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kevin hamilton May 2017
lost Sunday
i travelled light on cemetery rd.
flinching at every sound
of the whistling oaks
coming after me

i was sick but i didn't know
hushed by the fire
on the horizon
and the footsteps at my back
through crystal snow

believe me, i was sick
i was a drunken punk
in the soy fields
sleeping giant  
in a ring of salt
Jules Nov 2017
“what are your special skills?”

well—
lately i have mastered the art
of silent tears
and wordless crying,
shuddering breaths
instead of wracking sobs.
my eyes don’t even get red.
if i do it right,
i have the exclusive ability
to break down in a full room
without anyone noticing.

also,
i can brush my weak gums in front of the mirror
and watch blood drip onto my uneven teeth
without flinching.

last,
i can give the best i have
every time
and still my brain can convince me—
worthless.
this poem is almost unbearably sad
Umi Aug 2018
Tell your tale to the wind,
Be scattered across the sky, sing without ever being rewarded,
The falling of the leafs may be a sign of change, a warning of colder times crossing your path in this loitering darkness which takes over,
Allure is the thought of hope guiding, leading, escorting you through the misery of your own conscious, out to a far more pleasant world.
Wretched, you fight on as it slowly slips away, loses its strengh,
It is heartbreaking to watch them trying to get back, not flinching despite their wounds and scars they carry from the river of time,
Stained in crimson at last the flower petals of the falling season, reflect upon death repeatedly, with each one falling the soil cries out.
Take a dance with me in this distorted somber dark there is nothing to be sad about, the fate to be forgotten is the fate of every face, one day,
They wither over like the roses during autumn, fall from grace alike the petals of the sunflowers when their time to leave for the next generation has come, or alike the dandelions scattering their seeds,
But most importantly, is to not forget that whilst existing you can make a change, for yourself, for the better, for others,
Maybe you are their light their flower of a spring dream.
Even if humans continue to live wretchedly,
Living, is what I find very beautiful.

~ Umi
Don't cross the border of the conscious too early, fall when the time to wither has come.
Muted Nov 2018
I won’t take showers anymore.
I won’t take them because
sometimes, when I set my Spotify on shuffle,
your favorite song still plays
because sometimes, when the water trickles down the small of my back, it feels a lot like your fingers
sometimes, soap is not enough
sometimes, I want to peel my skin up, layer by layer, until I am certain there is nothing left that you have touched
sometimes, I wonder if you still sleep on the mattress you buried me in,
wonder if there are others who share that same coffin
I wonder who I will be when I wake up tomorrow,
study my reflection in the cold, shiny shower head
with hope that one day it will change,
that i will no longer see
this
tongue biting *****,
key- laced, clenched fists *****,
flinching at the sight of chin stubble and strong jaws,
locked knees *****,
mace and matchstick *****,
feverishly avoiding eye contact,
temperature adjusting *****,
skin scrubbing *****,
birdcage mouth,
mascara tears,
weak *****.

I won’t take showers
because sometimes
I come out feeling dirtier
than I went in
because the condensation is enough
to fog up my mirror
but isn’t enough
to fog up my memory
because sometimes
an adams apple resembles
a fist to me
because I count the tiles and remember
that I am just a
paradoxical number,
the only number greater than zero
that still has no value

I wont take showers because
I know that is what
you would want me to do
you would want me
to cover the tracks for you

and if I
set myself on fire instead,
in order to destroy
any evidence
confirming
that you once lived here,
that would be
too obvious


Since you illuminated my SOUL
Since your light pierced my being
Since our LOVE happened...

I am not eager for a journey
I do not desire a caravan
I do not yearn for a convoy
I do not belong here
I do not belong there
I do not fit in a family
I do not jell with friends

The only thing that excites me is "YOU"
BELOVEDZ, Belovedz, belovedz...

