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Scot Oct 2018
Lost, can you find me?
I can't find myself
I thought this was going to be easier
It's just a living ****

There is no sense to it
Because just when you think
You've discovered who you are
You're back on the brink

Am I me and why am I here?
Don't tell me how to live
Don't come near
Stay in your place, lest you have something to give

I was young and couldn't find me
I was older, still not to be found
I am middle-aged and where am I?
Next stop is the ground

Is it possible to ever know?
Just who you are?
I despise those who think they know
I hear them near and far

Maybe it's because they don't see what is there
Can you not see that nobody cares?
What do you live for, now give it back
What you think you have is not yours

There is hope some say
I'd like to see it
I'd like to be it
I wish it were true

The truth is there's no hope
For me or for you
Will I answer for my worldly deeds?
It depends on who you ask, I'm still in the weeds

Some of my friends know the truth
Or so I should say
Because they are not here
But dead on this day

They know if there's heaven
They know if there's God
Some say I'm hellbound for asking
Isn't that odd?

For if He exists
And He may or may not
He's left only traces
That's really all we've got

So I remain lost
Each day is just a maze
I'm a living ghost
Floundering about in a daze
m Jan 24
being on the brink
for so long
makes me forget
what living unscathed
feels like

like how
would my love
be allowed,
with a heart
completely astray?

or how
do i go to you
now
knowing that
i'll fall down
right away?
you're used to pain so much it made you believe you are not worthy of anything.
Marina Kay Sep 2018
Half a decade in
that was all I needed,
all the time it took to see
the world was an insult to me.

Was I cursed at birth
to live on the brink of death?
Trapped in this trance until
Poseidon's realm pulls me to its depths.

My pursuits to meet him have gone astray.
Countless trials that end one way:
under bright lights,
in a hospital gown,
tubes, tests, nurses pinning me down,
and a hundred voices asking me why
Why oh why did I want to die?
Well I was muting the agony,
executing my destiny,
see daylight please, it's meant to be.
You can't stop me.

And Plath said it best
I do it well,
my scars could attest.

Perhaps I'm not as strong
as everyone once thought
The echoes whisper
“You never did belong”
Neither here nor there or anywhere.

I fear I'm nature's mistake.
For the hands of fate, I must partake
in this sacrifice
to begin my demise.
This shouldn't come as a surprise.

I was only five.
I thought I could survive.
It's been a while. Some of my thoughts haven't changed.
Eléa Oct 2018
you could touch my nose if you wanted
it would dip like a lily pad and
spring up a flower the colour of
the white of a newly-born paper,

ready to squiggle into it any scent
you want to give, to
open up the memories
of stories i told you when we were young, and the grown-ups
were sleeping and it was dark but


you could see my eyes, if you
gave the time, they glimmer frequencies
of ripples in ponds in silent night
when no one's looking,
and stars go backwards, up from the
water,

into the sky


and my lips, you could kiss, perhaps
if you understood how to trace meaning
with a forcelessness
from old heiroglyphics,

they quiver when they meet you
like stepping into speech
testing their pink against your langauge
ending up, full purpose
as a rose
at the bottom of my cheeks
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Roses are red and wood violets are blue.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets too.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.

I'm sorry I left, that I never came through.
I'm bringing you flowers—seems all I can do.

I just had to walk. I just had to think.
I just had to find my way back from the brink.

So I'm coming home with the smell of fresh dew
And rosebuds I've stolen like I once stole you.

Roses are red and sweet violets are blue.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.
I'm bringing home roses, wood violets and dew.
aziza Nov 2018
my brother learned life
in a rough way,
monday bloomed
red on his cheek
while friday left
bluish bruises for him.

i don't know about his pride,
but i see light in his eyes
dims and fades.
said, he never cries,

but he always lies.

my brother learned life
in a hard way.
he now suffers
addiction,
in a room with his console
to consume, then waste his times
wins nothing —— loses everything.


my brother is on the brink of despair,
he loves to stand off the cliff
as i watch him slowly walks away
said, he would not tries
to jump off

but i'm afraid,
he always lies.
#depressed #anxious #social #human#bully
ryn Oct 2014
On this carousel
You and I
Ringing bells
Time passes by

Scorching bulbs
Ornate bobbing horsies
Enchanting music
Tell of magical stories

I am here
On this side
You are there
Same ****** ride

Opposite ends
Placed we two
We can't see
But each other we knew

Friendly peeks
Directed to you
All I could afford
Keep you in view

Still rotating
Ride goes on
Chasing each other
No closer we've drawn

Enjoy the ride
Soak in the sights
Hold at bay
Reality that bites

Thought about
Getting off
Don't know how to
Come to a solve

Can't hold still
It's eating me alive
Can't just stay
Have to strive

Hand still holding on
One foot dangling
Second thoughts play
But bent on releasing

Take the first step
Don't overthink
Take the leap
Step off the brink

Close my eyes
Time is now
Just let go
Fate I must allow

Ready now
Time came to a freeze
one...two...
three...release


Now off the carousel
Cloying uncertainty
Never been here
Unknown territory

In the music
Found familiarity
Unsure if here
Is where I want to be

What do I do?
Wait a little more?
Hop back on?
Or await what's in store?

