would give my heartbeat for you. I would take a bullet to the heart or a knife in the back for you. I would move mountains, part oceans, I would move the heavens and the Earth for you. I would walk through the bitterest blizzard or the cruelest flames for you. In ancient India, there were Sati wives. A Sati wife loved her husband completely and unconditionally, and if her husband was killed in battle or in hunting, in work or in illness, then she would grieve with all her heart for him. And when the day of his funeral came, and the funeral pyre was lit, the Sati wife would throw her body onto the flames in a final act of love and devotion, because she would rather die than live without him. If we lived in ancient India, I would be your Sati wife. If you were to die, I would throw my body into the flames of your funeral pyre, because I could not bear to live without you. I love you completely, unconditionally, purely, thoroughly, with all of my heart and with every single cell, fiber and molecule of my being. Every new cell that forms to replace a dying cell loves you more than the last, and as a result, I love you more every single day. You are everything to me, and I will never stop loving you, never stop caring for you, never leave your side. Even when I’m far away, I will still be with you always. I love you. I love you so, so, so, so very, very much. ♥
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64
don’t take me to a garden i like my flowers dead for, the most beautiful things have the most bitterest end
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Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Graveyard
You're tied up in time ticking choices away white light fills the night till its brighter than day cacophonous voices can say what they say from the dusk till the meaningless dawn Then secured by a seatbelt to leather and foam the speedo's at zero six yards from your home a million neighbours, completely alone you're a shell, you're a shade, you're a pawn But glance through the windscreen and look at the sky a seagull, suspended, is catching your eye you sense a connection but cannot say why as it tilts on the wind and is gone Then the trees you drive under are sharpened and clear they're humming and pulsing beneath the veneer you're dazed and confused as you shift up a gear dumbly wondering what's going on You turn on the satnav for guidance and sound but its whisper can't silence this thing you have found from the shimmering clouds to the roots of the ground Is a force that is ancient and new You try to pretend like a terrified child that the world can be binary indexed and filed and the sparkling eye of the jackdawish wild isn't focused intently on you But there is no denying this fluttering clutch that is moss-furred and feathered, a hurricane touch that you knew long ago and you've missed it so much with a longing that's howling and black But she's patiently stationed there just out of sight as you've built your resistance from pixel and byte Rebellious teenager, pitiful plight she is waiting to welcome you back Yes Nature is waiting to welcome you back She's beneath every slab and behind every crack at the nethermost end of the bitterest track she is waiting to welcome you back Forever forgiving, unloosed unconfined she is mad she is chaos she's love and she's blind volcanic voluptuous core of mankind she is waiting to welcome you back.
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Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Invitation
You're tied up in time ticking choices away white light fills the night till its brighter than day cacophonous voices can say what they say from the dusk till the meaningless dawn Then secured by a seatbelt to leather and foam the speedo's at zero six yards from your home a million neighbours, completely alone you're a shell, you're a shade, you're a pawn But glance through the windscreen and look at the sky a seagull, suspended, is catching your eye you sense a connection but cannot say why as it tilts on the wind and is gone Then the trees you drive under are sharpened and clear they're humming and pulsing beneath the veneer you're dazed and confused as you shift up a gear dumbly wondering what's going on You turn on the satnav for guidance and sound but its whisper can't silence this thing you have found from the shimmering clouds to the roots of the ground Is a force that is ancient and new You try to pretend like a terrified child that the world can be binary indexed and filed and the sparkling eye of the jackdawish wild isn't focused intently on you But there is no denying this fluttering clutch that is moss-furred and feathered, a hurricane touch that you knew long ago and you've missed it so much with a longing that's howling and black But she's patiently stationed there just out of sight as you've built your resistance from pixel and byte Rebellious teenager, pitiful plight she is waiting to welcome you back Yes Nature is waiting to welcome you back She's beneath every slab and behind every crack at the nethermost end of the bitterest track she is waiting to welcome you back Forever forgiving, unloosed unconfined she is mad she is chaos she's love and she's blind volcanic voluptuous core of mankind she is waiting to welcome you back.
