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Amber Sep 2017
I am not what you think I am.
Colourful, joyful, laughter and excitement.
I am dull, gloomy, serious and calm.
I do not find joy in loudness but in stillness I do.
I do not find pleasure in pleasing anyone because i cannot even please myself.
I am not picture perfect like you see me on pictures but i am raw, a mastering hideous perfectly formed flaw.
I do not have the perfect smile because real smiles do not exist in my real world.
My body is not what you imagined it to be because it is a skeleton out of it's closet.
I am not free as i may seem because i am trapped.  
I am trapped in the flamerous and distructive thoughts of mine that are beckering at what i have become.
I am so afraid of what i have become, i have become so poisenious to myself.
I have become so out of value , i was once a diamond and now i am gravel.
I am used as a road for growth for some and a road of example of an expired female to the rest.

I am done, i am a dead body with a soul trying to live but soon will be ready to take it's life.
There is really no other way to describe myself other than expired, disasterious and into ashes.
I am trying so hard to cleanse all my past, my wounds , my flaws but the more i cleanse them the bigger they fluster.
Maybe the scars of all the heartbreak i have been through has marked the outside of me.
Im fighting a  war with my inner self and outer self.
What is outside of me is building the monster in me.
The last time i checked what is in the inside brings what is from the outside but in my case it is the total opposite.


I feel like my past is haunting me and i see it in my reflection on the mirror.
Maybe this is a way of God's punishment to me.
For breaking all the laws he breaks my outer self inorder to break my inner self.
Day by day i destroy myself by impeckering at what i only succeed in which is my imperfections.
The burning gaze i receive from the monster that i see infront of my mirror lurching and mocking at my past written all over my imperfect body.
I am haunted, haunted by my thoughts, haunted by my feelings, haunted by my imperfection that is lingered by my haunting past that haunts my future.


Maybe this is what i was born for , i was born to be flawless in imperfection.
Maybe i was born to be seen as glorious but as soon as they get to know me they realise how into ashes i am.
I died, I died the day i lost my morals and i died the day i realised how i will never be good enough.
Not good enough for myself and most definetly not good enough for anyone.

I am alone once again.
I am alone yet i have so many people in my life.
But that's the thing, i have many in my "perfect" life that is a living lie and i have myself and only that in the real world of my nakedness and loneliness.
Maybe this is it, this is the hell that i was warned about when i was once innocent.
I died the day i lost my innocence and i was born again in the life of hell in a cell.
My life is a hell in a cell because i am imprisoned.
My whole body is marked and outlined by my past.
My thoughts of my past mistakes are locked in my brain and not willing to rest until i have no dignity left in me.

See what i mean?
I am not what you think i am.
I am not over my past.
I haven't overcome my flaws.
I have not found my confidence.
And i am not perfect at all and never will be.
But with time I will maybe be what i wish i could be and that is perfect in my eyes, unhaunted by my past and set  free by my thoughts.
I know its too long but jus read maybe you'll find a line that you can relate to.
Zero Nine Sep 2017
Seldom has the shadow
Crawled over the daylight
At night, I turn it on
My high queen, the wattage
Shines her frozen orange
Upon my heated frame

You look on the darkness
See nothing but the void
Hear nothing but the cold
The old frozen silence
I hear distant echoes
Voices from within flame

Spirits call me
From dark places
Suddenly the light
Won't drive them away

Ghosts love my fragility
I'm living obscenity
Always high on kerosene
Running empty but for fumes

Of outcomes
Can't manipulate fate
Already holding roses
Can't manipulate light
I used her for her purpose
Such thing as too much?
Must be so
As my fingers turn to ice

I'm dead dreams
Ghosts love my fragility

I'm living obscenity
Always high on kerosene

Running empty but for fumes
Running for my life
The End
Eleni Sep 2017
Turning the pages
Turn the pages.
She's just another lost angel
Lost angel.
Crying angel.
Weeping devil.

So I move on, turning the pages
Would you care for her?
Or turn the pages...
She is no one.
Heart full of stories, mystical magic
Enchanting, dying
Inside her- no one.

She turns her pages
She remembers- the hatred
No one will ever know.

And she's drowning
In a sea of fools
She's crowning
Her own ghouls.

Maybe I'll stop by- some day
Turn her pages- hear her say:
'I never loved you, never loved you.'
Did you feel those dying blues
Ocean, river, dying blues.
Crashing down- the hurricane will bring you down, down, down.

Will I forgive her- my haunting mirror?
She stares at the stars in my eyes-
Say goodbye.
Say goodbye.

Haunting mirror- say goodbye.