The blessing of LOVE within me
Desires "me" living in "YOU"

The reward of seeking inner soul
I desire to live in your being

If there is ever any cure
Of the good longing of my LOVE
It is nothing but merging within YOU
It is nothing but dying for YOU

That's how and why "Nature"
Presented YOU to my soul
The divine healer for my devil LOVE

Your eyes are medicine I drink
The same medicine poisons my heart

Becoming one with you is the only desire left
It is my honor - our LOVE HAPPENED
It will be a BIGGER honor
I annihilate in YOU and YOUR LOVE

I give my breathe in your LOVE
I give my heart, my body, my life in your LOVE

Though I've not decided to hold-on to your LOVE
There is no way I can let go of your LOVE
It's YOUR LOVE that beholds me and my being
YOUR LOVE is the final destination of my LIFE
YOUR LOVE was the thing Buddhists sought NIRVANA

Yes, this is what your LOVE is all about
Only those who LOVE
Will understand the plight of my LOVE
The sorrow, grief and misery of a LOVERz
The one who stands tormented
Without flinching in the "live-fire"
Will understand what it is to be in "LOVE"

My poem is for the flame - BELOVEDZ
My poem is for the moth - LOVERZ

No one else can even understand
The depth of these poetic words in LOVE
"The LOVE story of flame and moth"


Jayne E Aug 17
I once was something
that I am not now
too much shock
to the system
caused a retreating
away from the world
into myself

A solitudinarian
while my systems
shut down
preparing to reboot

a cocooning occurred
followed by
metamorphosis
then transformation
reordering of
damaged cells
damaged goods
a regeneration
following
the assasination
of my juvenescense
by his malefic mind

6 years
living in the jar
hermetically sealed
spinning silken threads
around myself
tears hardening the shell
impenetrable
invisible
making myself small quiet
wanting to be unwanted
looking to be unnoticed
retired from a life not yet begun
necessity for survival
dictated the state of play
all the while thinking feeling
questioning
then throwing away
all my mislaid assumptions
my mantra

* I want to be happy
a happy life
I will not let him have it
my life is mine
my joy is mine
my freedom is mine
he has taken enough
I am taking happiness back *

an unremarkable day
the day I woke up
revivified
able again to draw a full breath
without flinching
without waiting
for his reaction
I ran in the park barefoot
I swam in the ocean
laying on the beach after
toes in the warm sand
the sun drying me
free
a child again renewed

J.C. honey-tiger 16/08/2019. 4.44am.
historical abuse, retreating, healing, stolen childhood, freedom, self healing,
Chelsea Jul 2018
I used to be afraid of water, certain that I would drown

I don't want it near my face, for the feeling makes me flinch

Flinching in fear, waiting to drown

A fear that's drifted within me since childhood

Ever since my grandmother put me in swim classes

Because she couldn't stand the water near her face

Today, from my mother, I learned why

A father that evaporated like a summer's rain

Who would cleanse her of her sins in the lake yonder

Each splash drenching what was already emaculate

A father who praised God more than she

I've never seen my grandmother swim

Only wade through shallow waters

I used to be afraid of water, for I have waded my whole life

Two generations of sinking behind me, but I will swim
My grandmother was the youngest of 10 children born to a father who was 64 years old. She spent most of her life trying to escape her rural upbringing.

