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Molly Feb 2014
The clocks keep ticking in my mind.
Keeping me asking questions,
to which answers I may never find.
In my room, with countless
"if's and why's".
While weighing my options
my opinion weighs in,
then my conscience,
then my mind once again.
Then they start.
The flashes on old memories past.
Hurt and constant suffrage, remains in the past?
No, I will not choose to let it go,
or pretend it wasn't there.
The past is all you are, all you were, and all you CAN be
and if we forget, we are no one.
All the people, places and things, evem if just for
a spare second of your time impact you for a lifetime.
So instead of asking why, ask what about the rest of my
Lifeline, that I won't be able to impact.
Vidhi Agarwal Jul 2015
The broken girl,
She used to be lively once,
And love the world around her,
She used to sing and bounce,
As if she was a living princess there,

But when she grew up,
She faced the hardest truth of her life,
Her perspective of people loving the way she was changed,
She realized that she wasn't fit for the world,
In the view of everyone she was a big fat dumb ugly headed girl
No one cared how she was inside,
All wanted the ****** beauty,
She loved too much,
forgived to much,
And it always seemed that she hurt too much.

Not even her father thought her to be good,
He never saw how she starved and never even had one glass of water,
He didn't see her dying of her insecurities of being fat.
And he one day said its okay if I dont have you perfoem good,
But I want you to be thin.

It peirced her like a nail,
Forever engraved in her heart,
She would carry her scars to her grave,
She quitely swallowed her tears,
And thought that his father want a beautiful thin little girl as her daughter,
Not her.

She had never said anything about anyone's,
Physical appearances,
Never blamed anyone,
Took all the blame on herself ,
But yet people commented about her face,
Her smile,
How it looked like a rat,
People always criticized her,
And she swallowed it everytime
Thinking it to be her fault.


Not mentioning about her scars,
And how she waited for everyone,
But no one turned up in that storm of hers,
Her friends got ****** at her and left?
Doesn't she has the right to live her own life?
Is physical beauty everything?
Why?
She was broken from inside,
Even tinier than those atoms of chemistry,
Where  bonds were stronger,
She knew she wasn't fit for this world of dogs,
And always questioned god why he had sent her where she can't bear the pain?
Where people even with her beating heart and flesh,
wasn't satisfied,
They wanted her to be the way they want,
To crumble her into ashes,
Where only her essnce of lost  attle would linger.

Sh knew only she can bear that much of pain,
No one can go through it ,
yet she blamed herself for noone loved her ,
No one could help her get up.
Everyone ditched her,
Evem with her walls up high,
She cared too much,
She didnt go close to anyone,
Be it physically or emotionally
But still she was crumbled
And got entangled in the confusion
Of how rude this world was
And wanted to die..
To live since she believed she wasnt worth it.
No one stayed with her not even her friends, her lover her parents.
She was left alone .
Each and everytime.
She was hurt but smiled with that broken smile.
Candy Noire Aug 2014
I'm a drunken mess
I cant evem typed pribperly
Must have kissed 6 people tonights
and all mmy mates havbte me
yay.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
yeah...
i seem to have forgotten
the prime,
of... keeping up
with the GENE...
no GENE no go...
         i seem
to have forgotten
that mind-set
of furthering
this existential
impetus...
           must have
flown right over my head
with a: quiff! sound
to accompany it...
no quiff...
sound...
but certainly an hour's
worth
sitting in a chair,
at a turkish
barber shop...
   funny thing...
no sight or conversational
hotspots
akin to either
         Beirut or Mecca!
without a god,
do i have to be made
conscript into the whole:
telepathy of the passing
on of the genes?
the Jews have returned
to the Levant...
          there really aren't...
any conspiracy theories
left to... "unravel"...
   the jews are back
in their homeland,
i'm strapped to, "home",
dealing with ronin...
           the camel jockeys
will continue calling
me dumb...
     i will preserve myself
as: playing dumb,
to whatever drum is
made available...
         happy days...
and we, as people,
will hardly talk to each other,
let alone share a meal...
so...
what's to win,
and what's to be lost?
   hardly anything
to win,
and all that is before us,
to lose...
    so... win-win? yes?
since, to me...
bragging-rights...
and... the fertile ground
of solipsism
to expand...
                into
a virology stature...
  before the authentic
autists will arrive...
grinding us down
to size...
     but i will not eat
a meal with...
but i will not
do the alphabet's worth
of this, that & the other...
and...
happily...
continuing with
     quasi-bravado...
the last remaining
day's worth
of keeping up with...
faking, escapism...
and... upon this route?
to no return...
unlike an englishman...
i am no actor,
i forget to be two-faced...
the german knew
what a ****** was...
the sort of man
that said:
i go in, i do,
   i am done,
i come out...
                     you
do the paperwork,
i treat a television
set like a fireplace...
   what's the problem?
you want me to
build on this simple
fabric of chores...
an existentialist
philosophy that...
ascribes sole
purpose of you...
not having began
where either
German or French
existentialist
philosophers ended?