Glad I waited
Glad patience I found
There you are...
Coming back round
Madness plays in loops...
A sick little spin on the carousel.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
CK Baker Apr 2017
to exonerate the clipping
we took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the scape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey ~
the needles
and stragglers
(from shady bay)
remained in numbers
on the outskirt
of the park

the fabled town
of horse drawn tours
was stone washed ~
on the back of
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set on high tide
against the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddles
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerow trimmed
alongside the sea walk
rolling hills bend
before the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in back
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
(thanx all for the great suggestions)

<!>
women who wink

drive men to drink

together, glasses clink

tattoos follow in ink

and that ain’t the only thing

~

the tiller tied & forgot,

the slip knot jinxed

the sailboat nearly sinks

~

he cries aloud “you minx!”

I’m all done in,

you’ve got me sminked,^

you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink

~

she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,

“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,

count to cinq, don’t overthink,

join me overboard into the ****,

I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink

where drowning possibilities are next to nothink

promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
^Smink/To smink/Sminking/Sminked...pretty much any context you want.

When you smoke (strictly ****) and drink (alcoholic beverage of you choice) at the same time. Together these two factors get you wicked f’d up and create a great sminked out atmosphere.
Nina Kay Jul 2018
Where politeness reins supreme,
honesty becomes a ***** word
It's like your black sheep uncle stumbling through your cocktail party in a stained trench coat.
Nobody wants to see that ****.

Nobody wants to hear your truth.
Nobody wants the burden of carrying your story.
Barely surviving the weight of our own as we are.
We are an overwhelmed society on the brink of collapse.
Don't tip the scales.

Our forefathers may have bled on battle fields to make it home against all odds,
but we seek attention for a splinter;
rushing to the shrink
to shrink the post traumatic stress.

And so I muster phony smiles.
Delight in conversations about the weather.
And never ever tell you that I may not make it through this day.
Mark Tilford Aug 2018
of death
i do have regrets
(lighting  a cigarette)
now i get

1. not playing in the rain

2. not learning a name

3. causing tears from pain

4. time drained

5. a love not sustained

6. having some substance in my veins

7. not learning there was so much to be gained

8. always starting again

9. thinking all was my domain

10. staying wrapped in chains

etc.
Flavia Nov 2012
You and I were different
From all the Other kids
You and I had demons
that the others never did.
You and I felt feelings
never hesitant to share.
you had Gall to say the thing
that I would never dare.
You laughed at my mock confidence
and saw right through my Show.
You showered me with compliments
that sent me all aglow.
I was a writer on the brink
of breaking down in tears;
You wrote songs that spoke about
my pain for all those years.
You watched me weary eyed and tired
when life would be me down.
You told me "Show your bravery
and get out of this town."
"Follow me," you murmured
"There's a peaceful world beyond,
free from all insanity
where we'd laugh and share and bond."
"Don't be Silly!" I'd reply,
dormant in a daze
I never thought, I never saw,
till you vanished in the haze.
Your funeral was touching:
A mirror of your presence
Your words were read--Your songs were heard;
You're memory's effervescent.
So here's to you, my fallen friend
I raise my glass in sorrow.
Because never will I say again:
"Oh, I'll tell him Tomorrow."
Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
. . . there's a path that could not have been
can't be but shall be seen by wise eyes 
all seeing all knowing belonging to you 
yet not you in some form sideways 360
nonexistence up safe in a tree perched 
on the brink a vast ethereal forest 
nocturnal wide-eyed visionary
A tribute to  poet Byron Hoot.
Guadalupe Meza May 2017
There are times where I feel lost,
And even through lenses life's still a blur.
In this life even feelings come at a cost,
Even though there are people who would beg to differ.

Life always pushes us down to the ground
So we can feel the pain,
But it's our job to rebound
And reap our gain.

I say to **** with what they think,
They cannot define me.
I won't be pushed to the brink
Waiting to fall into the deep.

