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#poetry is not dead
tearinmyside · 5 hours ago
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Day 6...
regret is a stain on your fingers
that time cannot erase, that will remain as the smallest dot on your fingertip, under your thumbnail, to remind you of your failings, of everything you never did, as you grow older and plump with the void that grows like a parasite in your stomach. days are a thief, are a canvas in disrepair left upside down on a curb overrun with weeds and infertile ground. no shower can remove this stench of this grotto.
-kab
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tearinmyside · a day ago
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Day 5...
Loneliness feels so much like shame
like being capsized with an audience of passing boats, eyes leering and watching your body bounce up and down in the current as they slowly drift away. It is the way a reflection is like a picked scab, forever pinked and raw, a wound to fester, to invite more sickness into its core. Loneliness is like every tongue twist, every wrong word catalogued and revisited like an indictment, like carrying a dead animal on your back, like punishment that keeps blood moving in your veins, even after you have bled them like a riverbed.
-kab
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denxlatte · a day ago
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You carved words on my back deeper than any knife in your house ever could.
And kissed them with those lips of yours that tasted of rich green apples.
You told me they would prove to be souvenirs of our everlasting love.
You were deceitful. Your mouth oozed out lies like honey through cracks of a broken jar.
You said you'd take me on the greatest adventure of my life then made me walk on thorns, barefoot.
You held my ice-cold hands and promised to make them warm but ended up rotting them instead.
- den
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anoukritiwritesss · a day ago
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Paramnesia
/ˌparəmˈniːzɪə/
(n.) PSYCHIATRY
a condition or phenomenon involving distorted memory or confusions of fact and fantasy, such as confabulation or déjà vu.
"How can I ever hide from my shadow?"
Anoukriti Bhasin
"I do not suffer from insanity,
I enjoy every minute of it"
Edgar Allen Poe
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tearinmyside · 2 days ago
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Day 4...
When the party's over
I want to believe that you just couldn't sleep, that the static in your head wasn't clouding you, that it wasn't growing louder like a siren, like a steam whistle. I want to believe that losing your father ten years ago wasn't the catalyst to join him, that it was just you not thinking about mixing Zoloft and alcohol, that you blocked your young son's voice out of your head when the insomnia hit you over the head, kept shaking you awake, made you want to wash down your sleep meds with more booze. I want to believe that there was finally calm in your bones, the serenity you could never find in twenty nine years. You were happy, I think, before memory swung a hammer at your head, led you to a somber anniversary, to an abrupt end to a story you hadn't finished writing.
-kab
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propaganda-for-poets · 3 days ago
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🩹 poetry??
had these branches borne no thorns i'd braid them in a wreath
pin rosebuds, thyme and rosemary and flowers i'd bequeath
to livers, lovers, once i've gone by atropos' hand
i wonder, would the flowers in the paths i walked still stand
and will the rosebuds ever bloom to see the sunlight glisten
and will the rosebuds sing their song, and will the river listen
and when its water shimmers down that lonely grievesome stream
who will leave chamomiles to paint it as it runs agleam
the truth is, roses always bloom and rivers always trail
and little kids will always stop to watch the daisies sail
but thorns shall make their fingers bleed, the branches stay unbraided
and heaven knows my hands are rough and grazed and always jaded
so while i can i work these branches, turn them into wreaths
i sit right by the riverside, i hear the water's griefs
who taught the thorns how to be thorns, who said they shan't be plaited?
who said that branches can't be crowns, be laced and decorated?
the thorns might pierce right through your skin but goodness only knows
that nature sharped them, made them so, for that's how nature goes.
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tearinmyside · 3 days ago
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Day 3...
Losing Ja'Dee
I wanted to just leave work, tell them that I wasn't in the frame of mind to deal with the constant barrage of orders, of hearing your voice in my head, knowing it was the only place I'd hear it again, knowing that I wouldn't hear you yell "Hi, honey!!" over the speaker of the drive through when I'd visit you at Dunkin'. I wanted to be home to remember when you came over for the tattoo party that we had at our house, when you'd visit me at work and wouldn't leave without giving me a hug—your hugs were the best, and I can almost still recall your squeeze and light rocking, and how when I hugged your brother today, I could feel your presence, and I didn't want to let go.
-kab
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tearinmyside · 4 days ago
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Day 2...
transient
i leave the smell of burning in the air, open windows to let myself out, to rid this room of any trace. this is where i visit, where sheets remake themselves to turn imprints into phantoms. the vents work in reverse, turn this house into a tomb. the structure was not meant to withstand the weight of loss.
-kab
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and-revisions · 4 days ago
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Working on a long-form narrative poem about the psychology and implication's of the story of Cain. This one's for you, Kierkegaard.
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truemoonpoems · 4 days ago
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🌙 💫 🌙 💫 Hey everyone I hope your liking my poems please like and share if you do thanks!!
🌙 💫 🌙 💫 @truemoonpoems 🌙 💫 🌙 💫
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Any and all talented artist like: #photographers #artists #painters anyone!
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tearinmyside · 5 days ago
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May...Day 1...
After flushing a hole by the garage
with poison, my father found out that it wasn't mice when baby rabbits began to emerge. Weakened, drowning in their own death, my brother tried valiantly to save each of their lives, even bottle fed them, kept all five in a box warmed by a small light. They would die one by one, despite the caring hand of my then empathetic brother, who grew into his selfishness, planted a Trump/Pence sign in his front yard despite having LGBTQ children. My nieces tore it down and hurled it into a bush, where I hope the remains were repurposed into some kind of nest for birds, or maybe another family of rabbits, who now would not survive the scope of the gun he stores in his home.
-kab
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