The aversion towards water is fact but is also a metaphor for trauma and my family's inability to escape their past and move beyond their comfort zone. This poem was inspired by a real conversation with my mother who is a PTSD sufferer.
Mikaila Nov 2018
I know weariness.
I can see it at the edges of me, always
Waiting to seep back in like
Chloroform for the soul.
I’m young
And passionate
But I am not stupid.
I know it will return.
I know my days are numbered
And that when my time here is up
I will have to make the exhausting choice again
To go on
Purposelessly
To continue
In a gray, flat world
And blindly wait for something to spark interest in me once more.
It is not faith that keeps me alive in those times.
It is not love.
It is not a feeling, at all-
It is a dull, stolid persistence,
An instinct from an older time
That I am simply too tired to fight against.
I crawl forward,
Blank.
I am
A machine which has run this long
And continues on with no driver and no destination
And will
Until such time as the fuel runs out.
It is not a youthful thing to know
So intimately.
That gray quiet has touched me in places no lover ever will.
It has permeated my very flesh.
It lives in me like smoke,
Always,
And it will,
Always-
The knowledge that the one thing to which I will constantly return
Is that bland, cold, mechanical existence.
I tend myself
During those times
And I feel like a farmer who has planted
Stones in the ground
Foolishly watering and weeding,
But I
Do it anyway
A habit that won’t break.
I survive
And I am too weary even to search for a reason
And that, I suppose, is a blessing
Because I would not find one if I did.
I go on, always,
And in the mirror during those times
I see the blue-white blindness of the eyes of an old dog
Who has felt the steel tipped toes of too many boots
To care if one more swings at his ribs-
He is too tired to move from his spot on the porch
And would rather endure the pain than endure the
Fear.
I am like him, and I remain like him
Even when I am full of joy
(I am full of joy in that surprised, flinching way
In the way of something that has been around too long
Not to know that eventually
Something has to give.)
You call me young.
Everybody does, here.
And I suppose they should-
They have never seen that in me.
I hide it well, even when it swallows me
And anyhow they’ve only seen me in love,
The full and complete opposite.
They see my thankfulness
For a reprieve
And mistake it for energy,
Mistake it, even, for innocence
When really it is the stark, clear memory
Of months and years of colorlessness
Of waiting around for something inside to grow
When there are never any seeds nor any sunlight
Of deciding every day to go on,
Even when there is no reason.
It is far away now, that feeling
That awful cold emptiness.
It has rushed from me like the tide receding
And while it’s gone,
I’m not wasting a second
Not me.
I’ll look stupid,
I’ll look naive,
I’ll look reckless,
But I’ll swallow my pride
And open myself to every feeling that comes my way:

To be anything less than as passionate as I can would be the deepest blasphemy
When I have known hell
Not as torment but as blankness
And will
Again.
andru Jan 3
A circle speaks volumes.
Revolutionize and tidy up.
Instruction manuals are read automatically.
Privacy parts the talon and now,
how the sky blinks a feather ever so unusually.

Ever wake up in your sleep to your head fully stuck in the sixth sense
stomach of a pillow, and thought to yourself in bed about how much of
a dream it must be to be stuffed turkey?

I haven't.

Or thought to your self made bed how making the bed as an edible
symbol of thanksgiving
is like taking a stand
on a landmine,
for eternity?

I haven't.
I also lie and lay awake to myself.

Although a traveler tends to do all of the above,
below the radar.
A farmer tends too.
Eats an earthquake,
aftershock, rattled rim, pacific clarity, clear the oceans, tremors, tremors,
Noah's ark is a humpback funeral home.
Noah riding a hearse by the hubcap, clean teeth grip.
Noah in my mouth, reciting odd numbers on my taste buds.

Noah licking a polished nail, course matte for me,
three by three, the poor
poor bones of a humpback whale singing sad on a mountain.

You have to wonder about coffins when it's death out.
And water among amidst when your lungs are thirsty.
And since it seems the tried and tested walk has all but run away,
some metal wood rubber leather latex silk wool boxes spit out tickets.

A materialistic downer on uppers levels off at acceptance.
And yeah, smoking will **** you, but this is about me and I need to inhale.
This is not about me, but about you, or was that nature?
The nature of nurturing seems as good a point to start this conversation.
But it's dead end talk to talk in line segments, and well, ****,
it's time for an advertisement:

This cylinder tin is full of everything your life is empty of!
Forget the cost; be content with the contents,
rehearse the ingredients, unload the all and do it again.
Infatuation is hot-air gas inflated in the belly of outer space.
I love the way those stars look and those stars love looking at me.

