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Lizzy Apr 2014
I'm very tired
And it's very late at night
My thoughts keep me up
It's getting harder to fight

I think about my failures
And everything I've done wrong
How I **** everything up
It's all a familiar song

My words are getting literal
I can't disguise my guilt
The hatred for myself
In every direction it's built

Well rhyming gets so hard
When I try to write my mind
Because I'm unable to find the words
That could shed light

Even without a rhyme or a rhythm I find it hard to articulate these dangerous thoughts I have. As many writers do, we have this sense of frustration because no combination of syllables can really portray the emptiness and sadness that lives in us. Styron called it "melancholia", but not even that will suffice.
King Panda Oct 2017
strong is the still that
over old space,
the cold
drought of petal dreams
I chalked
on the garden hose
the mask
just one string

the night we touched
was like


  *   *


those daddy-rolled feelings
on my back as
you licked
my spine.
Who knows the darkness?  she says.

I do, a quiet voice, in my head.

the sinking feeling in my stomach when I crawl into an empty bed

the frozen fossils of lovers tossed loosely
on the floor

I claw

from the bottom of my black, holed well
the air escaping like a slither of silver

the bars to my cell

I am a monster without teeth, who feasts
on the loneliness of my thighs

and I am walking, step by step, with the beast

of depression and anxiety, it’s pen pal friend

who I have known for years, through letters

but it now has a body to tend

I crawl

like I’ve forgotten how to walk,
across cobblestones that feel like boulders
beneath my feet

I have forgotten to eat

What do you have to be sad about? She asks.

As if sadness is a currency,
exchanged between  haves and the

whilst I am in knots.

I get her point, I guess

but I did not choose this never ending death
Grev ca the loqi el
Fel world sitram onj
(Is vetr yil eff)
Uner random eeja na
Wickreta and ilst
Unjust oli scon
Angela Liyanto Oct 2018
When the stray-people come cry with me,
Suffering, our teardrops breathe in deriding grief
Of course, I don’t know of God's Love,
But I almost found it when you cried with me.

I am at once an epic stall of misunderstandings,
And sad questions are my reality, if you want,
I will help you find bliss in confusion,
I have wept because I am like this...however,

How is it that I still Love?
It is all at once the constant and pull of my spirit
We wept for Love till the dawn fades into hungry night
But our endeavours stand still, we were together…

Our emptiness walks as shadows
It gathered us in nights, outside the blue-button moon
A mirror of the silvery music,
The moonlight protected us from all crews

We think as bright as gleaming Athena
That all this suffering will end someday,
A flask of hope is notched to our belts
We sleep, one as weighty as damp deep jus

We wait to the slow lyres till night ends
Our bronze armour of youth clings to our hearts
These suicidal hummingbirds don’t go away,
But I can’t run away from insanity

We breathe and find a pink rose for our poor selves
Immerse in pomegranate poetry
For diseased passionate titans, in love with suffering
We blink jewels from our eyes.
I wish to write
before feeling takes
But I fear it will
be a love song.
As if the world needs
another one of those.

Ruining out of ways
to say the same things
in my prose.
Trying to be dry.
But getting the
words out;
has me on tiptoes.

Sweating words;
pores full of metaphor.
not knowing if I
even make sense anymore.
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
Hell is like waiting in a long line for the zoo
So this must be limbo...

Time stretches / skeleton skin skeins
The tock the tick / the clock
Schizophrenic melancholia
Mockingly sickening
Traffic of panic / deafening
Time stales / takes Forever
A long while - in limbo
Zombie shock / mind akimbo

And loneliness is a box
This corpse sits in
As existence / outside frightful / persisting
***** and spritz-ing
Our vibrant thangs
Songs shouts to gang sign slangs
Even when the lyrics
Go deep
Six feet sorrow
Hip hopping to defeat

But we gots to love it
The life we have
The Flava and the savor this last dance .
Makes me wanna Dougie
Percolating / jump / criss cross
Vanilla bean / jump jump

