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K Paige Aug 2014
your bones like gravestones
prominent among the barren skin
you laugh the whisper of the dead
and your teeth fell out from caring

you were beautifully ruined
by thunderstorms in your head
your smile is all but dead
you can't stand the sight of yourself

you have fallen among the rest
skeletons of who they used to be
a wounded army of solders
fighting for peace within their souls

the body count is heartbreaking
for mothers who clean up the blood
and wish they could've been happier
as they gasped for air with burnt lungs

high school hallways are turned into
a backwards funeral procession
they mourn the living
because they all feel dead

paradise is their only cure
but what is the definition
longing for an infinite silence
muted mouths rejoice at the emptiness

everything about you is wrong
but the presence of individuality
has quieted and so has
the sound of your beating heart
igc May 2015
I saw the best minds of my generation congested and
polluted overdosing on irrelevance

Abandoned abused replaced
Fed to the thought police
Corrected corrupted
Declining the potential to be heard in
exchange for the opportunity to be documented

Lives being lived according to unfeasible standards
You either make it or you don’t
there’s no in between
there’s no maybe
there’s no equal

Left to meander through the conceived thoughts of others
decisions being made
moves being made
eulogies being made

nothings real
nothing’s right
nothing’s honest
nothing thought up matters


Who in the safety of their homes were taught respect
are told to mask their emotions
Identities saved for the weak
Only to be showcased when conducive

Who pump iron into their veins
looking for an angry fix of acceptance
Sweat streams surge down their backs
Failure prominent in their thoughts
Motivation blessing their features
the Devil clever in disguise

Who see little white fields of fairy dust
a never ending landscape of courage
giving them superpowers beyond belief

Nothing beats the freedom of being told
You can fly

Who dream of equality behind closed eyes
But render to imposed birth rights when open
The upper hand implying more than height
and executing more force than necessary to move them

It’s all about the cause until you’re indubitably
the effect

Who tuck monsters into their beds
Forgetting to check closets for skeletons not quite left behind
in the path of carefully chaotic self destruction
Conveniently purging themselves of words whispered
in the throes of passion
Forced upon the ears of all naive enough to listen

Who carelessly expend countless hours playing with
condescending pawns disguised as adults
All grown up with no where to go
Replacing quality with quantity
Leaving long dull trails of breadcrumbs
leading to hearts long since lost
Never to be recovered again

Who follow sexuality by the book
doing this to get that for this him them who what when where
Why does the finish line have to be covered with brightly colored lace and muffled drunk cries chanting no

Who stare straight dead into the soul of love but never
Never into her eyes
Told she is not worthy of being addressed directly
Fingers itching to cop a feel
Only to discover the body is but a passage to her straight dead soul


Who trade in their voice mind and individuality
for half assed smiles and superficial men
As the face of a leviathan nicknamed acceptance
hands them a paycheck they’ve worked too
night day night night hard to refuse

Who idolize the feel of phantom limbs of lovers past
Twisted words convoluting their heads
Forcing on masks of pure heroine
at the sight of scars left on the soul
Scratching at the need to feel wanted
But cowering at the ability to truly be heard

Who have perfected the art of parallel painting
Elegant red streaks hidden beneath layers of
choppy dark colored hate covering pretty pale limbs
Seeming to fade as colorlessly caked on insecurities susurrate bitter-sweet nothings that curl themselves just inside her mutilated skin

Who scavenged their looks from the bottom of holes
they’re expected to clamber out of
Smiling pretty smiling
Being treated to complimentary meals
Only to be served plates full of disappointment.

Who crave companion’s flaws
in ruthless attempts to satisfy their hunger for compassion
Selfless beings dedicated to less than noble attempts at vanquish
The call for heat too satisfying to refuse the trade off forever uselessly launching themselves into razor sharp blades
aimed at ***** sleeves

Who see soft lips as cushion enough to fall from towers built of fear
Dragging moist palms across pavement thighs
Tearing at the seams holding their
hearts together

Who cower behind brick wall appearances
fruitlessly clutching on to ideas reserved for the most fortunate
Scaring away potential with claws that seemingly only come
out to play in the face of acceptance

Who’s sick stick thin limbs trail their worn down
fingernails in an effort mar skin no one can see
Streaks titillate their bright red scalps
A reflection of their underlying journey

Who disgorge yesterday's meal from stomachs long before empty
Blood spewing from the mouth an open wound
Continuously sewed up but never stitched tight correctly
Wiring shut opinions but never gorged enough to
muzzle their Howls



Ideas, calm and collected have long been hijacked and invaded by Hestia

Hestia! Consent! Content! Acceptance!
Long nights and roid rage men!
Two faces fighting a losing battle!
Girls playing mom! Boys playing war!
Ill ridden parents still pledging to the
United States of Controlling Media!