The cut and paste of our human race is unfairly lopsided.
The northern blade has a tumor the size of misdirection,
the scales are tipped, the whips are tipped, and the weapons are gripped.
Sudan doesn't own scissors; Angola is the axis of axe-less
but their ******* skyline is incestuously bright,
their constellations all make sense,
and their astronauts haven't lifted off, to jump and jive in the very
same sky we share with them.
No, not yet, there are animals to be slaughtered sedimentary still.
Ones with tribal names that come off the tongue like mouth sound effects,
they are almost people, without horns hammered in their heads.

Eating on all fours from a license plate.
Dig in, Donesia.
How is life in amnesia, brain pulp square?
Psychologically disturbed map and memory loss, southwest Asia?
Your address is a long walk, but the **** citizen on the roadside exhibit
is a refreshing remix to our boring, bragging billboards.
And your suffering is art to the skull and cross-bone pale cube galleries
that we call home sweet, home sweet merchandise.
And rest assured, your lack of rest will insure western survival,
North America will steal your toddler corpses
and sell them at the front gates of your orphanage ghettos.
It's the least we can do after gouging out your eyeballs.

I didn't even write this, it was drawn by a blind boy in India.

The black market pencil case people are going to a blow-out sale.
The sales on them and the jokes a bomb.
The jokes on them and the sales a bomb.
The bombs on them and the jokes a sale.
The female holds her breath and suffocates a male.
And the genders collapse in heaps and heaves, recycled and broke
like natural leaves caught in a mythological fighter
jet's propeller.
Like aeroplanes, several even, oddly amount conclusive crash-like.
Like, like, like, if the globe of green and blue were to still be alive
I would colour co-ordinate accordingly, and wear whatever hue
the big bang theory wasn't.
Dust particles getting it on and such.
Finger painting *** with a rag and pan pencil case.

The black market Darwin drawin' is on fire in the pockets of our youth,
elderly lint in same corduroy bent knuckle nameless, places
an introduction to i.v. and a never un-shook from his hinges
living room magazine holder.
So the flinching milli-metricks betwixt our beloved booklets brings
gratification, satisfaction, and eternal life.
And gravity with a runny nose.
Oh, oh!  My first ever and last edit: Make that ******.

So I'm infinite pass-time, tedious rusty grime
and dead llama on the zoo-way.
"Look Ma, a dead llama!"
"No dear, she is just sleeping with her blood out
and cage on".

No more rides for the unknown, let it be known.
Call your superiors, mega-impose their posteriors, an emphasis on
brittle lives.
And chew the fat, chew the fat, **** the marrow, narrow
weight-scale bound in chain-mail, accidental prediction protection,
magnify, mortify, modern sill overdosing on wake pills, horticultural hi.

I am coherent when the setting is all tens, when
the plot is all tens, when the characters are all reaping tens.
The catch is in the ******, looking scared cloth-less elevens.

Judges, what verdict gives you
the right to wig wear an oak arm chair
with an all too obvious worn-mallet-beating-desktop syndrome
bashing your would be innocent until proven rich-boy lashes, err, guilty?

Was that even a question,
or merely a stir-fried rant?

The master chefs are coming after us all in our under garments,
over bridges and mountains and tiger stance wisdom and
we need a Messiah like we need horseshoes on our foreheads.

Mule yoke split on the frying pan of till death do us cook.
Separation nation; a river plain, a barren abstract.
And the artists are painting droplets on their toes,
kissing themselves after a game of Chinese checkers,
determined to squirm sweet nothings while riding
question mark shaped seats from Sweden.

And under a hail of Mary's, Jason's, William's, Susan's, and missiles,
they touch their ankles where they know
nails should be,
extinct.

