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Val Ajdari Nov 2016
Arrow upon arrow the poisoned heart endured,
Strife and doom its woeful dream ensured.
Vile phantoms of creed with deception en route
Intended to thwart, unveil their wicked fruit.
Then satan withered the spirit's purpose and flame,
And gathered an earthly militia; among those to blame.
A maze encrypted, the light yet unseen,
All prospects stolen, great efforts wiped clean.
Creative the mind twilight art it presented,
The Sphere's evil hosts were reflected and resented.
Lost was all hearing, faith and sight,
Misplaced sense of wonder and good sense in flight.
"I worship nothing!" our soul once preferred,
Such was the spirit in high degrees deterred.

       "Paragons of justice, will I ever get to see
The day my misfortunes cease to be?
They shadow, entrap and starve my soul
Of love and joy and all control!
So tired I am, and tired I shall stay
If purpose here is merely to convey
No purpose at all, except for one:
To enslave the soul, casting punishment for fun.
My simple wish, then, is simply to impart
An end to this misery and to my sanctioned heart."

       Our despairing soul put in motion so
An idea most frightening, its telling shall forego...
But immerse in their demise, allow for stricken grief,
Then foresee the King's hands and His graciousness in fleet.
He gathered around, with love He replaced
Satan's troubled minions conspiring in space,
And severed The Pit's shackles with incomparable might,
He then enlightened our soul, who could not see the light.
All calls to heal had reached The King's mystical vibrations,
Had released the soul and nullified its  limitations.
Profound divine knowledge our soul now espies;
Seeing The King's glory and the destroyer's lies.
Great wisdom and revelation now fill our faithful heart,
Yet, a tale best left for another form of art...
Butch Decatoria Dec 2018
In the land of the wasteful

The flesh is bound to despairing

Unmovable feasts

All dreams dreamt away

In the shallows of sleep

As transient as blood

Orange shades of clarity

In the mind blindly

seeking sun

sincerity and kindnesses

Not those in the land

Of the wasted…

Pain is as hollow and as full as

The hearts of mannequins

When already the broken who pose

Now lets go, passed long ago

Since childhood's end

Not having known

To recognize

Or find oneself

In the beauty of a world

We played pretend.

In the land of waiting

For our sadnesses to end

Waking up alone

After all

In the land of ungrateful men.

(The kind have gone extinct

once again.

The End.)
Time travel is forbidden. So speaks the mind.
Efa Nuryani Nov 2018
Part 2.

The cracking smile on her face, faded as he lifted her hands away. Propagating a gap between them, granting the cold air a territory,
to crawl among the spaces.
There was an interval silence before she broke it.
"Would it hurt you if I chose something beautiful?".
Deep down, she truly wished that it wouldn't.
She then profoundly started studying him who was strenuously absorbed into fathomless thoughts.
Another deadly silence filled in the room.
To her great misery, he murmured, "I don't know."
Along with a vulnerable gaze and a despairing smile, she let the words escape, "Tell me the truth then, will you?"
He raised his eyebrows, "should I?"
She nodded, as she barely knew that he was slightly nervous,
"This," he paused, "thing between us, I don't want it anymore."
She was in a dazed, having a hard time to conceive his sentence and approbate the bitter fact that he quit loving her.

Graff1980 Apr 18
The light shines in
through the window,
brightens up
the blue smoke,

and all I know
is a good ****
me feel
less broke.

Spent six days
just staring
at nothing,
don't feel like moving
cause I'm despairing,
paring my pain
with some
***** and a joint.

I feel like ****
and smell
just like
I took a bath in it.

