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harperb 1h
bandaids on bullet holes
they clearly don’t work
but you try anyway
all the time
try and try and try again
it’s like you forget everytime  
so you add another, and another
you’ve added so many,
you can no longer see the original wound
so you believe it’s fine for a while
then it started becomes infected
it stings and you wonder why
well, the bullet is still under your skin
you never removed it
its still there, burrowing itself even further into your skin
you keep trying to push it out of your mind
but hiding it made it worse
you think about it all the time
and when someone reminds you of it
it stings
every
single
time
Laura 12h
I found all these poems
That don't mean **** anymore
Because they're from a time
That doesn't mean **** anymore
And they're about a person
Who doesn't give a **** anymore

The worst part is
I still give a ****
About this ****** person
From all these ****** poems
Even though I ******* shouldn't
Because I'm not a ****** person
Because now the slave and the master are equally typical; no one is given ownership rights anymore, a diluted, smooth bargaining handshake just scares you into lives and infinity. Is the current consciousness of Lack just a nonsense grotesque epochal picture, or an intentional one, which is no longer possible to fill sufficiently and with dignity?! Is it a big reckoning or who clings to the dwarf dreams of their embryonic age these days?!

The simple man now walks his fate as a slave with a household book, because there is hardly anything else left, at least here; stumbling on stone-heavy instincts, blinded reflexes, he should now serve a higher power with a tough, yet stubborn penguin-like slobber, because even the silenced mouth will sooner or later realize how much of a sucker and fool it is.

Above their heads, millions of scalpels and blades are already trembling with pure malice. Because what kind of vile, manipulative ideas brainwashed minds do not want to create a common humanism in the name of reason and free thought, which has perhaps always been considered a shortage in human minds?

A meager starvation-wage career, or a total failure?! Because it may seem that this is all that could remain; a ******, defiant lust for power, or an over-boiling pride, goes on and on, on the canvases of haphazard little idyllic dreams, pathetic filth, innocent people are constantly squeezed out by a non-existent promise, call, bargain, which may slightly ennoble the public feeling humiliated to dust. Living and witnessing people wander halfway between embodied shadows. The cunning answers of condensed anxieties cannot be measured, cannot be redeemed!
Ria 1d
I look at you, you look at me

The glances were exchanged

The sparks were flying

O' I swear, the heart fluttered

I sometimes steal a glance and sometimes yours wondering curious eye
I swear it was something before anyone raise the point
But here I wonder upon it
Was it true or something I made

I doubt my remembrance, the old issue of mine
But this time, there is something different I felt,
Like it tapped into my truest of truth
It tapped into something I am made of
So, I wonder, I wander where are you now

Into the unknown I pledge

for you to come back

Come back fast

So we can look it together

love.

Ria
theres no wrong answer
to what poetry is.

"poetry is rhyming"

wrong.
there is actually a
wrong
answer.

poems are little windows,
a view inside
someones head.

it doesn't have to rhyme,
it doesn't always have to provoke
feelings.

its just words,
that are there
to help
*someone
date wrote: 18/8
dislike this one but idk
What is wrong with him?
He’s drifting like a lost boat,
searching for his shore,
hoping someone will hear
the ache in his fractured voice.

I heard his cries.
He wanted help.

I reached out my hand.
He took it our eyes locked,
the only person who truly heard.
The only person who cared.

We were there at the dawn of time.
We remained until its end.

He rescued me, as I rescued him.
Two broken hearts binding each other.
Two beings converting into one.

But I wonder are we destined to be,
or only a trauma bond dressed up as soulmates who are not meant to be?
It was all just trauma disguised as destiny.
Years spent in a soulless vessel of flesh,
This cold can't preserve my wounds.
They bleed.
My remains are rotting away in reminiscence.
Watching our realm freeze,
Without your embrace's creed.

I was meant to fall,
with the higher ambition to touch you.
My fate can't reach your divine vastness.
So come now and melt the glaze,
And burn down our realm.
A final blaze of your flaming gaze,
Will turn this kingdom to drifting ash,
A whelming flare.

Bathed in your eyelashes gamma blaze,
Melt the ice from my burned, cracked flesh.
What will I do,
Without my kingdom and queen beside?
So I'll let your gaze devour me from existence,
And turn me into ashes like our realm.

I'll burn my mortal flesh;
And let my immortal ashes drift...
...Into the divine air,
that you breathe.

Falling through shackles of memories,
My ashes will drift into your vastness.
Enjoy the whole trilogy!
Each and every day I find myself fleeing away.
I tried to ease the pain,
By hiding behind your memories.
And you remain inside the crack of my burned skin,
But these whispers keep eating me alive,
Why did she go?
The Ointment to my soul.

Your memories are shackles,
Tightening against my throat.
So come and free me from this suffering,
Or twist my neck,
Just the way you twisted our story.
Should I disappear?
Just the way you did,
I promise I'll be waiting,
Like a ghost in the breeze.

In my dream, we used to collide,
It was my happy ending.
But now you are drifting away,
Even inside my dream.
One final twist to release the rage,
Let silence flood and end this page
Drown me in the silence with no hope of you.
And bury me...

Should I let you flow from my wrist?
I built a world just for the two of us,
But you removed my existence from it.
Now without your embrace, the world feels cold,
As if this cold preserves my soulless flesh.
Continue in part II...
Aadya 4d
i won’t call you the sun.
you don’t hurt my eyes,
or blind me with your light.
you shine spectacularly,
but in a gentler sense—
like cherry blossoms,
ornamental in essence,
never promising sweet fruit
even if i help you grow.
but i don't expect any really,
i just want to admire your beauty
from the shadow you provide.

you’re not the moon, either.
you don’t need to borrow light—
you burn bright on your own.
your dark spots
don’t define your beauty;
your talent, your smile,
your infectious laugh,
your thoughts and care
outshine any flaws—
though honestly,
i don’t see any at all.

you are the nebulae.
beautiful and multicolored,
more than the eye can see,
more than the mind can reach.
you carry galaxies in your eyes—
light green and yellow-brown,
like forests and deserts,
the beauty of the earth
and the wonder of the universe
meeting in one gaze.

you are the stars.
seemingly small,
yet impossibly immense;
seemingly rare,
yet impossibly dense.
the only star i look at
like a sailor looks at the north star—
an essential on the sea,
guiding him home.

you are the mystery
that makes me trace lines in the sky,
connecting dots,
trying to find meaning
in what’s before me.
i want to understand you,
but you are so beautifully complex.
i used to think i was smart,
but you make me want to be better.
you are poetry—
the kind i cannot fully understand,
the kind with a thousand meanings,
and none i can settle on.
Waiting for life
Is to wait for death.
You will have time.
But you never know
Which will be your last breath
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