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Tanay Sengupta Jul 2018
Us
How shall I obliterate those warm memories?
The sweet moments penned in my mind's diary.
Succumbed I was in your trance,
those passionate moves of our dance.
I was alive because you were there.
Nothing mattered, for all seemed fair.
To me, you were the only right.
In my darkest hour, you were the only light.

Then time changed its tide.
We left each other's side.
We became busy in our lives
And everything else just died.












Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
I wrote this a very long time ago, I think I was 20 back then. I think the poem is pretty simple and obvious, you can read through and get an idea. Ciao!
Pagan Paul Mar 6
.
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
.
Joseph Miller Oct 2017
Tiny curls of ink
on page after page
covered in a notebook
locked in a drawer
the silent voice
offers release
for grand ideas
and beautiful dreams
swirling in my mind

words of pain and delight
of love and hate
never made it to my lips
trapped in muted darkness
they stick to the sheets
never to change
never to betray
feelings that went
screaming onto the page

no one  will ever know
what lay hidden inside
buried with me
the pages crumble
silent feelings
turn to dust
Ocean T Dec 2017
she wipes away the tears of others
as if they were her own
and takes on their bruises
and scars
and ache
because she's an empath
that feels all and everything
like a blow to the chest
and a break to the arm

when they crumble
so does she.
For all the highly sensitive, deeply empathetic, people-watching, overly observant weirdos like myself. Trust me, I know what's it like to be tuned into the pain and hurt of those around me.
Aiden Phelps Feb 2017
The world around me is revolving slowly
While the people surrounding move faster & faster
As I am caught in between the fibers of time

Why am I here?
Do I even belong?

My only therapy is the songs I hear in my head
My only medication is the drugs that make me wish I were dead

I'm just a shell of my former self.
I'm not what I used to be.

It seems there's no resolution,
only an empty cell waiting for me in this institution.

Dear diary, please help me now.

There's only so much abuse I can inflict upon myself.

The cuts on my wrist, the empty bottle of pills
The lacerations on my fist, shaking from the anger still.

I've got my fix, each line getting me higher
The only answer getting clearer, as my lows keep climbing to the ladder.

My sanity escaping.
Depression creeping
As the ghost of death takes over me.

Oh diary, it seems it's goodbye to you and I.
It seems no matter what I do, the world isn't going to accept me.

I'll never belong.

I'll always be different.

Goodbye and goodnight.

I'll see you on the other side.

----------------------------

Dear diary, I'm an addict.

Yesterday was proof of concept.

Tomorrow is a death wish.

If I don't do something now,
I may never get to see the light of day.

Dear diary, please help me now.

Because I can't do this alone anymore.
I had a stint with drugs in 2012.

I felt like killing myself.

Now I know life is worth so much more.
zebra Jul 2016
I never ****
no
never go
against the will
of another

I am interested
in a certain
kind of dark angel

I have always dreamed
of dying
with my lover
inside of me
she coos
I am excited
by the danger
of dark alleys
hunt me sick boy
through dim city nights

her feet
sweeten the earth
with desire
corpuscular
with sparks
that ignite
the moon

who finds lifes
meaning on her knees
as if in prayer
for ****** intensity
no matter the cost
a sweet fat snail
wanting to be cooked
in butter

her deity
the solar phallus
she its supplicant
her **** dampened
in devotion
aching to be
mortally un wound
by an artist
of the despicable
her *** an
unguarded pearl
waring tiger pants

a true *******
she is my beloved
***** princess
lover of the venomous
revels in her abasement
a spilled bottle of perfume

inspired enigma
runs into a blades
like an embrace
searching for
plastic bags
poison
a razor
any thing that helps
that may take her
to a sapphire tunnel
of effulgent light

