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Negra Feb 2016
I want to talk.
I need to talk to you.
But this distance sews my mouth.
I want to eat greasy African food with you.
While you remind me to eat my greens too.
But this distance keeps me starving.
I want to touch your chest
While you grab my face and grace my lips.
But this distance wont let us graze upon each others skins.
I want to laugh with you, at me, at you.
But there's nothing funny about this distance.
How is this ideal?
I can't deal
With detachment
My already loose heart.
Swings and ties around you
Not to keep you locked
But to swing to universes that you thought your gravity kept you from.
Yet you cut my chords
And pick it up every now and then
When you supposedly can.
We can't be friends.
Not now at least.
Love me
This distance feels like you hate me.
How can you call this intimacy?
Christy Sandhu Jun 2019
the hurt you give her won't bother her tranquil mind
nor will it take away the happiness in her heart that resides

she has practiced this way too many times
she's numb to the touch of silver piercing the flimsy flesh time by time

no wonder why she's unfazed by irreverent lovers
she's always been dependent on her needles
to clean up her gloomy mess

she sews every broken bit
until there's no piece left

she likes playing with needles
to relieve emotional stress

letting the pointy tip caress
every hurt that left her a wreck
Alaina Moore Feb 2019
Overwhelmed is a term tossed around to the point of underwelming.
I am a depressed person in a glass cage, with no way to hide my fear.
Like a million little cuts across my body, and not a **** one distracts me from myself.
I feel like I'm pounding on the glass screaming, "I wish you would just be happy!"

I'm a depressed person wanting telling a depressed person the worst things to say to depressed people.
The irony is a silent needle that sews the lips shut.
Pretend you're alseep while pretending to be alive.
I sacrifice myself for others worthy of the life.
Exhausting to carry their burdens, and the tears they can't actually cry.
Faces rest in palms as if hands are any sort of shelter.
Inability to let things go makes me feel like I have to rip them apart.
Living like this makes you ill beyond belief.
All I want is a good night's sleep.
Skaidrum Dec 2016
for the arms
that hold me tightly

My love,
won't you feed me to the tides of war?

"I would never. I love you."
The garden of eden shares her suspicion with me
"Why is that?"
'Never' is the name of a fox I know
"Do you still talk to this fox?"
To his skeletal remains written in the dark
When grief comes
"And what about love, do you speak with her too?"
She visits me when she must
When she feels like feeding people to the war

for the boy
that loves every face
the moon chooses to show

"What are you thinking about?"
Stories on the backs of ravens
Obsidian angels who set souls on fire for a living
"What do the ravens tell you?"
The ocean cleans his plate tonight
"His plate?"
He wastes her sacred fruit
Why, the moon's of course
"Why would he do that?"
Liars cannot taste little slices of heaven
"So... what happened to her fruit?"
It wasn't fed to the war
"I don't quite understand."
Neither did love

for my phoenix,
that brings the sun to it's knees

"You are everything I've ever wanted."
Cardinal sins on the sky's wrist
You desire that?
"No, I desire a natural disaster."
that kind of wish lies on the backbone of insanity
"I wouldn't be suprised, my love."
That you desire the unfathomable?
"Ah, but I am in love with a poet."

for the lover
who I buried in the window,
who waited patiently for my return

Love is right behind you
"Oh? What does she want?"
What love has always wanted
"And what do you want?"
An alpine sketch of myself through your eyes
"I hope love doesn't mind~"

"She is and always will be
the moon sketched in every masterpiece.
She is a mosaic along the alpine land,
like fog cupping the trees at first light, or
an emerald forest radiating with grace.
She is the roots of every seed
sown to emerge a queen among calm soils,
and the ghost of an god once lost.
She sews wolves into their sheets at night,
tangles stars in the fur of foxes,
breathes the dawn into the heart of bears, and
teaches the fish the art of harvesting time.
She is holy,
she is art made flesh.
She is the bloodstream of every crystal river,
the lungs of the misty mountains themselves,
the skin of every wildflower known to earth herself.
And by god,
do I love so much
that love herself tastes jealously
for the first time in her life.

