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Katie Killjoy Apr 2014
My brain:
It feels like white wash walls.
My mind has been bleached
To nothing at all.

The clocks' hands move;
I am not ready.
The broken skin on my hands
Reveal my state is unsteady.

My eyes have sunken
Deep into my skull,
Like the ships that has been
Swallowed by the sea.
MRR Jun 2013
Imagine a nightmare
While you're awake.

Imagine a knife's edge
With a ghost at the hilt.

Imagine a death
Not instantaneous.
unnamed Jun 2019
i cant stand the sight
of an open door

theres always someone
standing in the room with
the door ajar

letting out the things
that stay out of
the light of day

no, i cant stand the
sight of an open door
there is someone
standing in the
darkened room
no one can see
them and i cant
either but i know
theyre there i
can feel them
staring at me
though the open
door

theres always something
in the dark
supposed safety of
a bedroom but
i cant tell
you what it
might be

sometimes i hear
them calling my
name

or is that
just nothing too?

sometimes it sounds
like my family
i cant tell
the difference anymore

theres always someone
in the dark
safety of the
bedroom i sleep
in but i
cant tell you
what it might
be because i
dont know what
it might be

theres knocking on
the walls of
my house and
my closet door

i hear someone
tapping on my
bed frame while
i lay awake

there are lights
in the room
but not coming
from the lightbulbs
and not big
enough to be
from a flashlight
or laser pointer
they are blue
and red and
green and white
and sometimes yellow
or orange too
3/?
Spike Harper Jul 2017
how does one take part in promises.
Long since past.
Like riding a roller coaster that never seems to cease its desent.
or finding a seat.
In an empty theatre.
When will conversation start in I and not Us.
Everyone in this life is a stranger.
Passing on a cross walk.
Regardless of what side they began.
Eventually they walk away.
Until death do us remain apart.
For living adrift.
With a crooked rudder.
Has established the circles to be repeated.
And as this new revolution comes to the end.
A hand slips and gives control to the tides.
Removing any facade that hinted that there was any control to be had.
With no map.
No navigator.
No urge to go much of anywhere.
For the sea has already stripped away any feature that could be used to identify the once grand vessel.
Even the fish below keep their nourishment to themselves.
Granting a mild pyschosis.
But these mirages turn too real.
And waiting on bruises to heal.
Do not make the gashes bleed less.
Just causes the shock to over take this shell of a body.
In which no move against its advance is made.
For it is the only thing that wishes to.
Leaving humanity in the distance.
As the arms of oblivion surround the fractured soul.

— The End —