*** toys for
bad boys and girls
she says
inserting
hells kitchen utensils
jewels of ******
blood plush theater
now on a stained
linoleum floor
her perfect feet
wet
from onerous self hurting
a gory performance
exquisite poses
of impossible
tarnished yogas
as she stares into oblivion
**** soaking
desires rushing poem
of blood

she murmurs
with sweet kisses and *****
undo me slow
come on baby
thrilling her
like a steaming
Lilly pond bayou
of gators and snakes
that consume each other
for horror and sustenance
like the universe
she is a snake eating her self

tremulous with heat
at the thought
of her own demise
ready to caress
to **** in silky *****
and bleed puddles
until finally succumbing
to inescapable
dark water labyrinths
deaths embrace
tsunamis
flooding
*******

the blade sinking into my body
my **** a bond fire
for cruelty and adoration
a good flogging
to soften sir
decapitate
with a knife
something dull please

a headless woman
in flames
gently sways her hips
then crumbles
like a barren echo

your invited
to my carnation
of ruination
by hellish insertions

oh pain
pleasures food

she wiggles
like a modern dance
Aphrodite

sir please
a ligature and feral kisses
my throat begging
slowly squeeze
the life out of me
her mouth gapes
eyes bulge
with a
hideous blackened
stare
staring staring staring
blink-less

another calls
make my body
your ammo dump
filled with lead
small handgun.
several non fatal shots
lets do it in the bath tub
in the stomach
before the finishers
I do like my body to be used
before and after death
make it sacred
**** whats left
use my mouth hard
or turn me to ash
Pagan Paul May 28
.
Light hits my retina
through the prism of a tear,
distorted faces pass
with images fragmented
inside out
and the smell of tallow
as a candle splutters,
falters and winks out
for the wick collapses cruel
like a hamstrung dancer.
The tear exits stage left
and rolls down the wings
of a thoughtless cheek,
teeters on the brink of catastrophe
and falls upon a blank page,
reviewing its brief life
as a lazy metaphor,
so I look at the remaining solitary candle
and grieve for the lost tear,
as an understudy takes its place.




© Pagan Paul (28/05/19)
.
5th entry in Fool's Diary.
.
Pagan Paul Apr 23
.
Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.

Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.

Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.




© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
.
Follow up to poems Fool's Diary and Fools Diary (Addendum)
posted on Mar 6th and 8th 2019
.
Pagan Paul May 7
.
So the smoke coils
surrounding a stray thought
clinging to the vine
as it weaves threads
into a tapestry
of fermented grape wrath.
His pen crawls
across the pages of life
and ignores the punctuation,
a plague infected word flow,
his stream of catharsis.
But the babble
intrudes and sounds irk,
sending resentment forward
like an advance guard
to meet the violence
and deflect the onslaught.
And the wave dies
as the aggressor retreats
before motley defence.
But the mood
has been tainted, spoiled,
despite a flirtatious distraction.
And the flame flickers
as the smoke coils,
and tired eyes avert their gaze
from the perceived ***** page,
the excrement of misery
smeared to make nostrils flare,
and the entry is left
incomplete …




© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)
.
4th entry in the Fool's Diary
.
Pagan Paul Jun 4
.
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.




© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
.
6th poem in Fool's diary series.
.
Corey Mar 2017
I.
I wait for you in the dark.
My thoughts creeping in the shadows
waiting for the opportune time to pounce.
4:13am they attack.
I don't know what their goal is
or why they think
they have any control over me.
But without you to scare them away,
my mind is nothing but helpless prey.

II.
I hear the ocean waves
clawing at the shore,
begging for him to take her back.
I see myself on many days
seeking for release,
and for the knowledge that I lack.
Asking day after day,
"How do I keep these demons away?"

III.
Pandora's box
held back the evils of the world.
My blue box
holds back the evils of your love.
Pandora's box
was opened leaving only Hope inside.
Mine opens
showing me where those evils reside.
Now more like a gene trapped
than Pandora's without a lock;
I hold all these evils caged,
but they still scream through the box.

IV.
The girl with the candy cigarette
picking the dandelions
asked for a story most unique.
I looked at her and told her
the one about Apate,
the god of fraud and deceit.

V.
The bird away from the flock
begs to be back with its family.
A genius begs to be normal.
"Get me another beer."
Over and over again I beg.
"Another round."
"Just one more."
"Get me another beer."

