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Rianna Jul 27
It’s been 3 months since my last panic attack.
Oh, you mean its been one?
A understandable misunderstanding,
For it’s not like I know myself.
One tends to drop the childish habit,
Of gnawing at shreds,
When there is little left to know.
Only so much scent to unmask,
So much ‘purpose’ you can detect,
A sliver of a ‘lesson’ you can collect.

So I’ll stop fiddling with the rag doll,
Leave my questions behind,
Barricade the door,
Crush it shut,
Banish the key,
Til eternity sees
The light of day.

⁃ For it’s not like I’ll ever know myself
edited.
Skaidrum Jun 2015
.
Hello    archangel,
fallen goddess behind my morgue.


    Whose complexion equaled the moon,
craters and abysses,
    cascading like salt on
an empty


    wound.


With the crosshairs of nicotine
a mirage on her cracked lips;



“Leave me,

    lowly poet,

Your pity is unbecoming.

I am the 13th fallen sister,

    so linger here

no longer.”


“Death is an old friend,

    I fear not his company,

nor his demise.”


I’ve never seen such eyes;
glass-stained,
divine & unpredictable.



“I’ll **** you.”


“Darling, I’m already dead.”



Her monologues could summon the dead,
she preached of the lovers
who bore no fruit
and the heartless
that lay eternal
in the eyes of
her dalliance.


I’d often find myself
yearning at the pebbles at her gravestone,
impatient, to be graced by her
ink soul and
  rhapsodic  presence.


“Are you my friend,

poet?”



“No,

I am much more.”


And for centuries
of cracked dawns and
folded nights,
shallow moons &
crippled suns,
we’d meet---
poet to god,
at her morgue.



“Poet,

why must the most beautiful

people die?”

She once asked me.
Alured, I answered:


“When you’re in a garden,

which flowers do you pick?”


“...The most beautiful ones.”


I’d spend my seconds ‘neath the gallows,
among the bones
of her brethren,
all had fallen before her,

from the house of god.


I bargained my soul with Ursula,
my sins with Lupus,

    I ignored their tempertantrums

& discord.


That very evening I stitched a universe,
upon her shoulder-blades.



“What are these?”


“Wings.”
This was a commission, for an old friend.
I'd already used one of my popular sayings
in my other poems.

© Copywrited
Night all along was
A monologue of lights,
On prowling darkness!
zelda Jul 19
i feel as though i am a misplaced dirt. i don’t belong here. i don’t fit in anywhere. it seems like every place i go to will be a strange memory. like a mere fog in the city transporting your soul into vulnerability, allowing you to surrender your weeping soul. some days, the sadness consumes me. stop this ******* pain! oftentimes, when i am alone, in the dark corner of my bedroom, i say this to myself. beating my chest intensely, missing the warm glow i once had, preaching the power of internal monologues i purposely created to fabricate a picture where i am pure and glistening. but this isn’t me. i am beseeching the gods above us, have mercy on me! the unknown cause forcing my bones to feel the ache. give me the silver blades to end this madness. open lungs, dampen pillows and deep desires to take a new gaze upon the world. but the misery keeps my hands *******. the fact that i have the ability to commit a mistake drowns my body in the ocean of disappointment. hush, put me inside the coffin instead. i made my own bed. this impulsion to start anew is nonsense. the absence of one’s emotions used to make me puke. i have never known how people can easily forget a face, not until i lost myself, and to realize everything about it is a fear i will endlessly think about—for breathing the pure poison of the world is easier. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. i will never be the same. the eccentric aftermath will always be bittersweet. in the blink of an eye, i forgot my own face.


(ACT I. THE DEATH AT THE SINNER PARTY)
do witches fall in love at witching hour?

song: breathe me - sia
Butch Decatoria Oct 2018
Hopefully not a mystery, mistaken,

Unquestionably remarkable : your presentation

Miss muse of heavy breathing monologues’

Deeper meanings, thus flesh rises hot.

If into relations

No need or want for explanation.