But what is a song to a diminished bird
No cage more cruel than the loss of worth
Hearts depart from its soul
Jester / fools / without cheer
No cartwheels glee or clue
Happy days adieu
High times zero new
Birds to the sky / fist pump / guns
This is for the Razza
End what's done begun

Waiting to get thru
Theme parks colorfully masking
Reality's streets and truth
Inmates as we are forced to wait
Hate is quicker to arrive
Behind bars hollows Time
Takes our forever
Even waking up
Still in limbo / thirsty without a cup
Same ole system
Who's business makes slaves
Kept blind and silently afraid
In a state / of mindlessness
Now worse than before

Schitzo screaming schisms
Crazy IS the war
Fear wreaks havoc
Boom boom back to a room
In your head goes the bomb
Shrapnel wounded / half none...

Are we there yet?
Just farts in the wind
Waiting is hell / how does life begin?
Just passing by / passed away / a passerby
Yelling and complaining
Let me in ? Get me out ?
Ghost to life's boo hoo / poor you
What happens to dreams wasted
In the zoo
Eyes turned frozen
Cold uncaring
Dying and lying / lifeless stories to share
As beauty within is in despair
As beasts overcrowd the fair
Flotsam in limbo float
Alone in its killer cold
Time still passing / parole / on hold
Much hope

Where are we
If there is nothing
No penny for fairy tale wells

Wishes are dead in fountains
Rich and heavy to the bottom
With tossed currencies. Fell.
How will a coin speak
Who will ever know
If we do not paint out loud
The masterpiece of the dream?

Tell me dreamer what time do you have
Still waiting?

In this zoo...

When it always was and is
And always will be

Up to you.
Revised retitled
Graff1980 Jan 23
When I have time to think,
when the dark thoughts
are hailing me
like Starfleet academy
across the universe
of my undermine;

In the dark regions
of my dreams
where legions
of thought demons
come rumbling in,
there is a red wave,
a reservoir of pain
reserved for the perturbed
parts of my overactive brain.

When the melancholia music plays,
switch flipped to repeat
as I listen to the beat
of my heart’s history,

I remember all that
was given to me,
the bits I took for granite
chipped rocks eroded
connections no longer
able to be loaded
because they are just
echoes of binary encoded
in my overloaded
grief molded
dual lobed
computing *****.
cupid Nov 2018
you know when a song starts or an ensemble starts to play and as the first notes ring out and there’s a moment where everything slows and suddenly everything is consumed by music and the feeling that music is conveying

you know when the last measure of something sad plays out and you can feel the melancholia of it fade but you still feel the last vibrations of the song running across your skin and through your body and mind

really i'm asking if you know those moments in a song where nothing exists but that song everything but the music ceases to exist and then when that all ends you don't know what to do
he is the kind of song that makes everything dissapear, those are powerful and bittersweet miracles
excerts from estranged love letters 2
maureen May 2
you came to my life at the perfect time —
amidst the breaking of the deepest dawn;
where the moon is at it's peak
whispering dreary tunes
to me, whose heart is aching

at the time where the clouds from above my head
are daunting, heavy and of gray,
refusing to let a single ray of sunshine in
refusing to share its warmth.

amidst the deepest dawn
and the howling of the moon
melancholia would envelop me
dark clouds would be of gloom

it is unexpected, you see,
how you came to be
what could pull me out
of the smothering mist of dawn;
& into the morning you brought me,
mended my aches, and
shared all of your warmth

while the moon it howled
it's dreary tunes
you sang words of honey into my other ear;
the dark clouds that hover lowly, still
disappear upon your presence.

like the way clouds part
in a january afternoon,
you let the sunshine in at the perfect time—
my love, you helped me grow once more;

my dawns now turn to daytime.
"8th March 2018
A pen found its ink
A purpose found its man

 The mother of all that's beautiful
brought me a gift
A life skill that would be my passage of lift

                  He came to life in unhealthy mental weathers,                    
his soul was birthed in shabby unearthly waters
and bound to mine
in an everlasting covalence.
he was given to me an agent of healing – an outlet,
a living freedom;
         a drain for my pain,      

a gift and a curse he is a stain on the domain of my name – but
I take pride in our duality,
my existence paradigm was on the edge of a cliff
suicidal - I lay on my back under the roof
of a gloomy identity
my name and my frame
soaked in melancholia of a quantity
that exceeds the infinite.

