there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider

something was always
just a little bit
wrong

a constant drip
in the fridge

a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case

missing corners
of floor tiles

pictures hanging
slightly crooked

one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble

the rattle
of the heater

smiles from those
i couldn’t trust

a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes

every year was
the year that would
make it or break it

so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs

last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas

i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard

the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans

and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart

i might have been
the first slice to go

but at least i got
out of there

before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan

a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly

over
just
like
that

and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved

big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all

every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past

it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it

there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed

but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability

maybe
they were

maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded

an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos

or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives

I was quite simple,
But
I became worst
when
She said - "you are wrong"

It's so much easier               .
                .
                                           .                To cry out
          To let go
.
                                             to drown in whatever has us
        
     to willingly let it end         .
.                      .    
                                  ­              
                   this is were the hopeful part comes in   .

.
     but I can't seem to
  
                                             Come up with anything

My head broke
And all the pieces fell
Like glass hopes

Shattered into a million
Shards of slashed throats

I layed there on the asphalt

A broken man
Lost in translation

Found in the laughs joke

My head broke
After I fell off the tightrope
I lost my balance
And the challenge
That life wrote

Pieces of me
Scattered all over
While my thoughts bled
Into a puddle

My head broke
Open

Hope spilled out
And I lost everything
My mind controlled
When

I broke my head

thousand needles to        
                                        .         pierce a soul,  leave it withered
.        .                      .  

            and one to mend it        .           .
     .                       .              .                           .
             .                       .                    .                          .

Fire and brimstone in a head
That rests upon my hands,
On my soft pillow on my bed,
Upon my shoulders, even in foreign lands.
A shell just slightly thicker than an egg’s,
But there is no yolk, only firecrackers
That my heart implores, charges, begs
To stop, before the shell truly shatters
Spitting out the grey matter to populate the skies
With nebulae, since I neglected to be wise.

In moments
Of utter helplessness
I seek solace
In silence.

It is the default setting to hide explicit writings ,
But i don't think they had anything wrong in their writings.

It's written that if you add explicit words in your poems, it will be hidden
And apparently there are too many poems which are explicit word-ridden.

Can anyone please tell me what makes a poem explicit writing
A poem is a description of people's feelings and fighting.

I am really confused for I don't know if this poem will be hidden or not
But I think I am gonna give it a shot .

This setting has hidden so many writes  from me
And when I asked the poets why ,
there was no answer found to be .

Now it is my humble request if anyone will answer my question
This thing already has all of my attention .