"sciamachy" poems - Hello Poetry

I must not weep I must not break I must not cry a must to fake I must not scream I must not bleed they must not see this part of me should I no I shouldn't should I oh how redundant stand up straight keep a smile it has for months become your style I must not lose I must not give in I must not chase I must not sin I must not sigh I must not waver I must not hope I must not miss her.

0

Oct 12, 2015

Oct 12, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC

reesemeup

Sciamachy

I must not weep I must not break I must not cry a must to fake I must not scream I must not bleed they must not see this part of me should I no I shouldn't should I oh how redundant stand up straight keep a smile it has for months become your style I must not lose I must not give in I must not chase I must not sin I must not sigh I must not waver I must not hope I must not miss her.

24

I realised that, you weren't the one who wrecked me, Or detroyed me, or ruined me, or broke me. I destroyed myself, by loving you. I know that I don't own you, all I do is attract lost souls. All the pain is hidden, some under my long sleeves, some under my baggy sweatshirts, behind bloodshot eyes, and inside my heart. Broken petals fall from flowers, in the same way as tears fall from, Me. I probably wasn't able, to make a little place for, myself inside your heart. I hate the nights when I miss you, when I feel so hollow inside, I feel so empty and out of place, My mind wanders to the unknown, and returns with just sadness, I hate counting the tears that rush, down my cheeks and collect upon my pillow, The only thing to comfort me is, Loneliness. The only thing I am surrounded by is, Darkness. You were my cup of tea, But now I just drink coffee. And now I am just engaged in a, Sciamachy.

0

May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC

trisha-datta

Sciamachy

I realised that, you weren't the one who wrecked me, Or detroyed me, or ruined me, or broke me. I destroyed myself, by loving you. I know that I don't own you, all I do is attract lost souls. All the pain is hidden, some under my long sleeves, some under my baggy sweatshirts, behind bloodshot eyes, and inside my heart. Broken petals fall from flowers, in the same way as tears fall from, Me. I probably wasn't able, to make a little place for, myself inside your heart. I hate the nights when I miss you, when I feel so hollow inside, I feel so empty and out of place, My mind wanders to the unknown, and returns with just sadness, I hate counting the tears that rush, down my cheeks and collect upon my pillow, The only thing to comfort me is, Loneliness. The only thing I am surrounded by is, Darkness. You were my cup of tea, But now I just drink coffee. And now I am just engaged in a, Sciamachy.

32

He walked around the crowded streets, streets filled with party goers and drunken teens He didn’t know where he was going, his mind housed those gruesome images Replaying in his head over and over again It was a Friday night, although it really didn’t matter because he never had plans regardless of the day He had bigger things that he had to mentally face A psychological sciamachy if you will– an imaginary enemy that he wanted….no needed to **** It left his mind all dark and dreary, filled his heart with raging fury And he couldn’t understand why or how he got like that. In school he was the definition of a social outcast, not fit to be amongst the cherished few but if only they knew because the biggest outcast in the school Was also the strongest, for if they were to even attempt to take on his struggles I doubt any of them would still be alive to tell their story But back to that night out on the streets, the night he was stuck walking aimlessly He ended up on top a roof..staring up at the clear black sky admiring its site, not one star visible because of the bright city lights He didn’t care, he was caught in some trance Even with his glossed eyes you wouldn’t really know the state he was currently in at first glance Cold and disheveled he had nothing else left, he was alone even with the dozens of people next to, behind and ahead of him Stepped on the edge of the building and whispered “Its already broken” The ones who were once strong sometimes fall And he was one of them.

