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Every time I hear of you--
I wonder what went wrong
that you would choose
another over me.

The cogwheels of my brain
would constantly rewind
to the very day we meet;
the nerves I had prior
and the brief good memories.

This bitter nostalgia
reminded me of
my foolish sense of hope
that I was the special one
among many others--

Only when I was told
that I was rejected
did I realise...
I was only a pitiful jester;
dancing and joking
for your fancy
on that very day.

I could not help thinking,
being rejected on a Christmas eve
is a terrible Christmas present,
and also the only Christmas present I had.

They say that it was not His will--
But they also did not know...
Perhaps it was His will
that I spend the dead morning of Christmas
soaking my pillow in tears
while nursing a overactive mind.

And yes, I saw you again on New Years Eve--
from afar, where everyone was celebrating
of their successful association with you
with delirious hopefulness and motivation...
Meanwhile, I was made to
welcome the New Year all alone
with tears in memory of your rejection.
People rejoicing and being congratulated getting the job you want while you are spending the new year alone is probably one of the worst feeling one can get. Some people are destined for greater heights while others will always be eating off the feet of others.

Happy belated New Year.
So yes, I will not have stupid expectations and resolutions for 2019. I will be realistic.
m h John Jul 31
you wanted a house
built out of hope and bricks
a house where you could call home
after losing your way
and becoming homesick
because you couldn’t find yourself

after we went through the storm
the rain washed the hopefulness
from the carpets

the bricks
turned to sticks
which turned to flames

and burned down all the door frames
except the red from the door
which you handmade
from the scars on your heart
AvaGrace Jun 2018
this song is for you
the one i wait for
i dont need you i know
thats what they all say
and logic reminds me
to push you away
but hearts have a funny way
of running amuck
once cherished and loved
it now lay untouched
i hope you enjoy it
this tune i derived
from chaos inside me
that once may subside;

three chords in progression
from major and flat
each one a reminder
for the weeks that have passed
three strings plucked in fashion
each one louder than last
a riff of goodbye notes
in minor key for effect
i sing all but once
so the silence reflects
the moment of quiet
i felt when you left
the life was drawn out of me
and silence began
my heart tore in pieces
like guitar strings when snapped
i finish each verse
with a simple refrain
a cry of the memories
that will always remain
the chorus is steady
it flows quick like champagne
that we poured one dark evening
we shared in the spring
the bridge is unending
it connects the past to the new
it starts with open chords
like the whole in my chest
and ends with a cadence
that drips with regret
the bass line is deep
like the sound of your voice
the beat is persistent
like the smell of your skin
the tune is repeated
like breathing out
breathing in

the song ends with hopefulness
despite all the grit

still the silence afterwords
will not comfortably sit

there will be no more teardrops
upon any fret
my guitar cannot weep
though i haven't stopped yet
i know everything is okay and im quite happy but this is an expression of some of the deepest emotions i normally cant put into words
music is an escape
as is poetry and art
so i thought id combine them
to make this
Seanathon Apr 10
My heart a raindrop
Crashing onto your concrete world
Bursting into the hopefulness of another dream run down the drain
I am movement at least
Directionally found
In the mother nature sounds of time
And yet it is down I fall
End-over-end and time-after-time
Having kissed the sky with a lasting lament
And with amendments for you
I fall like the rain from  on high
My hopes
My love
The thin air I am falling through
SC Kelley Aug 2018
I still feel you in my arms.
Still looking at the heavens together,
With the galaxies in our eyes.
Still breathing in unison,
Our living souls crash like roaring seas with every inhale,
And calming them with each exhale.
Still whispering destinies in your ear,
Feeling your hold around me tighten with hopefulness.
Still together in what felt like fate,
The moment that was forever.
Still, steady heartbeats,
Softly throbbing into each other.
Stillness that never ended,
And the anticipation for it to be broken,
By the sweetness of your soft, lively kiss.
Wishing for that night back.