VI.
My house is full of many things,
but my home is all but empty.

VII.
I look through pictures
that once asked to be printed.
Now I ask them to be deleted,
but no matter how hard I beg
I simply cannot let myself do it.

VIII.
I climbed to the roof of Africa
and stared the stars in their eyes.
I asked of love and got silence returned.
Of life and got nothing learned.
Of pain and got no relief.
Of you and got nothing but grief.

IX.
The fan dries my throat over night
the same way you did the love of my life.

X.
Would your eyes glimmer and weaken
if I uttered the word cancer;
If I told you the very reason
was the cigarette you once lit
when you told me
I wasn't what you believe in.

XI.
The spark lights up this darkened place.
Instant, and quickly gone.
The thunder booms from miles away.
Lost, but still living alone.
Rain trickles on window panes.
A storm long gone,
but still calling my name.

XII.
Rejoice. Rejoice. Rejoice.
I think to our time together.
Relive. Re-lust. Revive.
I wish for a better story,
a better memory for me to treasure.

XIII.
Exhausted from the night
but the morning brings no light.
When I think of you,
I'm lost.
Memories flood the road
bringing the ground underneath
with it.
Exhausted from the day
but the night wont take it away.
Jaxey Feb 28
The weight of only a pound
And yet at the same time
Holding the secrets
My back couldn't handle carrying
Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine
Sienna Oct 2018
every time i reach out
there's no one there
it's dear diary
every time i type a word.

and every time i press send
i must remind myself
it's dear diary
and he's not coming back.
Callie Richter Oct 2017
I was born on April 5th in Harlan, Iowa. I've always hated when snow is still sitting on the ground by then.
My mom never once showed me affection, bringing me to parties and leaving me with strangers.
What about my dad, you ask? I'll dig in my desk drawer and find the piece of paper that lists seven possibilities because I've always craved what I'll never have.
But on a happier note, I was adopted as a three-month-old baby.
I spent my childhood with my nose shoved in a book way above my expected reading level.
By the fourth grade, I was in love with sports, especially, soccer.
My alcoholic grandpa was by far my biggest role model because I could only see light in people at that age. About once a season I'd see his rickety old truck pull up on the wrong side of the field to get a front row seat of my soccer game.
When I was thirteen my grandpa passed away. I still watch every Cubs game for him and dream of travelling the east coast like he always used to do.
By the time I was fourteen I was into the most popular things at my high school, they definitely weren't in my best interest. You see, I've always tried too hard to fit in.
Yes, I'm hearing all this about who you used to be, but Callie, who are you now?
Who am I now?
Well.
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
My favorite color is light blue.
I have an older brother, whom I love dearly.
I love watching football and screaming at the t.v. during any Dallas or Iowa State game.
I'm proud of my home team in every possible sport and cheer as loud as I can when we're winning and even when we're not.
I love watching That '70s Show while sipping an Arnold Palmer.
My home away from home is walking the beaches of Okoboji until it gets chilly enough to start a bonfire.
My biggest passion is, by far, playing soccer. I love the feeling of strapping on shin guards and tightening cleats before I run out of the locker room all hunched over trying to get my hair in a ponytail and get outside so I have enough time to warm up before practice.
I wake up every single morning to my alarm of my favorite music with a smile on my face ready for the day to begin.
Stop.
I said who are you now?
I mean really. Who are you?
Who am I now?
Well.
Sometimes I dream about getting married to some boy without a face, just to take his last name and rid the sin that comes along with being a Richter.
I cried in the bathroom stall at school the first time I heard a rumor that was spread about me. I tell everyone that by now I'm used to it, but the truth is each one buries me again.
I throw myself into physical activity and school sports because the sweat and heavy breathing puts my mind at ease and gives me a sense of accomplishment. Throwing myself into my school work obviously, doesn't have the same effect.
The boys at school still give me side glances, give me propositions, and make wisecracks about me being easy because maybe they'll have a chance, not to date me but to get with me because of rumors they heard over a year ago.
I'm so insecure about so much of myself that most days I would much rather crawl under a rock and die than show my face in the hallways between the bells.
Don't tell anyone I told you this though.
You must keep it a secret.
I mean, what would people think if they knew?
I think it's better off that they just see me as...
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
Lost Jan 16
I wrote a poem one day
That made my blood feel hot in my veins
So I tore at my skin like a scratch ticket
Until I won my liquid red prize
I smeared it on the page
And looked at what I did with tears in my eyes
I hid it for months but couldn’t stop being afraid
So I biked over to the neighborhood lake
And I threw the diary I bled in
As far as a could into the water
But my blood never stopped growing hotter

