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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse

(Sub)concious

Riots of color explode on my skin

telling me please, just don't sin again.

The powder it tickles my flesh and my form,

asking "what is it that you find the norm

that so twists up your sense of desire

bringing you ever higher and higher

towards what it is you'll never achieve

further, why is it that you always must leave

halfway through the task being done

always feet first, helping you run

from family and friends that support you with love

from those that give you advice from above

like a celestial god, lifting the veil,

telling the tales that wise men must tell,

telling you all that can be achieved,

whispering nothings that won't be received

because here you are sitting in a dimly lit room,

growing older, larger, making a tomb

out of sunkist cans and old bits of trash

while the rest of the world goes by in a flash

making progress in ways that you never will know,

so why is it so that you always must go

with the easy way out; the way most usually do

when you know that you're better, that you're not close to through

with your mission, your statement, your treatment of others

the things that define you, your friends, teachers, and brothers,

those that were there when you needed them most,

those that will gladly see you off with a toast

to a name that they know means something to them,

because that's what you are: a solid, good friend

that gives level advice that you don't take yourself

because 'that would take effort, that would take wealth'

as you lie once again that you can't climb this tower

but fuck that man, you just lack willpower

a flaw you've had since you've been alive

but just get up, just get down and jive

with the program of life, it's not getting easier

it's not getting pretty, it's just getting greasier

it's just getting dirty, so don't mind the fuss,

and don't take this seriously, after all, I'm just dust."

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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse
(Sub)concious
Riots of color explode on my skin
telling me please, just don't sin again.
The powder it tickles my flesh and my form,
asking "what is it that you find the norm
that so twists up your sense of desire
bringing you ever higher and higher
towards what it is you'll never achieve
further, why is it that you always must leave
halfway through the task being done
always feet first, helping you run
from family and friends that support you with love
from those that give you advice from above
like a celestial god, lifting the veil,
telling the tales that wise men must tell,
telling you all that can be achieved,
whispering nothings that won't be received
because here you are sitting in a dimly lit room,
growing older, larger, making a tomb
out of sunkist cans and old bits of trash
while the rest of the world goes by in a flash
making progress in ways that you never will know,
so why is it so that you always must go
with the easy way out; the way most usually do
when you know that you're better, that you're not close to through
with your mission, your statement, your treatment of others
the things that define you, your friends, teachers, and brothers,
those that were there when you needed them most,
those that will gladly see you off with a toast
to a name that they know means something to them,
because that's what you are: a solid, good friend
that gives level advice that you don't take yourself
because 'that would take effort, that would take wealth'
as you lie once again that you can't climb this tower
but fuck that man, you just lack willpower
a flaw you've had since you've been alive
but just get up, just get down and jive
with the program of life, it's not getting easier
it's not getting pretty, it's just getting greasier
it's just getting dirty, so don't mind the fuss,
and don't take this seriously, after all, I'm just dust."
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ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief.
Written by harris40tude

Penelope Alecknavage - nee Perskin

can be slightly rearranged, rejiggered, and represented

to denote maudlin pierce skin vocalization.

Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin, whose death aye assay

to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris -

November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday

if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway,

where grim reaper scythe lent lee awaited -

though my mum fought tooth and nail to delay

futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally

thru poetry n essay

writing, and finding cadence of words

helps me (with raw bits and powder milk biscuits)

tug gather courageous foray

and means to grapple with demise

of a loved one, and hence my gray

matter sifts thru childhoods' end,

where remembrance of hooray

amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles

the fuzzy interplay

of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home

cordoned off via a jackstay

looms in forefront of my mind,

vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,

reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts

when significant person without breath doth lay

Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation

playing game versus sobbing as corpse

driven to graveside viz motorway,

where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay

numbness pervades next of kin survivors

especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,

yet no matter whence one departs

bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay

mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray

to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum,

trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance,

but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay

not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality

terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves

agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway

far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay

the immediate future, which bodes hollow

with the sounds of silence

despite informing musicians or veejay

to lighten moody blue -

boot invariably bono fide, green day,

Lady gaga emitting beat,

per the human league (plus the culture club

of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll

traversing into nirvana)

creates clangorous discordant ringing

increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!

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ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief.
Written by harris40tude
Penelope Alecknavage - nee Perskin

can be slightly rearranged, rejiggered, and represented
to denote maudlin pierce skin vocalization.

Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin, whose death aye assay
to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris -
November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday
if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway,
where grim reaper scythe lent lee awaited -
though my mum fought tooth and nail to delay
futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally
thru poetry n essay
writing, and finding cadence of words
helps me (with raw bits and powder milk biscuits)
tug gather courageous foray
and means to grapple with demise
of a loved one, and hence my gray
matter sifts thru childhoods' end,
where remembrance of hooray
amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles
the fuzzy interplay
of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home
cordoned off via a jackstay
looms in forefront of my mind,
vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,
reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts
when significant person without breath doth lay
Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation
playing game versus sobbing as corpse
driven to graveside viz motorway,
where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay
numbness pervades next of kin survivors
especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,
yet no matter whence one departs
bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay
mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray
to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum,
trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance,
but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay
not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality
terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves
agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway
far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay
the immediate future, which bodes hollow
with the sounds of silence
despite informing musicians or veejay
to lighten moody blue -
boot invariably bono fide, green day,
Lady gaga emitting beat,
per the human league (plus the culture club
of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll
traversing into nirvana)
creates clangorous discordant ringing
increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!