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40
I wonder if I will ever understand You destroyed everything good You sit there and blame the world Claiming you are "misunderstood" You whine that no one gets you Yet don't bother to explain You won't let anybody in You have zero right to complain Do not say nobody has tried To open doors to your mind I personally wasted years knocking Genuine thoughts I have yet to find It is hard to accept what someone won't give Even harder to listen to words they do not share I tried but it is difficult to love A person who's presence isn't actually there You act like I am the one in the wrong As if I would have jumped ship if you told the truth My loyalty has proved to be enduring Been dealing with the same ******** since our youth It's unfair to make me feel guilty For taking the course I thought was best Know I'm sorry for hurting you But I will not apologize for all the rest You excel at playing victim Done it so much you really believe The universe is conspiring to get you In denial of the fact you deceive   My biggest frustration with your fake facade Is the time you spend fooling yourself I'm powerless to flip your tired ways Expose flaws you forced to hide up on some shelf Fairytale you began fearing is finished The easiest failure to flee Freedom pushes frantic fingers further from you Life to you is but a fading foolish fantasy Satisfied spinning us round and round Still I followed your dizzy path Sedated souls stumbling over obstacles Sickening secrets revealed without a polygraph Our twisted relationship takes the most room in my heart The bitterest sweetest disappointment was you Though fleeting, this beautiful love was rare I just wish I knew reasons behind the pain you put me through
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Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
MisTERunderstood
I wonder if I will ever understand You destroyed everything good You sit there and blame the world Claiming you are "misunderstood" You whine that no one gets you Yet don't bother to explain You won't let anybody in You have zero right to complain Do not say nobody has tried To open doors to your mind I personally wasted years knocking Genuine thoughts I have yet to find It is hard to accept what someone won't give Even harder to listen to words they do not share I tried but it is difficult to love A person who's presence isn't actually there You act like I am the one in the wrong As if I would have jumped ship if you told the truth My loyalty has proved to be enduring Been dealing with the same ******** since our youth It's unfair to make me feel guilty For taking the course I thought was best Know I'm sorry for hurting you But I will not apologize for all the rest You excel at playing victim Done it so much you really believe The universe is conspiring to get you In denial of the fact you deceive   My biggest frustration with your fake facade Is the time you spend fooling yourself I'm powerless to flip your tired ways Expose flaws you forced to hide up on some shelf Fairytale you began fearing is finished The easiest failure to flee Freedom pushes frantic fingers further from you Life to you is but a fading foolish fantasy Satisfied spinning us round and round Still I followed your dizzy path Sedated souls stumbling over obstacles Sickening secrets revealed without a polygraph Our twisted relationship takes the most room in my heart The bitterest sweetest disappointment was you Though fleeting, this beautiful love was rare I just wish I knew reasons behind the pain you put me through
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44
When I was a little girl, I've always wondered what love would be like for me. If it would be like fireworks That suddenly bursts into vibrant colors But disappears the next second; If it would be like a sunflower Just contentedly gazing at the sun from afar; Or if it would be like a fire That keeps on burning as long as the wood keeps it alive. But the more I grew up And the more I saw the world, The sooner I realized That love wasn't something easily defined By metaphors and poetry Love was a ray of sunlight Covered by clouds of mystery. Love was the shadow You never realized was following you And sometimes when you turn, The light has already shifted and the shadow is gone And has moved to another direction. Love was not merely fireworks, or sunflowers, or burning fires. Love was a mixture of everything. Love is your favorite pillow stained with the bitterest tears. Love is the beam of sunlight on the cloudiest morning. Love is the drizzle of rain on a hot summer day. Love is one thing while at the same time being another. But if there was one thing I knew, It was that love can sometimes mess you up, Love can sometimes break you Love can sometimes make you cry But love can also heal Love can also build And love is what makes the tears all worth it.
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Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
Of metaphors and love
If you still care Don't ever let me know. If you forgive me For breaking your heart And for leaving you behind In that ****** town Of addicts and death Don't ever let me know. I'm coming to visit During the bitterest month And if you see me Don't say hello. I'll never forgive myself. I'll never let you know. I'll always love you. I'll never let you know. I'll never let you know. I'll never let you know.