Turn my pages
Through the ages
Cut the edges
Face the faces
Leave no traces
A thousand changes.
Anthony Perry Aug 2017
I'm a giant surviving on scraps from smaller hands, an Atlas without a known purpose living amongst Noam Chomskies and Ayne Rands, scrounging around this philosophical symphony for somthing hidden in the slaughterhouse of lambs.
Aaron LaLux Aug 2017
One of her earliest memories,
was that of being *****,
that’s right no foreplay in this poem,
right into it like what happened to her when she was torn open,

one of her earliest memories,
was not of flowers or ice cream or curious cats,
just that which was her grandfathers curious fingers,
***** by the very ones who were supposed to protect her,

painful facts of heinous acts do we have to let that linger,
can’t we just get it out into the open I mean it’s even happened to the famous,
just ask The Cranberries’ Dolores O’Riordan,
or Amy Shumer or Lady Gaga or Gabrielle Union or Madonna or Tori Amos,

or Teri Hatcher Kelly McGillis or Queen Latifah or Pamela Anderson,
or Oprah Winfrey or Fran Drescher, or Mo’Nique, AnnaLynne McCord,
or of course Kesha, Jane Fonda or Ashley Graham ****,
and these are just a fraction of the victims because most women don’t even file reports,

but it’s not just women that get ***** it happens to men too,
Tim Roth Scott Weiland R Kelly Billy Holiday to name a few,
also include Cory Feldman of course and DMX Santana & Tyler Perry too,
I mean to be honest I’ve also been touched inappropriately how about you?

Let’s bring our skeletons out of the closet so we can stop the nonsense of these monster’s abuse.

How is **** so common and constant yet the subject completely oppressed,
I guess it’s kinda exactly like what happens to those that are molested and those that ******,
young girls staying silent while screaming inside and taken advantage of by a member of their tribe,,
as the same man that married the woman that breastfed her mom touches her breast,

in other words,
the man who birthed the woman that birthed her is the one that hurts her,
her grandfather’s curious fingers find his granddaughters innocence,
and she’s not sleeping but still she’s squeezing,
her eyes closed like if she tries hard enough he’ll just disappear and evaporate,

as he fulfills his sickening sense by finding her emptiness in the losing of her innocence…

Why do those closest to us cause us the most harm,
why was this girl more comfortable telling me what had happened to her,
than telling her own family about what had happened,
maybe because the trust was gone and the love was lost because they’d betrayed her,

why does the American Dream,
sometimes feel more like a terrible nightmare,

one where you’re dreaming that you’re being attacked,
but you’re paralyzed by fear so as much as you try you can’t scream,
silenced by the violence that’s personally occurring to you,
and you’re trying to pretend you’re asleep but really all you want to do is awake from this dream…

I guess in a way we all feel sick,
because we all have things we still have to admit,
like how suicide is something a lot of us have tried to commit,
how we all feel sick of it all & don’t know the point was to any of this,

see sometimes,
when you’ve been wronged your whole life you lose sight of what right is,
and honestly I feel exactly the same way sometimes,
which is exactly the reason why I took the time to write this,

just to let you know,
that I love you,
and that I hope,
one day you'll escape all abuse,

when we are pure enough to see clearly,
when we’ve redeemed ourselves enough to earn our halos,
when we finally reach the Heavens,
someday sometime someplace somewhere over the rainbow….

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

author of multiple best selling poetry books
https://www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK
kevin hamilton Aug 2017
shattered bones
and i was drunk
i put my phone away
to watch the ghosts
come for me
lost my voice
saying goodbye
and there was nothing
left to write
at the end of summer
when time is slowed
and nothing grows
Never ignore the spirits.
Seema Jul 2017
Stopped by an old town
To fuel up my car
Surrounded by cane fields
A figure stared from far

Almost at nightfall
Passing by the wrenched dummy
A sudden chill up my spine
Gave grumbles in my tummy

No ones around
The shack looked deserted
The figure lifted its head
But fell, as if beheaded

I screamed with a cracking voice
And sped up my car quickly
My car drove back to the same spot
Going in rounds basically

This went on till the break of dawn
While the figure gave me a meek smile
A pair of rolled up eyes
Looked through me, from a quite mile

A wink from the torn eyes
That's all I can recall
Ripped clothes, nailed to a post
Certainly it was a drastic call

People say, it's a haunted shack
Never travel alone at night
The dummy would get you
And you'll lose your sight...


©sim
Fiction
morning glory Jul 2017
In a distant memory,
I hear the words
"I love you"
echoed in an otherwise
peripheral silence.
you haven't spoken those words in years. not to me.
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