...Beautiful is the soulmate of that sin
"You think so?"
"Well, is Love still standing behind me?"
Indeed, she drinks your words as if it were the tides of medicine
"Flattering...however my love, I do have a question."
I house ten thousand answers
"So, who did love feed us to?"

this is for the boy
I was fed to
in the tides of war

Each other
We will always be hungry
© Copywrite Skaidrum
Caleb Hess Sep 2018
I stand naked in front of the mirror. It looks back at me, its eyes don’t seem to follow myne. I can hear it’s thoughts as it says, “you ugly fool, why do you even bother with me…” It whispers every single one of my flaws to me and darkness fills my peripheral vision and they are all I can see. A strange, black being enters the empty, dark room and shoves a sewing needle into my ugly, skinny, white arms and then sews the rest of the string into the arms in the mirror. The beast shoves the needle into my ugly, brown eyes and connects the string to the ones in the mirror. Once every one of my flaws has been connected to my reflection I stand there stuck. The beast watches me scream in agonizing pain for hours, days, years. I think to myself, “this is no way to live,” and I go to throw my arm back, then hesitate, then I do it. I throw back my arm and I watch as the string gets ripped from my flesh. The searing pain hits me and then almost immediately the wound heals itself but it leaves a scar. I throw my head back and the strings rip from my face. The beast watches and cries, it seems to be in pain as I pull out my strings. Each missing string makes it weaker and weaker. It tries to fight me, to stop me. I resist and continue to pull out the strings. Once I get all of the strings out the beast bursts into light and the once dark and eerie room becomes bright and white. I now wear heavy, thick, soft, white robes all over my body. I turn to look at the beast and it is a beautiful pink light. The mirror had a golden frame and when I look into it I see me. I see my perfect imperfections.
A poem about insecurities.
Ilayda Aydın Feb 2019
My soul…
Listen to the pettish sound of the sky
He will cry soon by rumbling, prepare your goblet
The sky falls in love with the sea and cry without stop in order to touch her
The sea fills herself in his love
My soul…
you missed that his ocean-like eyes?
Which you can't touch…
if i caress pearls will pour  from his hair
Which you never have could felt…
Cry o soul with the sky  behalf of holy love
without stop flows poems from my lips
clock inside my heart stopped
my knees tremble by craving
I am burning in flames
i get cold that have been trapped in ice-heart
listen that voice which you never could heard
a night will come open unlike bright
That night is mine…
my left side is silent as much as death this night
at the same time the most severe war
a soul passed by here with one hand goblet
at the same time by digging passed
By hurting…
Oh my little child soul!!
Listen the silent of night
Nobody hears its screaming
Night loves morning by trying to endure this pain
this soul wanders in verses from word to word
that soul sews scars that have been ripped from his heart line by line
the pocket of a coat hid his combative spirit
i'm drinking behalf of that soul
on behalf of every wounded soul…
Glenn Currier Aug 2018
I am amazed
        but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt closes me off
sews me up
amputates my heart
from people I’ve loved.

It seems I cannot get by
the rage she vomited on me
what she called me
her shocking condemnations.

Rage cuts deep
wounds heal slow
if at all.

Then I find out how she felt hurt and betrayed
when I changed and detoured
        because someone betrayed me.

But I am glad for those detours
where I discovered other worlds
and became more than I was.

I am amazed
       but I know not why (knowing me)
how hurt can remake
and occasion my transformation,
how the bad can become the good
        If I am patient enough
        and work hard enough
        to find
        or make
        cracks in that wall.
Poetyouknowit Nov 2018
Into his heart she wished to peer
To glimpse a shade of his crippling fear.

These feelings she claimed as just a murmur to sense
Of deep loss, unknown sadness, and loneliness.

From where he came baggage weighed him down
To where she found him toiling around.

Listing and rolling on an open sea
A broken man he was, so sure was she.

A place to pile pity, sadness, and sorrow high
To fill a hole in her own mind's eye.

A project, a task, a falcon with clipped wing;
Perfect - for a broken man can only be a summer fling.

A date written in sand to bring the curtain down
Leaves nothing to invest; nothing to lose in a waning town.