My specter like
is closer to perfection
then my
real life complexion,

And the point that
I'm making
is non-existent
just like my hope
for the next day is.
Fictional reflection of former states of severe apathy that became deep depression.***
Deadwood Jawn Nov 2018


He's dead.
He was hurting after all..
He needed love.
Nobody validated him.
It was me he wanted..
I wish I didn't say that to him..
I didn't know that was his
last day.
By the wrists.. A fitting end.
We couldn't save him.
I just needed to see him once.. Maybe things would've been different.
Jesus ******* Christ. He was serious.
He isn't suffering anymore.
And by the sounds of anguish
He is finally free.
Written during a time of suicidal fantasies.
His words inspire when times turn sad.
His tone so gentle when motions mad.
You’ll take him for granted,
He’s unceasingly there,
I write down my thoughts,
Too convey how I care.
His advice will travel,
Down my descent line,
Those expressions bring comfort,
In despairing times.
He’s not consistently fair, nor eternally right,
His actions justified with insight.
I could go on, as there's more to say,
But short and sweet, is his way.

I am his daughter,
He is my Dad -
And thanks to him,
life’s not so bad.
Evan Stephens Jan 2018
Here I am
in the deep curve
of the pavement's push
toward salt-bleached ends.

There is a stillness
within my ear
so that I only hear
my hanging breath,
wreathes of frost
like smoke rings
in the dried sub-zero.

Snow is coming,
probably the usual
Mid-Atlantic dusting,
though it falls fat
like the soap flakes
that I poured
from a box
when I was
a child.

I distrust quiet.
I need noise
& music
& voice
to still my inner self.
It reminds me
over and over
I don't belong,
I don't belong.
Snow dulls the world,
wakens the mind.

The late night thoughts
are far the worst.
They part me out
like a side of meat
under the butcher.
I lay on the bed,
the cat kneading my gut,
& I think yes, go ahead,
turn me inside out.

The snow comes
as an ambush,
though you could almost
sense it, vaguely.  
The traffic slows
until only
the city trucks pass,
with the rattle
of rock salt
which skitters like dice
across the face of the street.

No more passersby
under the yellowed blush
of the streetlight.
Windows of the neighboring
buildings are closed
against the buckling gusts
of wind so cold it hurts.

Nothing left against the snow
except myself.
When the mind begins
its thoughtful treason,
& advances the first pawns
in a despairing game,
I have no good defenses.

Open the window,
catch the scent of snow
over the world,
& feel attuned
to the many pieces
of the clouds,
that fall and fall
until they vanish forever.
Graff1980 Oct 2018
Do you ever wonder why
there is a severely short supply
of truly nice guys?

I can’t believe
that you are surprised,
how you cry
about the jerks that
cheat and lie.

There was a gentleman,
a considerate human being,
who was genuinely caring,

but he learned his lesson well,
stopped daydreaming
and caring,
stopped despairing,
stopped showing up
to hear about your bad luck
with the dumb ****
dump truck
of abuse,
that you kept defending
and running back to.

The young one
who had so many
loved ones
run from
straight into the arms
of dangerous men
has taken all his
romantic notions and trust
and departed
with an angry and broken heart.

That is where the nice guys
have all gone.
JaxSpade Aug 2018
Sometimes we feel
Dispirited and Crestfallen

By the world
And all its

It's so despairing
Dejecting and woebegone

It seems a neverending blue
Wrapping around you
Pulling your smile down

And devouring

   There is a cure
Called ice-cream

Feel like a kid again
With a few licks
You'll forget about
      The sad things

The cool cream
      Vanilla swirl
In chocolate covered eye dreams

Don't be conquered by the world
And all it screams

Just grab your self a cone
Of your favorite flavor known

And enjoy the cure
Called ice cream
Bo Tansky May 15
Artists are always trying to configure the landscape with invisible ink. So, it seems. The kind you can't see at first (a thought, a wish, a desire)  and with an incredible thirst for life. Maybe survival may be because they're afraid, maybe afraid to be swallowed up by some demonic invisible force. No filter to tune out all the little things you see.  You're fed up with all the analysis. You need to purge. Uh- such an **** word. Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Try purify, justify, express, clean up, cleanse. remove, sanitize, vent, erase. On and on.  Morph it, whatever it may be, into some form of art. Some of it splatters, some of it matters, some of it doesn’t.  Not art for art's sake. Too difficult. Too contrived. Too much work, but mostly the art of necessity. A flow or a push, whatever the case may be. An inexorable need, a hunger, a vacuous perpetual emptiness that cries out for needing.  The expression of something lacking in me. Oh, poor, poor pitiful me.  Control was never the issue. No issues were ever released before they're time.