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Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
this doesnt matter anymore I was just lonely
He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow, Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow, A low light twinkled from his shack’s window To tell about his sullen solemn presence, All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference, A deliberate language to declare his presence, A spirit of a person in a far-off existence. Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight Enduring his motionless future fairly light. A roving girl saw him once, once no more, Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night Tempted by affection and pacified by her right, Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door, Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor, While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound, ‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found, Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground, He was forever amused by their slight bitterness, To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness, Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower, On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger, whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’ Watching all night was a desire, even more than love, spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather, Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive, He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all, He never knew what people in town did say, About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose, In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose, For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.
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Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
Rose
He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow, Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow, A low light twinkled from his shack’s window To tell about his sullen solemn presence, All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference, A deliberate language to declare his presence, A spirit of a person in a far-off existence. Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight Enduring his motionless future fairly light. A roving girl saw him once, once no more, Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night Tempted by affection and pacified by her right, Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door, Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor, While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound, ‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found, Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground, He was forever amused by their slight bitterness, To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness, Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower, On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger, whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’ Watching all night was a desire, even more than love, spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather, Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive, He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all, He never knew what people in town did say, About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose, In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose, For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.
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31
Was an aperitif to an aphorism, An architect of aphrodisia, An apiary of my ever-buzzing thought. She slipped into me streamline: Maraschinos Into a Manhattan. Oh strike of sugar, Stain the bitterest days a red no chemical dispels. She was a cryptic gallipot Shelved in an apothecary At the Caelian's base. Her shape was incense wisps, her touch A song sung in 1940s noir, her locking gaze Eros himself. Alliteration ran thick through the blood. The paintings? Like Debussy composed. Nothing in the universe could’ve imposed Anything on her!— Quit it, you idiot... The admiration, the visions that adorn her: Subjectively supernatural— Maybe she’s just a girl, the way that you're a boy— No air of denigration. She was intricate, but altogether simple. I encountered her in stifled confessions. It was not the beauty of her face, the body That held her mind and laughter, not the dazed sting In my hand as it cupped in hers— It was her autotelism and her hope. And now her imaginings hang, Framed in my house; little landscapes of the heart she left; Retreats that prove I’ve loved and been loved.
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Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
She (Revisited)
the bitterest, bitter guiltiest, guiltier trying to reach out the flag out from here most hidden, more hidden can't...
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Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
anxiety and anxiety
She wrestled with her sanity like those who couldn't think Enduring its profanity, the bitterest of drink And as the taste began to drain from every single pore The girl who held the cup in hand tried settling the score But thirsty heads can only take offense to every move And in the end proclaim defeat, surrender what is due So spill it out, the time is now, as it has always been A glass of equanimity, unshakable by whim
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Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:50 PM UTC
So perfectly marooned
I don't think I have ever been so powerless I will spend every morsel of a moment with you before you go If you want me to I'll do anything you want to make this sweetness last To make the agony of you leaving me last before it turns to numbness You are great to be  powerless to, You are so easy to love And so easily love. This is the bitterest sweetness, I've ever had. The only sweetness I've ever had, Losing my only sweetness, Makes the taste of loss so bitter.   I never knew I could love like this. I never knew love could mean honesty and trust. I never knew it could mean tenderness and  lust. you make me a person I want to be around You helped me widdle away the stubborn and smooth out the self, in self esteem. Without your patient and hard working hands, my Self will turn rough and dull again. I'll have to face myself while you go off and carve out you're own dreams And leave me after you have shown me how sweet it all could be.
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Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Bitterness
426 It don’t sound so terrible—quite—as it did— I run it over—”Dead”, Brain, “Dead.” Put it in Latin—left of my school— Seems it don’t shriek so—under rule. Turn it, a little—full in the face A Trouble looks bitterest— Shift it—just— Say “When Tomorrow comes this way— I shall have waded down one Day.” I suppose it will interrupt me some Till I get accustomed—but then the Tomb Like other new Things—shows largest—then— And smaller, by Habit— It’s shrewder then Put the Thought in advance—a Year— How like “a fit”—then— Murder—wear!
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900
It don’t sound so terrible—quite—as it did