Hestia! Hestia!
Overall reign of Hestia!
Hestia the beautiful!
Incarcerated Hestia!
Hestia the ******!

Hestia twisted and shaped to form the voice of conformity
Hestia constantly watching over and monitoring
Hestia being told what to ******* think

Hestia seeping creeping sneaking into the
darkest crevices of our minds
Hestia when least expected coming out to say
“Hello”

Too late! Hestia’s already made herself at home
Wedged between the rooks of your biggest fear and
burrowed deep into the folds of
Your  Worst  Nightmare

**** in a constant battle between
rejecting Hestia,
and accepting her.
This was obviously inspired by Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."
Considering it was, at the time, the voice of that generation, Welcome to Generation Y.
This is a work in progress.
Muted Jul 2018
i long for pleasant days.
days that feel like new beginnings,
days when i feel as if i am floating,
when each and every
fiber of my being
feels content with letting go,
tying loose ends,
shedding dead skin.
when my body no longer
feels unworthy of
occupying a space in this dimension,
when my brain no longer
allows toxicity to occupy a space
within it.
i long for moments of silence.
solace for my soul,
a place for the skeletons
in my closet to
rest their dust-covered heads.
i long for happy summers.
when i no longer fear
the thought of love.
when i no longer imagine love
as an ugly ****,
devouring a flower bed.
when i no longer imagine you
resting in someone else's.
Madness Unseen Apr 2019
Skeletons we hide,
Behind the laws we abide,
Hidden inside our hearts,
The evil goes deep and wide.

To keep the truth hidden,
Label others heathen,
All the stories are made up,
If you speak up, it's treason.

Here's a series of lies,
While the truth dies,
Upcoming new seasons,
Existence cries.
Logan Robertson Nov 2017
Her orchards I often dream,
buries of my eye,
lost in my fairy book
of beaten pages,
of sunken tears and of mind.
I kept turning the pages, racing,
racing,
looking for her,
between the lines,
now gone,
gone ... are those
lovely high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
swaying and smiling,
her,
her saintly smile,
haunting,
yet shadowing me forever
in my mind.
Each page turned, a sad tear falls
deep and deeper,
for the pages are blank.
Her absence ferreting out
blackness,
skeletons and silhouettes,
the pages turning,
weeping ...
my heart pains
for the book of love
unwritten and unfinished.
The wishing well of ink unspent.
Her essence forever corked
from my heart ...
I now lay arrest,
peas in a pod,
aberration and distortion,
for
lovely those high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
gone.
Sullenly the music plays
to a different song.
Indelible was happenstance,
our chance encounter,
a special one at that,
puzzlement lays a longer shadow
... of why she walked,
without any words.

Logan Robertson

11/09/17
Planejane2 Dec 2018
When you pray to God and ask him for forgiveness
Those frogs leap out your throat.
That monkey climbs off of your back.
That chip is removed from your shoulders.
Your mind is clear.
Those skeletons start walking out of your closet.
You surrender yourself and he surrenders those things that hurt you.
Edinette Feb 2018
The stigma that sensitive people are weak needs to diminish.
Just because she feels things down to her bones does not mean she is weak.
She carries everything. Her feelings, other people’s feelings, the world around her as she takes it all in.

* *
Sensitivity is deemed feeble.
Thick-skinned people are the brave ones, right? They have endured so much that they no longer feel anything. Snide remarks, rude comments, and stressful situations roll off their skin like water during a storm. If it’s already pouring, why worry about each droplet?