You and I
Are a year older
I am a decade wiser
I can feel it in my hair
the truth in its absolute quintessence
is a universe closer.

The way you hold my mind in your gloves
gives me sleepless nights and faceless days
but who am I to question my panacea?
I promise I will make the most of what we can be.

A savior, a tutor, a sage
My poet, my light, my flame, my light.

A year ago - i became a poet. Help me appreciate my penman. This is my first post here with you family. Thanks.
brailee Feb 14
I feel the night,
as I feel the despondency.
an aching backbite,
that's with me constantly.

I feel the night,
as I fall into uncertainty.
has falling from great heights,
become the end of me?

I feel the day,
when I've skipped the melancholia.
with fears washed away,
I dream of utopia

I feel the day,
when the night is gone.
I'll be there someday,
So I march on.
Michael John Nov 2018




reverse square
of humour..

lightly dark
near yet far..

stone wall
can not see..
Jade Jan 11
Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (


it's me--

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.

you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

it's me--
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!


(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Clelia Albano Oct 2018
I climbed once again my favourite
tree, the one where I used to go dressed up with constellations.
Sat on a branch, as a child, I summoned entities from the
outer space, hopeful to be given
the secret of life by some weird creature, a fearless knight from
Mars. Now I summon all those I mourned. Are you there? Can you
hear me? Do you remember when
we rang bells all around to get
some fun? Are there any bells on
the Moon? And you guy, you, are
you still young? Did you find your
mate waiting for you in the Milky
Way? I bet she does her best to
give herself that air of oddity you
were crazy for.
This poem draws inspiration from several experiences and also from the movie by Lars von Trier " Melancholia "
Let et Scar Dec 2018
Poetry flows thru my pen,
Like blood flows thru my veins,
If I try to just write a piece it fails because it wasn't naturally,
I jot down my best pieces when in a rage or melancholia,
I see words as pictures in my brain,
Playing movie rheels inside my head,
Words of sorrow flow thru my pen like a ship sailing across the deep blue sea,
No one really knows my sorrows,
I'm good at hiding what you cannot SEE.
Clinging to the last bits of nourishment
Gabbling and crying, feed me
You are supposed to provide
To be a shelter
I'm an adult
abandoned of your love
Empty eyes
Did you ever sing me lullabies?
It's hard to throw out the crumbs & scraps you left behind
Memories of our past life
Boats and birds coo me into a contented melancholia
What galaxy can I find your spirit?
Id live to make you smile, your little entertainer
I seem to have inherited the same sad eyes you wore
Thunderstorms out my basement window echo
Fitting my turbulent thoughts and feelings that have ran deep
I look for you in other people
Even the traits I used to hate
rough tugging on my scalp never felt so at home
I crave toxicity that feels like you,
After ******* on its bottle for so long.

I have so many questions and things I still need to learn from her
Please give my mother strength
Give my mother her voice
Ease her sorrows, please bring her back to me
Graff1980 Oct 2018
There is darkness
and major melancholia;
She is trembling,
a tiny lady
dry skin
flesh cracking
and losing blood.

In those
open spaces
merely moments pass,
but those cracks
grow and expose
more of her soul.

Dark dandelions
and crimson roses
explode from the holes.
Tiny ruptures
fill with the rapture
of delightful smells,
as she takes
all of her hells
and makes art,
as she sculpts
each heartbreak
into a grand sculpture.

There is no noting
some grand healing
or great transformative power
in her transubstantiation
of pain into beauty,
merely art.
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