~S.C. Kelley
For My Love
What do I do if I love a girl?
So incredibly that I become speechless.
Am I putting too much emphasis and praise?
Are they as good, as amazing, as fantastic as I believe?
Do I lie to myself? Or is this the absolute truth?
That this one girl.
This girl is everything.
She is happiness,
That this girl is:
And god forsaken annoying.
She has engulfed my world.
For she is now my everything.

But I couldn’t tell her.
                  It would ruin everything.
Ruby Nemo Jul 2018
There comes a time in man's gentle endeavors in which their person flutters through. Not perfect, not even close. When all of the essentials are blatantly missing, but nevertheless you chase. And it's not the chase; it cannot be, because that chase is distinguishable from all else.

Though still, the heavy burden provokes. Why? Well, man may claim the uncertainty of such an underdeveloped string of emotions, yet in some fashion this is utterly obscure. If my opinions not be discerned from a folly fool, let my brain be put to rest!

No, I say, it is much deeper than that. When simple dining becomes strenuous, and the tear ducts loose, another vague instance is to blame. It is not the result of a mere first glance. It is not the result of the wave of a hand. Hell, it is not even that which has evolved from a childish fling. It is something called My Person Condition.

And it is more complex, still. It is worthy of noting that a condition is identified in a modified fashion. See that this is no disease, no ailment, no illness. An unfortunate victim has no hopes of returning to their former, less-impaired self, but their opinions are clouded so fully that this, to them, brings upon great advantages. Yet the scars and piercing truths that lurk within MPC prove to be a particularly heavy load for most to carry.

The earliest symptoms may include the following: loss of appetite, perspiration, anxious breathing, spotted vision, hallucinations, reclusiveness, futuristic thoughts, rage, severe bipolar tendencies, self-contradiction, loss of sleep, loss of energy, sorrow, hopefulness, nightmares, and ****** rejection resulting in extractions such as emesis, urination, and excessive bleeding. Patients will also find difficulty in restricting their thoughts to those which do not include their person. The danger that lies within this condition is extensive, but can be overturned with the proper care and medical attention.

Perhaps I have refrained from discussing the most detrimental force assigned to any MPC sufferer, and that is the false sense of progression of mental feelings of stability. As days move on, and nights drag out into the next, new faces are introduced at an increasingly rapid rate. This can be destructive in the sense that the victim will gain a false grip on reality. They will reject further treatment, stand down in a circulation of positive vibrations, and cease to recall the importance of their continuous efforts against their condition.

A day rolls around in several years. They share feelings of gratitude and affection with another being, pretending that their person has left their mind for good. Until the radio threatens to remind them of so long ago, the compulsive nights that were spent in pursuit of an extra pinch of knowledge. Until the box fills the patient's ears with a sweet melodic voice spun from pure gold and coated in the finest finish. MPC revives itself like a flame inside their heart, inside their bloodstream. Renewal flows through their veins at a painless rate - until a grin spreads across their face, their head is turned back around, and there they are.
My Person.
logan wade Oct 6
a javelin pierces the crisp air on its upward journey,
like an arrow tending towards deep blue in rotary motion,
operating like machinery, turning cogs of physics
with its path. like aviation, spears fly, unaware.
as often happens, a fall follows, with the lifeless rod
reminding the ground of fundamental laws,
puncturing sweet grass.

what goes up must come down,
each flight a prerequisite to a plummet..
each bid to soar high above provides an unpleasant guarantee
of decline.
down here, no passage to the sky comes without struggle.
no universal force allows ego, or objects, to float
without some thin airy balloon of hopefulness.

voices childish of exhausted helium promise us
an ascent with some impossible trade.

for a second, forget the normal:
watch crimson petals float on air,
and imagine words had wings.
take every essence of modern language,
and legacies, and memories,
and whims, dreams and fears-
with stilts, then, reach for the sky,
lifted by strings of letters, weightless and abstract.
hear yourself stutter, utter shock
as you flutter high.
dance on the haphazard assembly of alphabet.
swim in the space between verses, cursing in cursive
that life as you know it can’t be reversed.
then hear yourself splutter and suffer,
end up with your head in the gutter…
because words don’t fly like they promised.