A circle sounds off,
a sky sounds awful,
a bomb sounds right,
a body sounds circles,
and a circle speaks volumes.
CNM Sep 23
I began my life in this house when I was only 4 years old
Just barely old enough to remember painting the walls space blue, adding the constellations to my new world
Just barely old enough to remember my brother and I fighting over the top bunk
That ended up giving me nose bleeds from the ceiling heat
As I grew I can remember our 12 inch TV
I can remember watching Jurassic Park on VHS practically religiously
I recall nightmares, and sneaky late nights watching Cartoon Network in near silence.

I was in middle school, and no longer wanted to share my room with my older brother
My parents, unable to afford a bigger house with more than but two bedrooms, created a nook for my now grown brother to live in, with nothing but make-shift walls
Leaving me alone in this room I'd grown up in
I remember being unable to sleep that first night by myself, even if my brother had been right across the house.

I was in highschool and I started having boys and friends over
I started receiving noise warnings late at night from my overworked and underpaid parents after a bout of laughter

I started becoming depressed.
My room, still painted space blue became a black hole
As I laid in my bed all night long, never once blinking
Never once flinching against the pain eating away at my stomach like a parasite
Until it became nearly impossible to bare any longer.

I started seeing my therapist and she saved the life of an afraid 15 year old
The posters in my room turned into images of bands from generation's passed
The blood washed away and I could sleep in my bed again.

I was 16 years old and infatuated with a boy until he touched me the wrong way
And it stained my childhood bed, once the bottom bunk
Which quickly went from a twin to an untouched queen.

I was 18 years old and afraid of living within these four walls my whole life.
The space blue paint taunted me every time I stepped through the old splintery door
My best friend and I painted the walls the color of sunshine in one night in hopes to erase the bad dreams and even worse realities lived here.

I am 20 years old and in a few days I am moving into a new room, into a new home of my own
Away from the warm bathtub that held me when I was ill.
Away from my loving mother who ran her finger through my hair as I cried.
Away from my father and his drunken snores every night in front of a silent television.
Away from my brother and his passionate new discoveries often shared with me.
Away from the stove that helped me create comforting meals that nourished my body for 16 years.

And I am afraid.
jaelyn lance Apr 21
Why do I throw away good advice,
Does my heart yearn to learn like a device.
Does it wish to know what it cant?
To hurt and cry to sing and chant?
What does it want acting like a fool?
She shall take a seat, right here, that stool.

"What do you want"
No reply,
just a sad look in her eyes.
She is lonely
But she is so loved?
What does she want?
Give her a shove.

Her lips are sewn up like that of a scare crow
Up and down in a pattern of twine
Shes been abused and a quieted
By what? Her mind.
She never speaks what's in her heart
She is flinching in fear
The love she felt tore her apart

She messed up, and it haunts her
Every sound, and noise
It reminds her
Of him

He is the reason
she is incapable of love.
He is the reason
She will never know it.
RaRa Apr 14
My scars tell a story
A much more permanent memory
Left by life's indelible mark
Mostly trauma's hallmark
Reminding me that my tormentous past was real
That I had wounds even if they eventually healed

Some will fade, but most will persist
And those are the ones that will teach a lesson
A reminder that they will always show where I've been but never dictate where I'm going
A promise that ultimately something positive comes out from the broken
Although the history behind it is pitiful
The future holds something much more beautiful

49 stitches, desensitised and disturbingly serpentine
13 inches of a rugged and raised line
So macabre you can't look without flinching
But I have come to gaze upon it without cringing
My scars may not look appealing
But are still a sign of healing
They say I took a hit but I survived
They are but evidence of the life I lived

The strongest and best of people have scars
So I'm glad my wounds and stitches left a scar
So like jewellery I show off my skin which has been marred
For everyone to see, like the scars of the universe; the stars
And maybe it will teach others that they can also heal
No matter the injuries they suffered, it doesn't have to be their Achilles heel.

R. Q.
"Scars are tattoos with better stories." - Unknown.
➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
A scar is nature's golden repair - R. Q.

— The End —