*
That is the problem, she thought to herself. Are brave people truly brave?
No.
Brave people are the true cowards. Rather than taking their experiences and feeling them, letting them seep into their bones to become the marrow which fuels their bodies, they shut them away; skeletons in a closet.
They have become numb to the baggage they carry at the expense of growing numb to everything else.

*
People around her are merely living in this world, she decided, whereas she was absorbing it.
In the spring she lays in the grass, running her fingers through each blade as if it were the Earth’s hair.
When summer nights bring a light breeze, she imagines spirits are hugging her.
In the fall when it rains, she spreads her arms wide and gazes up to the sky, knowing that each water droplet that falls is Mother Nature peppering her skin with kisses.

*
Others are too preoccupied making sure their skeletons do not peer out of the closet.
Strength, after all, is the ability to withstand vast amounts of pressure and God knows how much force those skeletons must bear.


*
In the middle of the night, her father hears her talking to someone, except there is no response. It is as if she is conversing with herself when in actuality, she is conversing with her skeletons.
After midnight when others have drifted off to sleep, hoping that their skeletons do not come to haunt them, she is wide awake, her closet door open.
She lays in bed and asks her anxiety how it’s day was, laughs at a witty comment that her depression has made about her life, and gives thanks to the insult a bully gave her in the first grade for making her the person she is today.
The things that should weigh her down, she has befriended. They come to visit so often, anyways.

* *
She wonders how someone who has mastered the art of suppressing their feelings is braver than someone who has mastered the art of acknowledging their feelings.
The strength it takes to keep the closet door shut is immense.
However, it takes an unsurpassable amount of resilience to carry the world in her heart and soul while still having the courage to open her closet without being afraid of the things that could jump out at her.
Skyla Feb 2019
I’ve written so many poems
But all of them are irrelevant
Just meaningless words thrown together
By a meaningless girl in a small town.
She writes about her suffering from sickness and disorders.
She writes about how deep the knives in her chest go and how many times she’s been stabbed by grief.
She writes about how sharp her monster’s teeth are and how deeply they bite.
She writes about the devil and why hell is actually our current world.
She writes about demons and angels of darkness and numbers and dancing skeletons with aching bones.

She writes about dead, rotten girls. Who died in a choke hold at the hands of a scale or drowning in a toilet bowl.

She writes so many poems but the ultimate poem of all is her body.  Her body is the one true poem.  Scars that line her ribs where she sliced with her mother’s bone-handled knife.  Scars on her thighs from being cut with shards of glass because she shattered so many mirrors with her aching fists.

Bruises that line her legs and her arms.  Iron burns caused by her own hands because she just wanted to feel something.

Bags under her eyes, wrinkles corrupting her youthful face, dry and ****** lips.  Don’t even get me started on her teeth.
Oh, what eating disorders do to teeth.
She doesn’t smile much anyway.

Deep, red scabs on her knuckles from purging too hard, to the point where her teeth scraped off chunks of skin.

I am a girl.  I want perfection, I want affection.
But all I have is depression, and numbers and mirrors and food and shards of glass and my bones bones so many bones ;

Hollow eyes and on her way to join the rotten girls club.

How do people think this is beautiful?
Are dead, rotten girls beautiful?
Are they glorified because their bones stick out in places they shouldn’t?
Are they romanticised because they can fit into a size 000?

Does no one see their bloated corpses?
Does no one see their grey-green skin?
Does no one see their stitched up mouths open wide, with blackness and abyss pouring out when they’re in fact, trying to scream?
Maybe your lips are glued shut and you have a blindfold on.

Dead rotten girls should be your worst nightmare, not your dream look.


As unfortunate and tragic it may be, am I the ultimate poem? ~
Anonymouse Jane Jan 2019
8 yards out
6 feet under

unearth the skeletons
line them up for show and tell

the one with a smile
like sunburn on a foggy day

the one whose words
left me with permanent tinnitus

the one
who floundered at my my feet
begging to get in
only to find my waters too deep

                                                           ­                                     and you.
*rough rough draft, just looking for feedback while I edit*
Leal Knowone Jul 2017
Whispering winds, rustle weeping willows,
were the corpses, and sorrow lie.
Winding beaten roads,
broke from the artery of cluttered existence.

Landing me in what reality?

Rattling minds, in longing whoa
anamnesis, horror,love denied.