Such a need to get in touch with my possessive adjectives or am I just possessive. So how does this relate to you? Everything does but you like me. I could leave it there. I won't. You like me don't like some parts of you. Yes, that's it.

Try it on for a fit.

Does it fit?
It should fit because I feel it fits and then moments come.

They're excruciating.

They’re despairing

They’re painful.

They hurt.

They drive me to my knees.

I think I'm possessed.

I hide.

I hide behind my invisible ink, with you.

Yet I am never alone.
I know you're not there but really does it matter.
You always have something to do, somewhere to be and then something else to do, to be, to do, to be, inexorably. Why do I use this word continuously?
You have turned your moments of reverie into a painting, a song, a poem, a dialogue, a whatever and ever. Never and never to just let it be. I scream but no one hears.

Can anyone tell me why I wrote this terrible scenario?
I thought I was the authorship of me, of my life, my script.
Can anyone tell me why I can’t write you back into my life?
Someone has sabotaged my authorship.
Not to sound paranoid, but I think negative entities have taken up residence in me.
I have cast them out invisibly with prayer and intention, but if nothing changes, I’ll know it was me.
I’ll post this now just to see if anyone can relate.
I don’t want to be all alone - with a poem I can’t write.
I don’t want to be all alone with just me.
I miss my doggy.
She loved me unconditionally.
Bless my mother for she is good.
She’s better than me
The better part of who I am

Blessed are our mothers
Their immaculate hearts
The gift of life

No wishful
“Wants” take us to Obsession.
“Need” will lead to despairing.

No fault
Of heaven, motherly
Warmth of home.

Thank goodness for the strength
Of mothers.
The better part shaping me

i am my mother’s
Another man.
zoe May 18
Despairing pain
Weights in your lungs
Rhythmically know
You can numb it
Debbie Lydon Feb 3
I'm told that feeling and love are innate,
So why can't I communicate.
I'm despairing and longing for human connection,
But I'm met with indifference or even rejection.

Internally I harbour thoughts of kindness,
But they wither in the wake of external blindness.
I'm obsessed with truth and authenticity,
And this comes at the detriment of anyone knowing me.

An extreme fear of misunderstanding remains,
Despite me knowing that this is my ball and chain.
A depleting hope lingers on in my dreams,
So fragile and weak, a mere ember it seems.
A poem concerning the anxiety surrounding the difference between the way you are perceived and the way you perceive yourself. A fear of misunderstanding is ever present in a society that is fueled by facades and a cold approach to eachother. It causes pain and this is becoming more and more overt in our day to day lives.
sushii Aug 2018
you say that loving the same *** is worth hating.
you say that these people
for their unchosen sin should be paying,
but deep down, you’re the same.
you wake up every morning
hating the same day.

you say that another skin color is what they should be wearing,
but really, you are also truly despairing.

you tell them to be this,
and be that.
you tell them that they’re too skinny,
or too fat.

you tell them how to be and who to be—i wish you could see through your hypocrisy.

because all colors of the rainbow are pretty.

because every size is alright.

because these people try with all their might.

because being different shouldn’t be met with fright.

let us all dance together

and fade into this beautiful night.
now i've always had my vices
one at a time like my lovers.
and like my lovers, too,
they make me feel when all else is naught.

when i was a girl
with long long hair
as yellow as the sun
and eyes
which had only just begun
to hide,
her name was Maggie
and it felt so good-
like puppy love-
and it came in the form of
whatever was sharp enough
to draw blood.

and then
i had opened myself
to the world,
and her name was Gwen.
and she held me
for longer than ever before,
and it came by day
and it came by night,
and my fists kept pounding
until the bruise was bright
green in color
and spreading

and then i found help
(along with myself)
and i did not need to cut
or to hit
and her name was Adriana,
and i felt alive alive alive,
and for once i was not
despairing the fact.