like fish flounder in deep blue, bouncing along the seabed,
a light show on their underside,
we too are in the dark.
like fish in a glass bowl, confined to restrictions of what we’ve been told,
we too think we’re in control,
and we too are just as clueless.
like fish, we can’t believe we can’t exist,
we can’t live without thinking we are.

perhaps those crazed ideas make some sense..
perhaps our words could fly.
our souls could soar.
our phantom thoughts could lift us high.

but only if we let them.
Hell is not below us when our bodies die.
Hell is on Earth, in our lives. Only our bodies die;  
our spirits are infinite. So why does our spirit
join another body and return to Earth? To learn
that Hell is an illusion of the finite, that Hell can
become a Hello to Heaven on Earth through Love.
All creations of the Cosmos must first be nurtured
by Love to effloresce their own innate Love. That
full Love is the antidote for Hell on Earth. We must
be Loved so that our full Love can be shared
with those who hurt and hate, thus transforming
Hell into a Hello to Heaven on Earth, changing
hopelessness into hopefulness. But we can give only
what we have received. So if we fail to be Loved
at conception, through our earliest of years, and
then through the rest of our lives, at any point
someone who has been fully Loved can intervene
by Loving the one who is in Hell on Earth.
There is no such thing as a surfeit of Love.
As one is nurtured by another's Love, the deprived
one will feel and find the efflorescence of Love,
and what was before Hell on Earth will become a
Hello to Heaven on Earth. Hell will be understood
for what it truly is:  A call for help. And Love
will be known by all creations as the magic
and truth of the Cosmos.
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-rights activist his entire adult life. He just finished his first novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
Jude Quinn May 10
I am lost, I have always been
and I expect to be for a long time.
To be lost has been a blessing;
it's been the gift of finding all to be
new, unfamiliar and exciting.

It is a terrifying feeling,
but it's the sort of terror
that precedes all the beautiful things in life;
it's the fear of loving every second after the fear
while knowing the seconds will run out.

It is a feeling of utter compassion
for all the love and pain to come
and the lessons to be learned from them.

It is a feeling of massive confusion and joy
and anxiety and desire
and hopelessness and hopefulness.

Yes, I am lost,
in fact, I'll soon be lost for 9,125 days.

My only wish is to add more days to the count
My 25th birthday will be in just a couple of weeks and I have to say I'm just excited to see what the next 25 might bring :)
stop beating yourself up over your mistakes. stop thinking that you’re useless for being less than perfect. stop thinking that whatever happened to you was your fault, because it wasn’t. things happen, whether they are good or bad. life expects us all to carry our tribulations on our back while maintaining smiley, eager faces.

sometimes, life is not fun. sometimes, life is lonely, and its empty, and its tired. but just as you woke up one day scared at the thought that you lost all feeling, you will also wake up calm & happy again. eventually. the trick to life is not just carrying your tribulations, but waiting in anticipation and hopefulness for the days to come. it is so important. if you do not have hope, if you do not push forward, life stops. and although we may want life to stop, think of all the people you’ve touched - all the people you know, who spent time with you, who text you, who beg you to come out, who even give you a small little compliment one day in class. those peoples lives change forever when you’re gone, and for those close to you, it would be for the worst.

so remember, its not your fault. its not your fault that she left you, its not your fault that he hit you, it’s not your fault. people suffer at the hands of those who are incomplete. please be compassionate to yourself. please be kind. our minds are our greatest enemies because they take things that have been said to us by people who don’t even know us. it takes the hurt, lies and anger others inflict on you to break you down, and spins it around to make you hate yourself. please don’t hate yourself. please remember that this is all relative, it is all an experience.

take your time to heal.