Skeletons emerge,
of the forgotten foes, and mystic secrets
the world sought not to see.
Clustered hoards galloping to their doom.

Essence ripped away, by cloven hoof.
Relevant ramble from a vagrant drunken stooge.
Whisk away by the dramatic exchange of a loon.
Echoing memories bombarding the senses.

Landing me in what reality?

Echoing voices carried through hallways
were  sorrow, and corpses lie.
Holden Wolfe Jan 7
Death came on a card
inside the walls of me and my bedroom
No clear answer, but when I put it down on the dresser
I saw the skeletons of last winter

Every time I look outside
it’s dark again

I never know if it’s the evenings
that erase me, or the tide of the morning
that pulls me under

Whatever it is
it follows me
faceless
a lake of blood is promised

homes fill with fiber optic prophecy.

"put away your lenses children and sleep under the lamp's shade."

our purple rice growing

Vishnu mumbles and stirs in his sleep.

by the crystal pond, a poison frog sings.

decorating the sand and reeds are skeletons of the old wars.

nearly dust now.

unable to make decisions for the weak or young, the strong or the old.


four seasons yet to pass

attention given to the wolf's lonesome cry.

place your head in sand,
witness the scorpion.

she is
emperor and admonisher.

the tiger breathes in and breathes out its final breath.

lay your belly upon wheat and remove hunger.


an angel's velvet wing cools the fever,
the old sickness of Old Salem.


onions, apples & lemons are sprouting.

there, just underneath the horseman's hood.

quickly, look.
happy birthday sweet prince

tragedy
Poetic T Feb 2019
Gather the dead
  for we will burn them all.

Leaves,
skeletons of summers
life
                      cremated.
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
I know I've felt happy lately
But you don't see how close
The darkness really is
Threatening my neck with every step

I am ashamed of what I've done
To you and others alike
But that's why I'm trying to change
It's why I'm growing into a better person

Believe it or not
Worrying too much about others is
At least in part
Why I've hurt so many people
I try to save these broken people
But I hurt them more in the end
Because I was listening to their desires
Without thinking about myself
Without realizing what I truly feel

Trust me for once
It isn't easy to live this life
I am not proud of my past
I am not proud of my choices
But I really am trying
I really am changing

I know you think it's too late
But there's nothing that could change
The fact that I hurt you this bad
All I can do is learn from my mistakes
And stop myself from hurting anyone else

Because even though I'm happier these days
I still hate myself for what I've done
You think I'm standing on the bones
Of the lovers who I've hurt
Just to get myself ahead
But those skeletons live in my mind
And they're not tucked nicely away in closets
They're scattered in unexpected places
Drowning me in endless flashbacks
Burning the skin where they've touched me
Their goodness destroyed by my darkness
Those memories destroy me
But I'm trying to get better

And since I can't change the past
That's all I have to hold on to
What you are feeling is not love
Love is not this envy coursing through your veins turning your skin green.
No,
Love is the skeletons that climbed out your closet, content with being seen
It’s A Still of the best moments  
Still alive when she’s dead
Still, in a hurricane of emotions, that reside in your head

Love is not her hair, her *******, soft lips or strawberry scent
Not the contour of her body;
It's porcelain touch
Nor the way her voice fades at the end of a sentence
Instead, it’s in the absence
In the things you can’t sense, but still feel
In The parts of her that are least physical but most real

Love is not the way fears became a blindfold
That hid you from the Truth
Torn from a blanket of jealousy
Covering you up,
Keeping you bitter

Rather,
Love is the tear-stains on your jacket shoulder
The warm embrace
The eye of the storm.
She kept that jacket
And Maybe
Just Maybe
She’s wrapped herself in it
And realized that:
Love is the only reason you didn’t want to leave her
And the exact reason
Why you did
Written in July of 2017
jiminy-littly Jan 2017
moving inland far away from
the coast temptation doth bring
deeper in land the head seems consumed by everything

nearing the coast it's the heart that sings

though inland, my love, you will find me

away from the bogs or the shoals o' herring

holding you at bay with *****

keeping me next to me

wanting tomorrow to be the better day

my mind, an island for tromping shores
different from desert sands
when the tide of your concern reprimands

on this island the shells
are smaller and there are no dollars,  
the sea, a shrunken plastic expanse of
syringes and lip balm containers,
soft fluid-filled bodies turned into
sopping brown bag skeletons,

revenges

of modern life.