and then a wave crashed down
and my lungs filled up
with salty
and her name was Katherine,
and she was my best friend,
and i drank until
i could not

and time went on
and my mouth did too,
and i found myself
in Love.
the lightest kind
of feeling,
and I can't help
but cry
just thinking about it.
And her name was Sarah,
or Wisconsin,
or Crosby,
and it was a billow
of smoke shaped hemp
that drifted up from my lips.
this was the easiest time of all.

and then it crashed down-
not a wave, but my body-
and i found myself alone
and her name-
their names-
well, i can't remember.
and it came in the form of a pill
or a few,
and i hurt myself laughing
at the dumb morning dew,
and i hurt myself thinking
of my future,
run through.
and i hurt myself back
in the first way that i knew.

my blood dripping down
through the soft cotton wipe,
it's just how i thought
that i would
end my life.
i'm good dog it's just wild
serina lewis May 16
‘poetry is unfair
for those who’ve arrived late,
there’s no new words left out there
poetry is stressful
because how can the english language expect us to wrap our souls into just a handful?
poetry is rude
feelings have to sound pretty
though life is actually quite crude
poetry is limiting
there’s only so much paper, lead, and ink
and there’s never been enough to get across what i think
poetry is too demanding
forcing our thoughts, our dreams, and our plethora of feelings,
to make some sense
to appeal to others
to stay within the coherent fence
and poetry is competitive, a jealous ***** at that
we’re all so rushed to send our souls into combat
because the last thing we’d want is to be deemed a copycat,
it seems to me that we all crave is to be deemed something or someone, as long as it’s “unique”
poetry is confusing
because in all reality, each soul has of languages its own variety,
and value to society
it matters how we speak
but not with the languages you can learn from a dictionary
it’s the ones deep inside us, that you may not be hearing
that tell who we are
both pretty parts and scary
but who is poetry to expect me to know when someone is forest green, though appear seafoam?
i’m pretty spot on when it comes to my colors
i’m still scared so it’s rare that i voice them to others
because poetry is contradictory
for example, i know i’m not the only one in the world who’s got colors in their head, chaotically swirled, or at least that’s what i hope
but whether or not there’s someone wandering near,
feeling lilac tunes passing also through their ears,
their poems to mine could be completely opposite
to me, yellow’s eminent
but to them, possibly irrelevant
and it’s so **** frustrating
because we can’t all be right, can we?
society picks their favorites
and the rest of us are negated, painfully invalidated’
this form of art, this way of life is so unrealistic that it should fill me with strife
but it doesn’t
and there’s a reason why

because poetry is fair
be the first or the last,
the whole point is to share, we were not put here to strip others bare
use whatever there is that takes ahold of your soul,
who cares if it’s new, used, broken, or old?
it came from you, from your entity it poured
this arrangement of words, feelings, and selves
they’ve never seen this before
poetry is a release
it’s gifting to you the stitch to your seams that’s been slowly tearing, the most recent cause of your despairing
for me, when i’m writing, it stitches me up with each letter from my cup becoming a word that becomes a phrase, one step closer to the glory days
when the english language will lose it’s power
and no longer have my soul in a haze
the english language is over exaggerated
we treat it with such respect
and tell ourselves it has something of us to expect
but it’s just letters, syllables, and sounds
it has no real power over us and by that i mean
it holds  us to no real bounds
poetry is real
all it is, is what we feel
and when we feel, there are no obligations
there’s no “should” or “shouldn’t”
you don’t have to keep up some fake reputation
feelings don’t have to be pretty
and life doesn’t have to be crude
your truth is your truth
so just write, and to yourself don’t allude
poetry is limitless
because while you may run out of space on that page, and yes it’s annoying to not have a place to keep going, you’re not confined to a cage inside your notebook lines
you don’t need the pencil lead to know that there’s something going on in your head
paper is limited
but we,
our souls,
we’re infinite
poetry doesn’t ask for much
just that were true and we do it for us
“to make sense” is too generalized of a concept
being as “sense” means something entirely different to all of us
i’ve had a problem with coherency, it’s never really agreed with me
but that’s only because i’ve convinced myself that i need to convince others
and that is impossible
people will see what they see and they’ll believe whatever they think you mean when you show them your poetry
but no amount of explaining is going to give someone else your eyes
you can try all you want to appeal to the crowd
you can scream what you really mean, but it doesn’t matter how loud
they’ll take it as they need to
so you might as well just write it all for yourself
poetry is confusing
and you’re never going to fully logically understand a poem that didn’t come from your hand
but that’s not the point, never was
the point was to put most things on pause,
and listen without your ears
to be able to hear somebody else’s “because”
poetry alone does not have rules
it’s our tedious brains and overwhelming insecurities that give these common misconceptions their fuel
“unfair, stressful, rude, limiting, demanding, competitive, confusing, and contradictory”
these are all words we throw, at ourselves and the art, when we’re scared
and our self-esteem is falling apart
and we’re worried we’ve done something wrong
but in art,
when you truly identify with whatever it was you felt enough to amplify,
you can’t fail
this form of art,
this **** way of life,
this ******* paradise
is one of the best reasons that i am alive
and why i’m able to do so much more than just simply survive
i'm not hating on poetry obviously, just keep reading till the end<3
Atsillac Apr 29
Took a deep breath in...
I let out a sigh.

