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mariamme May 2018
i like those boys
who stand in corners
pretending they don't care
about the boys who do
those boys whose anger
drains existence
and they refuel through
*** and money and shoes
the bassline in their fast cars
that mimics their pulsing fear
that life isn't for them anymore
so they feed into the cycle
pretending they don't care
standing in corners and
smoking ***** with girls
throwing money around so
they feel powerful enough
to push down their fear
into the dirt under their nails
raking ****** tears at night
caught in their feelings
and i like those boys
i know their desperation
covered in blood money and ***
and tire tracks on their chest
life and death beats dully
so they beat it back, harder
we all have our masks.
You were mine
You were my words and my thoughts
The whisper in my ear
Singing to me a song only I was blessed enough to hear
But the melody faded,
Dissipated into nothing but a hum
Now I dully strain to make the song remain
Yet it has grown so quiet
That when I try, all I hear is rain
Efa Nuryani Jun 17
The room was dim, with a little spark of shady blue
Though she could sense the catastrophe prying, she laid herself down there, dully
Her inclination of the prejudice
Left her, drained
Foreseeing a vast ultimate chaos
To an undeniable disastrous end

The night had been too long.
WistfulHope Sep 2018
I once felt like words gave me power
Like they gave my quiet shell of a self a leg to stand on
Now I feel like I have none left to speak, to write
I've been drained of verbs and left broken -- immobile
My adjectives fall soft and simple, even the deaf don't pretend to hear
It's strange
Being so far removed from the one you called yourself
I don't know what there is left for me to say
It's like being a young musician on stage
And people have slowly stopped cheering as they realized
You have no more tunes left to play
Yet I've stood frozen, stuck, despite myself
I'm waiting for them to come back
The words
The crowds
The self that I used to know
That I thought I did know
I haven't a clue to where they've left, to where they'll go
But I hope that they find it
The messages they seek
I can no longer provide them
My inkwell bone dry
My spirit missing it's former vibrance, now dully meek
They once called me wicked
I thought it ironically sweet
That for someone so bitter
Many worshiped me
It's been a while, I think, since you all got a nice wordy note from me.

I've been writing poetry for...8? 9? years now... And I've gotta say, I legit cannot tell if I've gotten better or worse. I used to write because I was ****** at life, or violently angry with myself, or if I wanted to do bad things. I don't feel like that anymore. Pretty much never. I've survived some ****, but now (all things considered at least) I'm starting to thrive a bit. When I was at my height of popularity on this site, or at least what my very ****** up and disillusioned perceptions gathered to be the height of it, I was sick. I was having regular dissociative episodes, was severely depressed, engaging in self harm in a variety of forms nearly daily, and very suicidal. If anyone is going through some ****, please seek help, and hold on. I promise it gets better. But yeah. When I was very aggressively using this site as an outlet, I amassed a good sized follower count and trended almost daily. The only poem I ever had make daily poem (which btw was toward the beginning of my worst downward spiral ever) was about hanging myself. Like what the **** lol. But if I helped people -- or even just one someone somewhere -- feel less alone, then I'm glad. But ever since I had started to get better I got less attention here. Which is kinda a weird feeling. I'm not sure if it's cause my writing started to **** or if I got less 'interesting' for lack of a better term, or maybe a mix. Or maybe it's all the changes this site has had over the past 4 years since I joined. Either way, it's weird... I feel like I don't know how to keep writing or improve... Idk, I'm just kinda...
stuck. ...This has been a stream of consciousness.

Anyway, I love you all. And in a special way those of you who have left this world for another. I will never forget you.
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
Lurking in my mind
disruptive thoughts
I may temporarily lose
but always find
these thoughts never
disperse fully
never diminish nor
dim down dully
reappearance of a lost train of thought
I held up the double edged sword
and fought
truths I was not ready to handle
blew out the
smoke rose slowly
My god,
you are quite holy
darker thoughts
bring forward an inner truth
never entertain the uncouth
Dawn Bunker Aug 2018
Howard Dully was twelve years old
when Dr. Freeman felt so bold
to dig around inside his head
a wonder that he isn't dead.