there is a rivulet further up shore

do you feel it?

follow the inlet wind

near a candescent pond

there is a house

open the door

if you fall in

a home can be found.
Ilunga Mutombo Jun 2018
190
Numbers speak louder than words
a thousand to a million
You are still sleeping with your skeletons
Trying to fit in like a blind Chameleon
History hunts your very own existence
Drunk on emotional substance
Abused so many times
190 to be exact, pain you attract
Matter of fact, these numbers **** you inside
Number of lovers in the past one too many
Heart touched by so many,
But inside you feel empty
Number of breakups and makeups
One too many, demoralized and destroyed
Your heart deployed to war with your emotions
It had never returned
Killed in combat
Fighting and dodging Cupid’s arrows
While drinking from the cup of sorrow
Bor ehgit Sep 2017
A day will come when your kiss will have me settled. No more shaky hands, just fingers tracing a familiar map. No more fire burning between the two of us. Only ambers and blackened walls. It will be on this day that I know, I can no longer love you.
It will be this day that all the fall leafs will cover the park walk ways. The bare trees will be on display like skeletons. The cold air will remind you more then ever that I am gone. Trust me when I say it’s for the best.
No matter how hard I try I’m unable to settle in. I still remember every beautiful face, with tears rolling down their cheeks. I still remember the sound of all the laughter.
Lizzy Jan 2015
Our mutual friend convinced me to spill my secrets to him. I had been holding back the truth because it seemed that every time I let its sour taste roll off my lips, I was once again left alone. But my therapist says I need to open up to people, to get rid of these “surface relationships”. So, for once in my life, I took the doctor’s orders.
I wasn’t planning for it to happen this way though. My mom dropped me off at his house and I opened the door to deafening Joy Division; (not that I minded but) I was taken by surprise. It went as usual to start, danced to some music and shared some cigarettes. Then we get talking about our writing, how blunt and honest mine is and how cryptic and nonsensical his is. So I read him my most recent words; he found them amusing but began asking questions. I answered as non-descriptively as possible. But then we began talking about the horrors he’s seen. He told me that he didn’t know if he could see more skeletons and blood. But I told him about mine anyway.
We moved to the porch so he could have his cigarettes. And I began to let my guard down. I told him about my ****** past and gory thoughts. I told him, with hesitation, that I was trying so hard but it’s a cycle. And finally, I stutteringly told him about my obsession with perfection. He knew I wasn’t normal but he didn’t know I forced myself to expel calories. He seemed un-phased and unimpressed. There was a brief silence before he said “What do you want from me?” What did I want?  I thought all I wanted was to tell him the truth and let him in but he had me second guessing. I did my best to answer the question how I thought he wanted.
He went on to tell me his drugs could help. I was already filled with prescribed and un-prescribed chemicals, but now he wanted me to add to the toxic brew flooding my veins. “I think dropping some good acid with some good people could change your perspective on things”. No ****. It would completely boil the poison that was already within me. I began to feel anger swell inside me, how could he suggest something so stupid? What have I gotten myself into? I respectfully declined his offer and did my best to pretend he never said that.
When suddenly he sat down, looked me in the eyes (mine quickly shifted from his) and said “Ask me about David”. David? What did he have to do with any of this? What kind of reverse psychology ******* was he trying to pull? I complied and began to ask about the day’s events and about David as a person. But apparently these weren’t the right questions.
Eventually he drove me home. I hopped out of the car and so did he. (That’s a first.) As we hugged goodbye, I knew what was coming. I went to pull away but he pulled me closer. That’s when I was positive I was about to hear it. He gently let go and said,
“Lizzy, I think we have to take some time apart.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t do this right now.”
I pulled away from his hand and turned to walk inside before I punched him right in his oddly prominent jaw. Right before I opened the door I turned back to him one last time. His eyes looked sad and seemed to say “I’m sorry”. While I’m pretty sure mine said “*******.”
My hypothesis was confirmed. No one wants to hear the sob story. No one wants to be around the freak. I’m starting to think I really am better off with “surface relationships”.
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