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Similar Deviations
I opened my mouth and coughed out the wings
Throwing up the colors,
From once beautiful things.
They crawl up my throat,
And pry through my teeth,
Revealing the darkness,
I've hid underneath.
Her words echo in my head,
I try to stand.
But fall instead.
They no longer had that fluttery feel.
I guess the love had lost its appeal.
I cough and clutch at the hole in my chest.
Thinking ironically,
Is this just love at its best?

She said she hates the world.
But I know she loves it so,
I have seen her on the hill,
With the evening afterglow.
She feeds them with my beating heart
Enticing them
Like the sweetest tart.
While clutching at the hole in her chest,
Causing them to swarm in unrest.
Their wings are black and broken
Barely there…
Like words unspoken,
They flutter by silently…

She stands atop the hill secluded.
While I watch her from the gate.
Next to the forgotten roads,
In the evening when it's late.
Passed where yellow flowers grow,
With all our secrets kept in the glow.
Across the field of broken hearted tries,
Upon that hill under crying skies.
She sits neglected…
Wrapped up in her lies.
With the broken
They rumble in my stomach
They flurry all about
And it’s a dreadful feeling
When the butterflies want out…

i have made many variations of this poem( others quite dark and gory) but this is a little more suitable for D.A.
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Softly, slowly.
The grains tumble on down.
Except for a whisper,
they don't dare make a sound.
Step by step
We move away from the past.
like steady drops of sand,
Being viewed from stained glass.
Softly and slow
Drop by drop
forced to step and never stop.
We slowly fade away
Like sand in a broken hour glass.

Always on different paths,
We may only brush by.
Never to touch,
Until the day we die.
i saw you walking in a dream the other day
i wanted to walk with you
but we were walking in opposite ways
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I want to tell a story,
but this story isn't a fairy tale
and it wont have a happy ending,
because the real ones, well
they never really do.

In high school
I picked up my pen
and I began to write
about love.
It existed and it was pure
and it was lovely.

But my rapist rewrote me.
breathing on my neck
and tracing my back with his fingers.
He rewrote me as broken.
He wrote me as a statistic,
as another white girl who got told
that she cried rape for attention.

But that didn't matter because see,
I wanted to tell a story.
A story about family,
about picking each other up
about blood being thicker than water
about how not everyone's home
had to be broken.

But my father rewrote me.
When i picked up my pen
he spoke words to me
that I swear bruised my whole body
and I learned that nothing
was thicker than his alcohol
and my home was already shattered.

But I wanted to tell a story.
so I picked up my pen
to write about god.
A God that could save anybody
And God loved everybody,
which was the only thing I craved.

But my best friend rewrote me
when She told me I was toxic and
that God only loves those
who love the right people,
and I got writers block
because I didn't understand
that love could ever be wrong.

So after awhile I decided
that i wanted to tell a story,
but this time i picked up a razor
to unwrite all the things
that everyone else had;
the alcohol and the rape,
the abandonment,
the brokeness.

I wanted to tell a story.
I wanted to tell my story.
So I sat in my bathroom
night after night
writting about loneliness
perfection, ignorance,
arrogance, love.

See I told my story.
My story was painful
and misunderstood
because no one took time
to read it, but now,
people would read me
everytime they look at my scarred body.

My story is in the scars on my thighs
that he caressed like he owned
while I was tied to his bed
with my own leggings.

I told my story with scars on my wrist
the day my father grabbed me
and put me against our back door
with his fingers around my neck.

I told my story with scars on my stomach
after my grandmother disowned me
and my mother told me if i tried hard enough
I wouldn't love women.

My body see, It tells a story.
A story that is frequently displayed
for everyone to read.

You see when people write
they make themselves vulnerable, they open up
to the shit world they live in to share a piece of them
but they can hide behind a book cover
or an anonymous name.

They wrote with pens but me,
I wrote with a razor blade.
See, i have made myself vulnerable.
I am my own book cover,
and you know how the saying goes
well they judge me by the way I look.

I wanted to tell a story, and I did.
But no one reads it.
All they see is scars.
For Critiques:
How can I improve this poem?
What did you like, what did you dislike?
How can I make it more fluent?
Do things need to be reworded?
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Beauty rose out of that silent sea,
Her eyes were tepid with wild thunder,
And then she turned and looked at me.
Me; a meagre man who knew no lady fair,
Nor one of care as she snaps my heart asunder.

Beauty flew up to that sinister sky,
Her lips were dark with mad desire,
And then she turned and started to cry.
Cry; a crude curse who knew no mortal smile,
Nor one so vile as she scars my aura in fire.  

Beauty stood up on that scarlet skin,
Her locks were rouge with quiet rain,
And then she turned and walked on sin.
Sin; a sordid spirit who knew no lover true,
Nor one in clue as she saves me from my pain.
A poem about how sometimes beauty isn't perfect. Some people who are beautiful (in an old traditional sort of sense) can be cruel and lack the actual knowledge of kindness. But nothing is black and white as people are ambigous. No one is born bad or good, ugly or beautiful. That's why I've tried to leave a sort of ambiguity to beauty.
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It’s always when it’s raining...
She calls me on the phone.
Her voice worried and hysterical,
Compelling me to get home.