Help she will not, 'tis not her place
For when summer sets - off to another race.

What does one do when magnificent marble cracks to its core?
Take on the mantle of repair as their chivalrous chore?

For when one finds a thing more broken than they
Pious self-righteousness illuminates their way.

Always the better a thing that is broken
For it leaves that which lies beneath always unknown.

Talents and treasures in a life yet to live
Are the things that a broken man has yet to give.

For broken is mended through time and reflection
And then is when she might make a connection.

Yet a connect is impossible when hubris abounds
For painted already is a picture that confounds.

Perception turns to reality as mud turns to stone;
A broken man always is as she chooses to be shone.

Just as a broken plate, glass, or jar are easily discarded
A broken man is one who is also easily departed.

As fracture turns to crack and crack turns to decay
That which is broken knows only one of two ways.

To stay broken forever discarded as dust
Or to mend, heal, and repair the broken man must.

As the swift needle of time sews shut his ripped heart
The broken man realizes in this play he still has a part.

Realization that his role does not intertwine with her
Sets the broken man looking for what can only be a cure.

With grout, cement, and epoxy he sets to piece himself together
The broken man works diligently to fill in each fissure.

And as his new form takes shape he can confidently say
A broken man is not forever - only a detour off life's highway.

Lost in that summer was opportunity for more.
Voices and laughter fading with no encore.

A sadness swells in the throat behind the tongue
A song left to sing, but no song is sung.

The broken man mended whole once again,
He'll always look fondly where whence he has been.
ifs May 2019
Her heart is very well hidden,
It yearns beneath the shimmering smiles, the glistening eyes, the kiss she sews fondly to your cheek, on your lips,on your skin;
In the hope this harvest carries a reap so fine,
To nourish her mind, to nourish her soul, to revive her within.

There is barrenness within, she’s spent on electing the bad seeds, she cedes her prospects to the hot,spring wind, observing them germinate a field not so far away, a friend, a best friend;

Her tears carry rain that moistens the soil in droughts, but the tears never seem to hold back the storm, they create a flood, subdued no more; drown more prospects out.

She wishes there were a ripened fruit that would let the pain slip away,
that will let her savour it’s taste,
to mend this hurt and barren state  
For she can manage the defeat no more,
Of finding in the centre, a rotten core.  

So she puts her final trust, final seed;
in the palms of another.
In the hope that it is not too soon,
firm in the hands of a new lover.

Grounded is her seed in you.
This was written on a bus and in bed and whilst having breakfast this morning .May change it slightly.
Cyclone Dec 2019
My homie Pac spoke the "secrets of war", you never cease in the streets till it's peace after gore, either verbal or it's physical, long as it's visible, you gain and claim your visual, individuals with rituals, mystical, dribble a force?, watch its course in the other sports!, at the beginning of the end of the day, it seems my eyes are beaming dreams when I'm meaning to pray, and I say I just wanna lay, grazing in sunshine, "baby we made it here!", playing through one line, enjoying the fun times, raising our children, I finished filming, so more time I spend with your feelings, stare at the ceiling, it seems it's peeling my vibe, holding my hand, I understand we're a tribe, get up to handle business, precision is needles, kiss you goodnight, and it sews up the evil, feeling feeble knowing that the poem I told em, never will mold em, only will bold them, still I must fold them, sold em complete, mission may be *******, but still it's unique.
Simpleton Aug 2019
I feel
I can feel my mind
Pleading to cooperate
To sleep and wake up
But I can't forget her
To count her flaws and hate her
But they make her look prettier
There's a fire in my chest
That could burn the city down
There's a jealousy in my heart
It spreads through my veins like a poison
My heart sews dead promises into the salted Earth
I am living in the arms of moments passed
With my eyes closed
I think of where the sea meets the river
And how it flows into an ocean
In my desire to please her and be with her
I have abandoned myself
I don't know how to be alone again
I don't know how to stop myself from flowing towards her
My torn soul is visible on my face
I cannot escape when they ask me of my pain
In those moments
I wish
I wish to be no one
Merely the wind unreachable in all my glory
Free to howl
And be heard
Not questioned nor consoled

— The End —