           well...
                      good luck!

st. valentines' wouldn't
be anything,
quiet like...
         oh... only a few months
ago...
a ******* prescribed
me a remedy
for love...

               and she said...
it began with...
        'ensuring to not
keep a narrative'...
      so i figured...
ah... less magic... more grip...
oh but that isn't
what she said...
she only said: 'you're nice'
when i forgot to use
my genital parts
and paid 110 quid for kissing
her...

        i'll try to remember
more things to forget
                        in my life...

a European goes
to a brothel...
"forgets" to take a Saudi Arabian
meter of competition
with him,
to compete through
the existence of
a harem...

or a European cooks
a Raj curry...
and "forgets" to take a Raj
meter worth of competition
for the number
of chilies being used
in the sauce...

then the resonating vibration,
and a quasi-eloquence
being allowed a voice:
there's someone, alive,
right, now,
that...
               i just want to make
porch chops of,
and... by making them...
do not want to eat...
but, rather...
not evem dare
to feed 'em to the same pigs...
'ey 'ame 'om,
flush,
and 'ake up...
             sewage composite.

what awaits me?
dying the most,
                  unsatisfied man...
naunced rigor...
a conscience prescribed
insomnia...
           that, acted
in reverse...
               to what was
"supposed" to be...
    
                  all... and nothing
at all...
to be worth the scrutiny of
enduring to fathom
imitation.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
best opening track? slipknot's (sic).

bear with me, i'm reaching the peak
of tipsy and the english
humour (sarcasm) is coming out
in full bloom & swing...
well you know... it had to happen
one way or the other...
point being: i never understood
nor will i understand the concept
of... *boredom
...
        the ****** thing just flew right
over my head, scalping me
while it did its predatory swoop...
nope, still don't get it (what if now
only scrathing my skull
evem though it's not itchy) -
      now, if you told me:
whatch'ah up to? nothing.
        i can understand that crystal clear,
boredom though? i have no
idea how to approach that
"disclaimer" with regards to someone's
"procrastination": people who are
"bored" usually procrastinate,
don't they? and my guess is that they're
probably of an extrovert disposition,
right?
    boredom i can never fathom,
every time i'm "bored", my memory
plays the trick of asking me to the cinema
and i see my life flashing before my eyes
without ever falling off a bridge
with only a second to spare being
allowed the sigma-of-consciousness...
     *******, nothing beats home-made
wine 3 years old...
   ****'s feeling groooooo V,
   ha ha, hmm, hmm, ha ha! the giggles....
plonker doing a dunker -
well... that rhymes, doesn't it?
nope... boredom? can't conceive the precious
space of my mind worth entertaining
this dynamic...
     now...
   i can understand what doing
nothing is like... ****** hard...
     itchy ***, itchy scalp, itchy arm-pits,
itchy whatever...
    but then again, when you acknowledge
you're doing nothing, and aren't bored...
you can be super-busy watching ants;
or? notably sparrows...
                                   a.d.h.d. per se.

— The End —