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These moving feet always stay hungry
For the steps on finding perfect dreams
Pestering about love again – it really bugs me.
How it usually goes for us, in this love story
Asking myself, “would you really tell me his story,”
Quietly knowing, “you two still share some history?”

Yes, your eyes are both the windows to your soul —
But their curtains are occasionally & forcefully closed
The story of every man, wanting to find that treasure,
Of their favourite girl's heart; marking it with an X,
And they all quietly hope, to closely hear her say,
"Hey, you're so much better than my ex.”
Asking myself, “what love of man, is surely king,”
Cause being that it's all ruled from a wicked heart –
It can take a week to fall in love, but it unfortunately
Takes a lot of us weeks to fully heal from a broken heart.

Love can become so foreign to someone,
Unfamiliar to the tastes of a good French kiss
"What's your love language," we first have to ask;
Body language can differ from what comes out of your lips.
As even a betrayer knows when to give the right kiss…
Nat Lipstadt Apr 20
a little

r,

that's all I have,
a hook upon to hang my spirits,
hoping these pre~sleep morbidiities
be by gravity,  
sleep drained, and my
heart restored to wholeness

<>

a tiny single letter separating,
us from them,
it is a handhold, a lifeline,
grasping something for all of us
to hold onto for balance,,
when thinking bout the
hurt we exert,
rendering me near inert:

what we do,
what we let happen,
permit, allow 
 the world to afflict our

children

gasp at the horrors, inflicted,
grasp the enormity of all of it,
curse my brain for this self inflicted pain,
the most vulnerable exposed
to our failures to protect
them from infections
inward and outward<
desirous of infecting

and you claim
"did your best"
with reddened gilded~guilt edged letters
a  illegitimized excuse.
knowing you cannot protect them from the
evils already contained
within,
and the without,
so well hidden,
the bullying torturers,
who are their parents
who go unpunished!

who cares
whose the guit moreover,
all needy for a No, no, No!
the visiuons implanted in my brain,
beg sleep to banish them
from under my drooping eyelids,
but the lightning screams overheard,
infect my eyes,
and the sleep slowed
from
my hopeless prayers of remorse, restitution,
laying bed flat, supplicating
anyone who hears this total body cri,
and no one answers
for the guilt is widespread, broadly shared,
anyone who is parenting,
knows,
the answer will not be forthcoming
and forgiveness will not be granted
by yourself
to yourself
from yourself
for forgiveness
for this
one on the list of multicipity of sins
committed,
is not attainable...

and to sleep,
bit by an asp.
who delivers a certain kind of respite,
perchance, not to dream,
is my only hope...

Saturday,
2/19/25
10:00PM
silvervi Apr 20
I just wish for all people to be spontaneous and to do sth they love. Find sth they enjoy and experience true joy doing that. Interacting with others, expressing themselves as they are.
March 25th. Inspired by how much joy I found in  playing guitar and singing again. Finding joy in the process rather than a goal.
i am stuck inside this body. and it feels all wrong. tears sting my eyes every time i look in the mirror. the face in the reflection isn’t showing my authentic self. but god, a whole lifetime of burying myself in the dirt and i can’t seem to stop choking on it.

the roots have tangled around my body, holding me lifeless in limbo. it’s my fault for letting it condition me into believing i am not meant for anything other than soil. i must have the strength to break free, i can see the light glowing. but i am too scared to touch it after rotting in the darkness for a lifetime.

but god i just want to break free, to be rid of the worms eating away at me. i want to feel the sun on my skin. i want to know myself when i am not covered in dirt. it’s just so hard to dig myself out of it when i am the one that dug it deeper than it had ever been before. i am tired. my muscles ache.

will i ever be able to look in the mirror and see a man staring back at me? the musculature, peace in my eyes, and their perceptions correct? dirt under my fingernails proving the fight it took to break free?

i hate what i see because it is not correct. what went wrong? why was i born in the wrong body? why is this war raging inside me? why can’t i just accept it? why do i feel like sometimes i would rather just roll over in the dirt and rot?

i know there is still time but it’s not moving fast enough. i am drowning inside this body. if i could just turn adam’s rib into my own. but i fall victim to the idea i’ll always just be made from a man’s rib without ever having the body it came from. a rib is not enough. i need to be the whole creation.
lone-pine-poetry
All the intricate variables swirl within me, acting as a cause to
overstep my thinking, as you race through my mind. Of course, love
is blind, as it wears a blindfold to those glaring red flags you love to
turn a blind eye to. To break on through, even as you hold the brakes
on your personal drive — trust that on this journey, you will
ultimately discover your moment of breakthrough.

And when that drive turns a shade of blue, your own sadness leaves
you feeling less than colourful. As I've likely tasted my full share of
the Blues; where my existence hinges on where the wind last blew.
As the growth of the next tree relies on how far the wind carries its
seeds— so how far have I scattered my own fruit?

Even when there's a smile in your laugh; it can feel complementary,
akin to sitcoms with a good laugh track. Yet, I often lose track of how
many times I fake laugh. Seeming normal to people, is such a chore to
have; always having to tidy up my act. Yet I navigate through these
mundane conversations, laughing my way through normal
conversations. Please insert a fake laugh.

But behind the laughs, I'm really just weird.
Maria Apr 18
Mum, my sweetheart, I’m tired.
Do you believe or not?

It’s like my legs are broken under
Or maybe they’re gone for short.

My head is being torn apart
By different odd thoughts.

And I can’t, I can't stop thinking.
Fears are around. More mots.

I ***** up my eyes firmly.
I instantly stop my ears.

And I’m silent again, silent again
As if there’re no dread and fears.

Mum, my sweetheart, I’m tired!
I don’t want being afraid to live!

I’m so tired mum! I’m really tired!
There’re too much atrocities.
It’s true, not a myth.

Just little bells,
Ding-****, ding-****,
Are chirping sweet sounds.
How nice is their song.

There’s not a bit truth
In that saccharine ‘re-fa-la’.
But there won't be nothing else.
We can’t live without lie.
Thank you very much for reading this poem! It's particularly personal, inside out, painful... 🙏
I dream of days
Where worry passes by
Replaced by the soft caress of warm winds
Where I trust myself to make big decisions
Without falling apart
Someday I know
I’ll feel your touch
With love alone
No worry, no fear
My thoughts will be clear and pure
Barred away from the darkness
For now I struggle
Too human to not worry
Too non-organic to feel
pretzz Apr 17
From all the troubles.
Don't make them double.
Through all the pain,
Under this harsh rain.
Listened to "John Mayer - Carry Me Away" and felt inspired.
The empty space in my head tries to dream again
When faith starts to be my friend again
Oh, I’m not the same – a careless friend

The empty space in my heart tries to love again
When the feeling of love can be felt again
Oh, I’m not the same – a heartless mate

The empty space in my hand tries to feel again
When I lost a touch with myself again
Oh, I’m not the same – a hopeless mess

These empty stars will find me once again –
As my body rests on these foreign lands
I love to sleep on this Island bed.
These are the shorts that I wear
When I wear shorts
I don’t really have other options
I swear, I wear either the one pair or
I wear the nearly identical shorts with the paint

I’ve got paint on about half my shorts
But I only have two pairs of shorts so
They’ve all been half-paint-splattered

If I can keep one pristine moving forward
For, like, well, forever, or at least until
I buy replacement shorts
I could bury the shame
With a bundle of unmutilated athletic shorts
I’ll never wear to a gym

They’re more actively loungewear but
Amazon gave them the name
I’m an athlete, you betcha
Just look at my shorts
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