I feel so empty inside.
Can anyone hear my despairing shout?
Will anyone understand my sigh?

The days seems so long.
Yet darkness still come after the endless day.

Will any comforting words heal my wounded heart?
In the end, they are just words.

I took a deep breath in again,
Empty my mind as I hugged myself.
I let out a sigh.
"You did well today."
Tommorow is another day and will be a BETTER DAY☀
D Letwixt Oct 2018
In such short delay
The dewdrops of that awaited day
May appear awhile with hurried breath
for soon again they meet their death
They sway and shudder like ringing bells
Sound their pleasant tones through field and dell

Lay thy love in glossy meadow
And her eyes may drift from other shores
She may long be present here
and lands far away may be memories mere

but take this solemn note
That when dewdrops cease to ring their chimes
And breathe in shudders at their release
Cold wind will carry them far away
Love will follow- on that despairing day

And with the haste that it began
The cool ground will be cold again
Sullen desolation lures the bitter cold
Shimmering stars have ceased their glowing
As they look down with eyes of sorrow
To take away on silent tear
All that passed before me here
meadow dewdrop memory tear sorrow cold love lost
Graff1980 Jan 27
Daylight shades
paint the frames
and Instagram pages
with beautiful smiles
and short blond locks
that look out at
the world with
a certain
Snapshot moments
of social projections
pushed out onto
the internet
so strangers
can view
those small lies,
these pictures
do not know
or show
a quarter of
the truth.

Behind the
staged displays
of fun and cosplay
there are
dark shadows
with deep corners
where broken hearts
bleed clutching
their bruised wrists
and split lips.
Where blood drips
on the cracked tip
of the kitchen
counter top.

There are
repeated rapes,
cruelty and denial,
honesty rejected,
and despairing.
There is
a sense of
to not let this
define her life.

There is abandonment
from those who should have
safe guarded
her pulsar heart,
there is
and while
the darkness
has not swallowed
her soul whole
she still finds time
to give light  
to a friend
who was trying to lend
a compassionate ear
to her.

These photos
do not dare
to chart the depths
seldom shared,
or explore more
then mere outward

There is so much
left to see, hear,
and hold dear,
deep conversation,
and psychology
that are enlightening,

so much more
then mere flesh,
or hastened breathed
burnt by
desirous men
and their
unwanted intrusions.

There is dark art
and a heart yearning
for the burning
of an honest
and caring love,
one that runs
from safe fields
searching desperately
for the person they need
to protect
because to do otherwise
would destroy their life.

These photographs
are little lies
that we put out in the world,
smiles that hide
possible fast
or very slow
especially if
there is
no one
ever around
to ask
“Are you ok?”
and if not
then to ask
Jesus A Feb 22
My mouth which could once smile in gladness,
and inspiring stories recite,
now may only curse in anger.
full now of woe and deep despairing
say one farewell,
my sorrow sharing

— The End —