I clawed and gouged all of my limbs
Trying to bleed my way out of my skin
I didn’t know what I was doing
But I knew it must be hid
Because before the diary was thrown
I remembered that poem
I took the tip of the sharpest pencil
And tried to carve it
one letter a day
Into my arm
I started to keep my sleeves down
And fear set in
So I took that same pencil
And scratched it out of my skin

People started to notice then
And ask what happened to my arm
So I learned to make excuses
And better hide my self harm

Back then I was twelve
I read two to three books a day
But nothing and nobody I knew about
Made what I did make sense
I didn’t know why I did it
I just knew I had to
And now I hate to look back
It just makes me sad to

Innocent baby girl
Marring sweet young skin
It took seconds to do it
But years until the gravity set in
I still wouldn’t take it back
Despite all the countless scars
Because it all leads to the fact
That I am who I am now
Because of what I did then
Pagan Paul Mar 8
.
And so he sits
once more
folding his life
into an origami box.
Paper walls,
cellophane ceilings.
Counting out syllables.
Sequenced
to twist-**** the mind.
And quietly
he sits
ghosting the room.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
.
An extra piece to my poem Fool's Diary posted 2 days ago.
.
Nico Julleza Sep 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Drowsy, as the eyes of mine sleeps
a joyride of fantasies, a jumping of sheep
so, the pages turning mama would red
while my feet are falling and
my arms up my head, hands unsaid

with a gentle rock and a soft abye
I'm off to dream land as I fly
silk of red swooped to the entrance gate
a little slip, a little slide till it fade
and gently I landed at the pearly lake

A boat by Venice caught me alone
with the breeze scented, so cold as snow
and Grims hoisting a whooper
a sure one they'll never throw
passing here and there and off they go

storms of Neptune came up the sea
big waves flung, I swung towards east
clovers led me to an isle and said
"How Lucky you'll always be"
no more thunders but just all reverie

A twirl to the woods, exciting it be
with beams of the moon
and the stars sitting on the tree
lights flashing, a calm of ebb
the spiders glistening, an artistic web

dream land is promising
like vines that whip and crawl
bearing fruit to bless us as we call
with roses of red, daisies blooms at dew
mama's lullaby at once, I knew
#Dream #Land #Mama #Lullaby #Adventure #Nature

Sleepy Poets.. Here's A Masterpiece for You. Enjoy Dream Land

The Boy Hasn't Awaken. And the Journey Continues Soon..

The Boy's Name Was "Drew James Everdream"

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
graceunderfire Oct 2018
here I am,
still holding onto you,
just like I did when I was fourteen.

here I am,
re-reading all I've wrote:
    "February 7th 2015, Tuesday,
     12:30pm"
    "March 5th 2015, Thursday, 9am"
    "May 20th 2015, Wednesday,
     11:10am"
    "May 22nd 2015, Fri... May 28th
     2015, Thurs... May 29th, June 1st.."

It's been three whole years,
we're coming to the fourth,
your ten digit number,
is still at the tip of my fingers.
  
             Why is it so hard to move on?
             We weren't even together.
             We didn't even have a song;
             Weren't even friends for that
              long.

I guess at that moment I was just so happy,
I lost track of all of the who, what, when, how and whys.
I got lost between sweet words and care,
Then when it all just ended
;

         But I guess that's how we love
         right?
         We don't think, we just love,
         We just care, we just give.
         That alone is so beautiful.
         That alone makes us smile.

          But you see, if it takes a turn,
          And you realise far too late,
          That you have given all of you,
          Now you have nothing left for
          you.
          You know that you're broken,
          But still, you tell yourself it's
          love.
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