The year was 1963,
when Howard had his lobotomy.
He never even had a clue,
of what his parents planned to do.

The name Freeman gave to his personally designed
lobotomy knives.
They went under Howard's eyelids 3 centimeters
from the mid line and parallel with the nose.
Driven to a depth of 5 centimeters he pulled the handles
laterally, returned them halfway, and drove 2 centimeters
deeper.  He touched the handles over the nose, seperated
them 45 degrees, elevated them 50 degrees, and at this point
he probably
smiled to himself.
For now they were parallel,
and ready for photography before removal.

An angry stepmom arranged it all,
she made the final judgement call.
They labeled Howard as insane....
opened him up, and juggled his brain.

Howard survived because he was still growing.
Not fully developed,
his brain would keep going....
off in directions he couldn't control
but never condeming
the depths of his soul.

Not long ago I read his book.
I felt intrigued to take a look.
I hope, dear reader, you do the same.
Remember his story,
remember his name.
Howard Dully's book was published in 2007, and it went on to become a New York Times bestseller. Howard coauthored the book with Charles Fleming, and it is titled My Lobotomy.
Black treacle,
a spoonful gums your mouth shut,
makes a mind opaque.

Raindrops disintegrate dully
against glass,
a tumble of thunder.

A car door is closed,
gurgle of key in lock,
inside - vacant spaces.

Somewhere a child is doing
all the things you haven’t done,
little gatherers,

gaining what you’ve never had,
or what fell out from your pockets
when you tried to run.
Written: July 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Chase Parrish Mar 23
Is poetry a way to cope with pain?
My chest throbs dully in low agony.
You see, heartache is a physical thing.
It hurts as if it's any wound to me.
I'm not afraid to state my malady,
Depression is what resides in my brain.

And it's the way it manifests, I hate
In doubting in myself, and what I'm worth
In old memories, losses, things of weight
Frustrations pop and boil as on a hearth
Sometimes I wish for return to the earth,
But I've been down that road, in bitter pace.

       I write, not for the pain, which wont relieve.
       However, when it's shared, it will indeed.
Ok I have something... different to share
The Unnamed Sonnet form is a form I created out of love for the rhyme-scheme of the Italian Sonnet, and for Shakespeare's use of the volta when used in the last couplet. I feel like it's a good deviation from the traditional kinds of sonnets because it fills a needed role. In the Unnamed Sonnet form you have the ability to talk about one idea, in two different ways, and then tie them together at the volta, which because of this will usually end up at the couplet. It is harder to do this in a Shakespearean Sonnet due the theme being carried by three quatrains. Similarly in the Italian Sonnet, the Octave usually controls the theme, then the sestet draws to the conclusion. I feel like two sestets followed by a couplet is a strong way to convey one point in two ways. Or to convey two points, separately, while still drawing a strong conclusion. I will eventually get around to naming it, the name is tied into the first one of it's kind, of which I had to strip it's name.
Would love this critiqued
acacia Feb 20
Traveler, you beautiful fish.
I know I'm mean to you, but you are gorgeous.
Look at those big, hungry eyes,
those scales dully reflecting light.
I lack words to describe you, to desire you.
I don't know how to.
But, believe me when I tell you, (I'll never make it alone)
you are a beautiful fish.
for my goldfish, Traveler.
The window lets in little light,
the snow filled sky
looks oddly grey,
drifts of white flakes
pass the window view,
and there we stand
miserable me
and suicided you.

Behind us the locked ward
with other patients
walking back and forth
or to and throw,
locked in on themselves
with no place to be
or no place to go.

You hold my hand,
hold it tight,
I sense a passion
dully move
or strive to wake,
we stand like ill captains
on the bridge
of a doomed ship
and stare out
at drifting flakes of snow,
and at the dull grey sky,
and on our lips,
the eternal question
often asked: why?

— The End —