She says
The sky is falling…
That everything’s coming down.
She can feel the whole world crying,
And she’s afraid she going to drown.

Hiding under an umbrella.
Isolated on her bed.
Maybe to keep the rain out,
Or the rumors that have spread.
Trying to ignore them,
Like the voices in her head.
She shuts her eyes to scream,
But silent raindrops fall

She believes
That one day,
The clouds might go away.
it leaves me stifled and choked,
When even on the sunny days,
it makes no sense,
that she's always soaked.

In the night.
She wakes to rain,
Hiding under an umbrella in fright.
Like the downfall causes her pain.
She tries to be brave,
Peeking up at the skies.
But she cant help herself,
So she just hides and cries.

   She cries.
   and she says
 I know i'm lost,
and I've almost lost it all.
    but please
    i'm praying
    Don't let this sky fall.
Sometimes I think if rain keeps falling,
maybe the sky would vanish eventually...
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The strings dig deep into her veins.
She moves with them,
To dull the pain.
A painted face,
With a printed smile,
Her emotions left unversitile.

She dances alone, secluded,
Forlorn and deluded.
A disaster.
And only for her twisted master.
A mental crafter,
A vile bastard.

but this is a show.
the people can see it
the people they know,
this is no secret.
their eyes glazed over
like shes no longer there
ignoring her existence,
she finds comfort in despair.

welcome to the show.
on stage,    a girl
who you might as well know.
Only I can see the tears,
And only I know all her fears.
I flick my fingers to the right,
On my command she stands up right.
I flick my finger to the left.
She'd murder all the ones she left.
she dances with a smile.
that does not reach the eyes,
it looks so sick and vile
a soul that believes its lies.

Maybe its love,
i've heard it's supposed to ache.
Or maybe she's insane,
because even the strong can break.
I don't know the reasons,
Or why she's bound and chained.
I just can't help but love it
Her face
so filled with pain.
with porcelain skin, and a fragile air of ash
her face was cracked,
just beneath the eyes.
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The clock ticked against silence,
Upon the cemetery of a room.
Deep sighs weave through the air,
Meager warmth in compressed despair.

Moths fall prey to a musty lampshade,
An opened window to Night’s gloom.
Thoughts dance like ripples on water,
And clouds on the hiding moon.

A lullaby plays from the gentle sound,
Made by scratching pen on paper.
One story told too many times,
Is voiced from words created.

Though this time revived from lies,
A phoenix forms the ugly truth.
The pen rolls from the wooden desk,
Having served its final use.

Old dusty dolls and teddy bears,
Watched helplessly through glassy eyes.
No star showed to twinkle hope,
Not one ray from the busy moon.

On the clock’s tick, a rope was hanging.
On the clock’s tock, a form was thrashing.
A tired, hoarse throat gasps for life,
Cut abruptly by the Reaper’s scythe.

Poems on the shelf with an unknown author.
Paintings on the wall left unsigned.
Just another heart trapped in horror,
An unfinished letter, the last goodbye.
"Nobody dies a virgin. Life fucks us all."

Wrote this at midnight. Couldn't sleep.

All of us need someone. One smile can mean the world to someone in grief. One word can break one's soul. No one deserves to be put in a situation of complete hopelessness, in the pit of emptiness. No one ever deserves to feel what it's like to have suicide as the only option in mind. And so, I dedicate this poem, to all of you, who have ever thought of taking your life. And also to those who have taken their lives.

You're not alone. Remember that.


All the effort is pointless if you don't believe in yourself.
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Darkness surrounds me,
Shadows surround you.
The present threatens me,
as the past did to you.

I cry,
you cry,
I pout,
no doubt.

Your memories, you keep at bay,
but your thoughts just seem to fade away.
Your murdurous thirst is always there
and you seem to be grabbing at your hair.

My thoughts aren't right
my head's too tight,
I have to fight
just not take flight.

I want it to end
I want it to end
Please will somebody help me then?

It's not to late
Never to late
say it'll be alright
but we know it's not alright.

Because of your past,
you will certainly fade last.
You will not find a friend in this world.

We are not one
but one and the same.
Our minds have turned against us.

....Feedback would be nice.
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You think that we've forgotten,
But forgotten I have not,
I hold your soul within my fist,
Forever it will rot.

I thought I use to love you,
But I guess that I was wrong.
I know now that I hate you,
And your torture will be long.

How will I start? I would not know,
What I will do I fear,
It's hard to make a human being
Suffer when they once were dear.

I tighten my grip,
You scream in pain,
I look at my hand,
I don't see the stain.

Dead? No.
Life means nothing anymore.
The circle turns.
Time goes on,
You are lost forever.

I know you're lost,
And down I kneel,
You cannot know the pain I feel.

I am sorry,
I must be strong.
Revenge was mine,
You were wrong.
revenge and never forget
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Help me
I'm trapped
in hopes, dreams, expectations
in fears, doubts, and loss
Someone help me
Set me free
I can't do it by myself
This is what goes on in my head.
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