I just want to believe in who I can be
Without leaving the real me.
It's really hard to be the person you should be so I hope this will shine a little light on the dark path.
Mike Hauser Dec 2018
People are loopy
People ain't right
Inside of their heads
Out of their minds

People are nutty
Loco coco bean
Imaginary buddies
Putty for brains

People are batty
Fruit loops that fly
Come in different colors
Confetti minds

People are special
They say with a wink
Jumped the train trestle
Over the brink

Pick one or the other
No answer is wrong
It's all the above
When people are off
no one loves me
but they claim they care
if they really did wouldn't they see

i am falling apart
fragile to the touch
yet they keep on pushing me

closer to the edge
and they think i can take more
so they push farther till i'm at the brink

it's like they know i can't swim
but they are going overboard
and they'll be suprised when i sink
tbh i dont understand why so many people like this
Caroline May 2017
I remember how the clover was blooming
Reckless and scattered in vast
Swaths of golden sun
Bright and wild
Fragrant, free.

Across this pasture I remember
Flying, hands outstretched,
Rising in time to
His gaited steps.
His rhythmic breaths.

The scent of his clover-sweetened musk,
I remember, it was like
Earth and sage and rain
At dusk,

When you are crying in the barn,

Cradling his head,

In gentle, trembling arms.

I remember how the clover was blooming
At the brink of fall.
Reckless and scattered in
Thin swaths of graying tones,
Dying, free.
To you, my friend - my old brown horse. You taught me how to ride, and then my oldest daughter, and then her younger sister. Twenty-three years of riding through the clover. I miss you.
Lynnia Jul 2018
We were dueling with sparks
Now we’re juggling fire
Flame still starves in the dark
Never beaten or tired
Doesn’t dim with age
It can’t be blown out
Still alive with rage
Feeding on your doubt
It doesn’t think
And it can’t feel
Driven to the brink
Craving its next meal
Anger scorches your soul
Many have learned
If you play with fire,
you’re bound to get burned.
Anger scorches you from the inside out and letting the blaze speak for you has its consequences.
patty m Mar 2017
Cornered like a rat in a cage,
unable to vent my mental rage,
trembling on the brink of doom,
I stand submissive in my gloom.
I blink my eyes to hide the tears
and smile a smile to hide my fears.
I ***** my way through daily chores
and long to be behind closed doors.  
I focus on my paperwork
to chase away the thoughts that lurk.

The answers to questions are slow to arrive,
the curse of not knowing makes it hard to survive.
This stifling suppression creates a knot of suspense,
paralyzing my mind and makes muscles tense.
The mushroom cloud rises
the dread day is near,
my depression consumes me,
                                 I'm no longer here!
ryn Aug 2014
Hold my heart for ransom
In exchange for your sweet whispers
Kisses and sighs in tandem
Along with moonlit midnight capers

Take my heart as hostage
A willing one it would be
Deep within its bony cage
Working up into a frenzy

Hold my heart at knifepoint
Incised upon I've already bled
Over cracked notions and disjoints
Chasing after hope that hasn't fled

Brand my heart with your seal
Press into and make your mark
Folded within is all I feel
Behind your insignia so stark

Choose my heart for blackmail
Ask of me whatever
Hope to accomplish without fail
Hopes of us do not sever

Play my heart like a toy
Adore me and hold me tight
Handle me with child-like joy
Share with me, squeals of delight

Mould my heart of clay
Wrap your fingers, twirl me round
Make me worthy of another day
To celebrate your sight and sound

Lace my heart and tug at it
Pull me closer so I could be near
Bind me tight so I would fit
Coveted spot beside you, dear

Enslave my heart on all fours
Lead me through your universe
Close behind us, lock all doors
Subject me to love's greatest murmurs

Place my heart next to yours
Let me be enamoured to the brink
In due time, and on laboured course
Perhaps we would finally beat in sync
Nancy E Tracy Nov 2014
So full of life and vital things
upon the brink, I spread my wings
and close my eyes and look ahead
at all the things I've never said

at all the things I should have done
of prizes that I've striven for
and hopelessly have never won
of friends I've made
who've come and gone

Of mountains that I should have climbed
instead, on cushions I reclined
and thoughtlessly I drank the wine

of Apathy



So now that clouds have drifted by
and all alone, I lift my eye
and see the way to heaven's door
and know that life's worth fighting for

Next time I see a mountain high
I'll bound right up and touch the sky
I'll seek the prize and win this time
I'm not afraid, I'll take what's mine

won't rest on laurels in the sun
I'll fly to where the work is done
  and if it's worth the price I'll give,
of all I have, so we can live
in peace, I'll comfort anyone
who needs my help
to get things done

I'll thank the Lord for what he gave
his sinless life our souls to save

I'll hold my friends much dearer still
I'll share the wine, we'll drink our fill


No Apathy
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