Greater words now simply lost;

Entrails of vaporous profundities

Respite-sleep below limbs’ entangled quivering

Some sort of worshipping screaming “god!”
It took a long time for me to believe in trust again because it had been broken so many times.
It took a long time to believe in love again after it had been maniacally ripped apart.
Despite that, someone made me believe,
And then, now, here I am broken all over again.
I found myself believing every word that plunked from those lips
And I fell for them .
When sentences string from mouths , I don’t believe any of the explanations now.
I don’t process the one-sided quickly spoken monologues anymore.

It hurts to look back on the past and see the slow shifts where I couldn’t before.
It’s even harder to look into the future and see where I won’t fit in,
But it looks like it’s time to change again.
Part two of a series of unfiltered emotions meant to be seen
One each day for each person
CAM Nov 2017
I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.

I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.

But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.

Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.

It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.

I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.

But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.

But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.

I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.

Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.

I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
     That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
      That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
      Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
    Fine, but keep your thoughts.

But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.

I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.

Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?

A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.

For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.
Don't mind this. Just an outflowing of thought.
maria Jun 13
She pulls me out of town with a bouquet of lilies
holding me tight, but soft, she talks about valleys of freedom.
She begs me to visit a country full of angel statues.
She's so confusing but sweet somehow.

The way she talks about revolution makes you wanting to burn bridges
and you know you would do it if She let your hand.
You would have fight bats and demons
but she just couldn't stop keeping you in touch.

She's talking and talking and talking,
you're not tired.
You're trying to compliment her through your laugh.
She doesn't let you speak.

Then she speaks out about how good you are,
how proud your children will be.
You can't help but dream of a life with her.
She looks in the sky and smile.

She stops in front of a river.
The water is so clean.
Birds are dancing above it
making love to your dreams.

Now it's the time to tell her how you love it when she sleeps,
how you're drowning for a kiss,
how you would do anything to make her yours to be.
She sees deep into your eyes.

She gets so quiet.
You're about to hug her
tell her you're not comfortable with her silence;
she left your hand.

Whispering, she tells you she's dying.
Her calm tone doesn't change a bit.
You, you realize that the sun burns.
She monologues that it was burning for so long.

I'm standing here looking for the joke.
She begs me to take care of her dog.
You're afraid to tell the little one, that mama's not coming home.

She demands only lilies in her grave,
white lilies of hope,
the opposite
of her black soul.

The river is so ***** and dull.
The storm that came within killed the nightingales,
destroyed nature's melodies,
rocks and branches like spears bloked the flow of the water
demanding for pure blood.

Wolves stand all around the river
crying their lives out,
the trees in the area scream and shout.
Someone could said they're enjoying the chaos.

The lilies fell from her tiny hands.
Silence.
written on June 13, 2019
You console me and hold me to your body
My hands love to hold yours
We are obscenely closer than I’ve ever felt before
One more breath and I’ll melt to the floor
I don’t know if I can stand this feeling for much longer
We are already a whole universe
A rhythm escapes your hips and I am driven mad
We are abstaining from the naming of these feelings
Quickly it appears relevant to refrain from our embezzlement
Of sound and sensation, since its never just about *******
We sweep the stairs and compare our share of stories
We are beating ourselves into a form of beauty’
Bruised and confused we recoil at our duty
And seek the comfort of hands that have never been this cruel
We are bank robbers and mannequins
Fantastic harlequins damaged by parliaments
So we take it out on each other's hearts
We are permanently trying to deny our inner spying
But it never seems to work out as well as planned
Later the next morning we fell a thousand stories
And landed on our monologues and mortgages
But life has a funny way of showing us our faults
And our feelings never seem to lead us
Exactly where they need to
See we are desperately in need of another type of guidance
So now I am replying to all your silly letters
And having the time of my life playing out these archetypes
One more night in the city and once more we take pity
On our impoverished souls and ****** attempts at love
Josiah Bates Oct 11
I Fumble through the dark
Hopeless.            Stray dog.
I lie there in constant thought. of
You.

Found myself by rambling
through carefully spoken paragraphs,
flattering speeches and romantic monologues.
but they are nothing, without
You.

Nothing, after all
That's all that I ever was to
You.
So I'll be nothing, I am silence…
Yet I hear your piercing whispers!
I am steeled against myself.
But your knife plunges into my empty chest.
Who is guilty of the sin in the end?!

Me.

— The End —