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Mikaila May 2014
Thin, white wrists.
Bone white
Like china
And just as brittle.
They make that coarse, scraping sound when they touch one another.
The kind of sound that delicate, expensive teacups make when stacked
The wrong way.
It makes me cringe.

Little blue veins kiss the surface of them,
Hissing and sizzling when the air gets
Too close
Like tiny snakes.

These wrists
Have made promises.
They have
Borne loads.
These wrists have snapped like twigs
Under the weight of a heavy,
Punishing love.
But, pressed back together the way they'd been,
They hardened oncemore
Like stone
And the cracks and fissures
Sank inside again
And smooth, unmarred, delicate white skin emerged
To begin the process over.

At night the snakes whisper and murmur against my cheek in their sleep
And sometimes, quite suddenly,
They sink in their fangs
And I awaken with a start,
A sharp pain radiating out to my fingertips
Like a shock.

Last night I felt their strikes by the hour
One,
Two,
Three, more.
And this morning a strange... fullness
Began in my wrists
And seeped out
Up along my arms
Through my collarbones and down
Into my heart.

Perhaps it was the venom
Working
But where it spread I
Settled
Like an old stone wall.
Like the halls of a castle
That has seen too much death
And too many kings.

I sank into myself
For the first time
And the ground felt heavily solid
And I felt
Only the hollow hiss
Of little blue and green serpents
Dreaming inside me
And that
Was something like certainty,
Although of what
I still don't
Know.
Gemma Jul 28
Place your head between my chest
and your hands on my hips
and your innocence in my veins-
Your vulnerability dances around on my fingertips
but would I use it against you ?
No , because I would never play with fate
plus you're too good to be true.
Andra May 2016
How did you end up
flowing in my veins?
I breathe you
with every second that passes
and I cry with tears
that taste like you.

Pathetic,
right?

I should make myself
a tea
and calm down...
as if this could
heal me...

How can you heal
with an ordinary tea,
a chronic problem?

Doctor,
give me
ten boxes of aspirin.

we
have
to
overcome
the
cold
Waiting for you
Starts a fire inside of me
I feel it in my heart
The pain induced by the flames
And they heat up
Making the blood in my veins
Start boiling
Slowly killing me

Still waiting
I feel the anxiety
Crawling up
My throat
Spreading its vines
Thickening
Soon choking me
Slowly killing me


The only thing
Left to do
Is to pray that
The fire inside of me
Will burn the crawling vines
To stop the unbearable choking
And I'll finally be able
To breathe again
What to do when everything feels like a mess and I stand in the middle, all tangled up
Pyrrha Sep 14
My poems of love are empty I feel
Because I haven't met someone to fill them
So to whomever may be in my future
Though they aren't about you now, they will be
I desperately desire a day when my poetry feels real
And no longer appear as letters dressed up to look pretty
One day I hope they are filled with something warm
As if my love for you will flow through them like veins
And jump-start the heart of all my passion stored and saved for you
James Khan Feb 2
the city's veins are neon slivers,
puncturing converging planes
where lambent eyes flow past in rivers,
culture stains
the city's veins,

beneath it all a plastic passion,
manufactured mirror-ball,
the haute couture, the pop-up fashion,
creatures crawl
beneath it all,


indulgence chokes the avaricious,
mirrors masked by scented smoke
allure to something cold and vicious,
vices coax,
indulgence chokes,

the urban sprawl of fallen virtue,
lights and sounds invite, enthrall,
priorities of life desert you,
under all
the urban sprawl,

the city's veins, beneath it all
indulgence chokes the urban sprawl.
This is a form I created myself, entitled Form 27a (it took me that many attempts and I might improve it). The form uses alternating meter and feminine syllabic end-rhyme as well as a mandatory internal rhyme in line one, used as a refrain for the crowning line.

9-7-9-3-4(refrain),

ABABa where 'a' is the refrain of the first four syllables of line one.

With a syllable count such as this, the poem can begin with iambic meter and roll on seamlessly until the end without missing a beat. This way, the poem switches from iambic to trochaic meter line by line, thanks to the odd syllable count.

See what you think. Feedback welcomed. Criticism, too.
Sometimes, I wish my soul
Wasn't so sensitive
I extend my exposed hand out
For others to grab
Sometimes, my reach
Is acknowledged and held onto
Other times, it's crushed
With the overwhelming and
Presumptuous weight
Of being a burden and
A disappointment

This pain is very strong
This suffering tugs and
Drags me down
A sinkhole that I don't even
Notice I'm falling through

Until it's too late
Until I feel lightheaded
When my heart beats
In fluttering patterns
Until my chest tightens
And I feel a knot in my throat

It's hard to swallow this air I breathe
For at times, it's so dense and thick
But there's no fog, no illusion
Just allusions to the fact
That I'm tired...
Fatigued...
Exhausted...
A barren tree
A lot of life to give
But an abandoned seed
In my mind
That's what my demons tell me

This is my story of triumph
That I'm still writing
This is my journey
That I'm still fighting.
This poem centers around my anxiety. It's something that I struggle with, and as of recent, I've dove into writing more about it. It definitely helps chip away at the marble every time I shape it into a form of art. A reminder to anyone who struggles with anxiety and depression, that you're not alone, there are ways to cope, and you're loved, always.
patty m Nov 2017
Sharp evening birds shadow the sun
setting across the water;
in dreams the ocean
comes to full river.
Many times we've climbed this bridge
weeds changing the color of the water,
stirring glints of conversation
the uplift in the veins
beating a flight to autumn.

I hear your string of broken bird call
raucous and wild
as years turn it to echo;
Startling paleness
a reverie of winter's chill
how boneless is bird flight.
the solace of wings.
                    
Now there is only one
                                      where once there were two.  

          clipped wings
          the imprint of fossils
          the rain's guilty tones
          smearing the dirt

Planks wobble,
                            set as they are
                                                    haphazard­, uneven.

Now there's a blur of impressions,
                                  the nonsensical strings in a litany of sound
                                                           ­                                 
Today,
. . . reflecting on  you,
I walk this bridge alone, touching air no one else can see,
                 one step at a time,
                                           learning to be ME.
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