0

Apr 3, 2014

Apr 3, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC

dulceedee

Imaginary Enemies

He walked around the crowded streets, streets filled with party goers and drunken teens He didn’t know where he was going, his mind housed those gruesome images Replaying in his head over and over again It was a Friday night, although it really didn’t matter because he never had plans regardless of the day He had bigger things that he had to mentally face A psychological sciamachy if you will– an imaginary enemy that he wanted….no needed to **** It left his mind all dark and dreary, filled his heart with raging fury And he couldn’t understand why or how he got like that. In school he was the definition of a social outcast, not fit to be amongst the cherished few but if only they knew because the biggest outcast in the school Was also the strongest, for if they were to even attempt to take on his struggles I doubt any of them would still be alive to tell their story But back to that night out on the streets, the night he was stuck walking aimlessly He ended up on top a roof..staring up at the clear black sky admiring its site, not one star visible because of the bright city lights He didn’t care, he was caught in some trance Even with his glossed eyes you wouldn’t really know the state he was currently in at first glance Cold and disheveled he had nothing else left, he was alone even with the dozens of people next to, behind and ahead of him Stepped on the edge of the building and whispered “Its already broken” The ones who were once strong sometimes fall And he was one of them.

20

Turn around and its always near Shadows of a broken mirror About, you face, or right behind Having little faith in mind You turn around and run to hide From the silhouette inside Jagged reflections start to overtake you Fear, anger, and sadness are in its brew And when it finally envelops you whole All Hopes will force you to fall down that deep hole

0

Jan 3, 2016

Jan 3, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC

parker-blackwood

Sciamachy

Turn around and its always near Shadows of a broken mirror About, you face, or right behind Having little faith in mind You turn around and run to hide From the silhouette inside Jagged reflections start to overtake you Fear, anger, and sadness are in its brew And when it finally envelops you whole All Hopes will force you to fall down that deep hole

10

She wrote like she was struggling to breathe, like she was running after a train barefooted on railway tracks in the middle of winter, shivering shuddering, holding on to nothing at all but being held by screaming words tugging at her feet and biting into the ridges on her fingers She wrote like all the clocks in the world had come to a stand still, though days continued to pass, like the fluttering pages of an abandoned book in the midst of a raging storm She wrote sometimes like hail, pattering against steel-coated frozen rooftops, falling against doors left ajar bruising faces which taught her, how to shoot bullets At other times, she wrote like a gentle breeze, like the scent of rosewater and jasmine, and dirt lovingly caressed by morning dewdrops, and her words, they sometimes danced across paper, swaying with a trace of a brief smile, and then they fell with a thud, giggling in those sudden, fleeting moments of insanity, which make The Blissful incinerate themselves, into ashes which blow away in the wind And then at other times, her words were silent dark, brooding, still, like the darkest corners of a rundown neighbourhood after midnight, like the dust which settles on suitcases filled with forgotten photographs, against the farthest wall of a quiet room . . . dark, brooding, still, like her soul, barred behind wood, engraved with the whispered words of the shadows of her fears.

0

Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC

ramsha-ahmed

sciamachy.

She wrote like she was struggling to breathe, like she was running after a train barefooted on railway tracks in the middle of winter, shivering shuddering, holding on to nothing at all but being held by screaming words tugging at her feet and biting into the ridges on her fingers She wrote like all the clocks in the world had come to a stand still, though days continued to pass, like the fluttering pages of an abandoned book in the midst of a raging storm She wrote sometimes like hail, pattering against steel-coated frozen rooftops, falling against doors left ajar bruising faces which taught her, how to shoot bullets At other times, she wrote like a gentle breeze, like the scent of rosewater and jasmine, and dirt lovingly caressed by morning dewdrops, and her words, they sometimes danced across paper, swaying with a trace of a brief smile, and then they fell with a thud, giggling in those sudden, fleeting moments of insanity, which make The Blissful incinerate themselves, into ashes which blow away in the wind And then at other times, her words were silent dark, brooding, still, like the darkest corners of a rundown neighbourhood after midnight, like the dust which settles on suitcases filled with forgotten photographs, against the farthest wall of a quiet room . . . dark, brooding, still, like her soul, barred behind wood, engraved with the whispered words of the shadows of her fears.

40