-note to self

concept collection
whew, its been a while. i’m back and ready to spill my brain out to you all.
i am supposed to be okay.
i told them all i knew what to do if i started feeling this way again.
i really thought i did

i thought i could prevent this
but it is all coming back
i was supposed to be the miraculous  recovery
the story of hope

but i have slipped back into my old patterns
faster than i could realize it
it seems too late now

another round in the match against the darkness
that fills my insides
the darkness that slithers and creeps
its way through my once bright mind
putting out any source of light and
draining all colors

i have fought this before
and seemed to have won
but it never takes long
for it to regain strength and start
strangling me from the inside
once again

a familiar feeling of emptiness fills my body
each time those cold dark fingers
wrap around my soul
it grows stronger with each
grotesque thought it sends
into my now darkened mind

the color and light that once inhabited this cavern
are starved of the positivity they need to burgeon
and so they lie weakened
dwindling and starving on the damp ground
becoming more frail with each wave
of pain and despair

faster and faster this climate becomes too harsh for them
and they are gone
vanished alongside hopefulness and optimism

i try to recall what it felt like
when the color and light still remained
but the thought seems distant and foreign

i cannot wrap my mind around the way i used to think and feel
filled with naivety and hope
i squashed negative thoughts
with thoughts of love
and positivity
but now the roles are reversed

every day i search for that sliver of love and happiness
which i know is behind one of these doors
in the darkened hallways of my mind
one day i shall find it

i know this search will not conclude soon
and i will not find what i am looking for
as quickly as i want to

but when i do

and i know i will

i will nourish it
like my own child
it will grow stronger and stronger
with each step i take towards the light

it will nurse on my laughter
and feed on my joy

one day i will find this light
and care for it like one of my own

i just cannot bear the wait
the search
the feeling in its place

but for now
i will keep on looking
because i refuse to let
the darkness win
The finch, awaiting the morning sunrise
lifts its beak in proud anticipation.
Darkness. The sun has forgotten to rise.
The finch waits for it in desperation.

To sing, to wake the world in glory’s song!
Why night, but for the finch to greet the day?
But dawn forgot to come; something is wrong.
The finch is lost, hopefulness fades away.

The sun causes the song of spirit freed,
his morning song in praise of all beloved!
The finch had grown accustomed to this need.
He’d never had to miss being so loved.

The finch misses the only thing he knew,
yet missing dawn less than I’m missing you.
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing To Life” at
George Anthony Dec 2018
you were born on the cusp of spring,
a breath of warm sunlight
coaxing bright life back into
dark husks of wilted stems
and barren souls in need of bloom.

i died the day i came to life.
a beginning amidst the beginning
of the end. four days of stuttering heartbeats later,
i was hurried home under a heavy sky
of god’s tears and thick cloud

your eyes are sick with grief in winter;
i think your chest aches to heal
the fragile, frosted frills of flowers
that suffered and struggled
and surrendered to the cold

you are burdened by empathy
for the crumpled caskets lining the flowerbeds,
impatient for a fresh start
so you can refresh these corpses
into new life. new roots
and petals flourishing in the image of your beauty

you are a god i could worship.
you are a god i could believe in.
you are a creator of life, and colour, and new starts
you created happiness within me,
so i can only hope to do the same for you

i, dead the day i came to life,
belated winter baby with blue lips, blue veins
am alive for perhaps the first time in years
sleepy, but still awake—breathing, blooming
as if spring came early just to kiss the feeling back into my fingertips

a fistful of sunflowers clenched tight,
and with you by my side
my chest is set alight
with a sun’s ray of hopefulness
that the day will eradicate the night.
Kkø Sep 2018
I fear my turning
as it has been without disparity
or admittance to healing. With a closed fist, I scream my agony
Into trembling hands. Still a spectator
not a comfort, on my own. I hold within
inherited strength from ancestors not yet raised
passed my groaning ribs. I live in fear  
of my birth. Setting lose the creature,
I welcome its hopefulness.

— The End —