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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Hole

"He knew," I said, "he thought for a while."

Handcuffed to a bench, he lurched forth with a smile.

"She's gone," he grinned, "she's gone right to Hell,

and soon you'll be sharing her same burning cell."

"You lie!" yelled I, "I know she's not there;

look at this evidence upon which I'll swear!"

"It's wrong," he mused, "of that much I'll prove;

just give me two hours and good hiking boots."

"We hike," I said, "at first morning light,

but if it should come to pass that you're right..."

"I am," said he, interrupting my threat,

and so I laid down as the sun slowly set.

"Go on," I said, "We're nearing the place,

where you supposedly slit open my darling wife's face."

"Right there," he jabbed, "is where she'll be found,

twelve feet beneath the moist, swampy ground."

"So dig," I said, "and hope you're not right."

And dig down he did, far into the night.

"I'm done!" he yelled, "Now look at my work!"

I looked in the hole to be met with a smirk.

"Your love," he said, "she's down here with me,

why don't you come closer and my work you will see?"

"Stay there," I wept, "lay down in a heap;

for the dead do not care with whom they do sleep."

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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Hole
"He knew," I said, "he thought for a while."
Handcuffed to a bench, he lurched forth with a smile.
"She's gone," he grinned, "she's gone right to Hell,
and soon you'll be sharing her same burning cell."

"You lie!" yelled I, "I know she's not there;
look at this evidence upon which I'll swear!"
"It's wrong," he mused, "of that much I'll prove;
just give me two hours and good hiking boots."

"We hike," I said, "at first morning light,
but if it should come to pass that you're right..."
"I am," said he, interrupting my threat,
and so I laid down as the sun slowly set.

"Go on," I said, "We're nearing the place,
where you supposedly slit open my darling wife's face."
"Right there," he jabbed, "is where she'll be found,
twelve feet beneath the moist, swampy ground."

"So dig," I said, "and hope you're not right."
And dig down he did, far into the night.
"I'm done!" he yelled, "Now look at my work!"
I looked in the hole to be met with a smirk.

"Your love," he said, "she's down here with me,
why don't you come closer and my work you will see?"
"Stay there," I wept, "lay down in a heap;
for the dead do not care with whom they do sleep."
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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Sayings

I said to the farmer all covered in dirt:

"Why is it so that you always must work

for the profit of men that care not for your soul

or your hopes or your dreams, of both which they stole,

as they reached in your pocket while shaking your hand

and nodding their head, as if to command

the respect that never should come at a price

of half of the difference of virtue and vice?

The man clutched his beard and thought for a while,

his worn, wrinkled face belaying a smile,

and eyes deep blue filled with knowledge and age,

and I looked for a moment upon this old sage.

He said to me then what I say to you now,

that the world drifts about with a weight and a scowl,

then said "I'll keep on 'a doin' what I've always done,

because what I've been doin' ain't hurt no one."

And I thought to myself: "That's horribly dumb."

But as I stood there, my mind started to hum

with all of the things this man could have said,

and down from my brain this thought started to spread.

It tickled my spine and my hands and my feet,

and through to my heart in time with its beat,

and it made there a home and began to pay rent,

and I understood life was just being content.

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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Sayings
I said to the farmer all covered in dirt:
"Why is it so that you always must work
for the profit of men that care not for your soul
or your hopes or your dreams, of both which they stole,
as they reached in your pocket while shaking your hand
and nodding their head, as if to command
the respect that never should come at a price
of half of the difference of virtue and vice?

The man clutched his beard and thought for a while,
his worn, wrinkled face belaying a smile,
and eyes deep blue filled with knowledge and age,
and I looked for a moment upon this old sage.
He said to me then what I say to you now,
that the world drifts about with a weight and a scowl,
then said "I'll keep on 'a doin' what I've always done,
because what I've been doin' ain't hurt no one."

And I thought to myself: "That's horribly dumb."
But as I stood there, my mind started to hum
with all of the things this man could have said,
and down from my brain this thought started to spread.
It tickled my spine and my hands and my feet,
and through to my heart in time with its beat,
and it made there a home and began to pay rent,
and I understood life was just being content.
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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by AJAY9979 in portal Fiction

Death by Water

Cascade slowly down the waterfall. Mitzi smiled at the thought. The barrel rocked a bit. The current steadied it quickly. Ahead, she heard the roaring.

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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by AJAY9979 in portal Fiction
Death by Water
Cascade slowly down the waterfall. Mitzi smiled at the thought. The barrel rocked a bit. The current steadied it quickly. Ahead, she heard the roaring.
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Written by nadya in portal Stream of Consciousness

EQUATION OF LOVE

Humanity needs a 

Beautiful World

A world with beauty and equality 

A world with colours and morality 

A Beautiful world needs a

Beautiful Mind

A Mind full of dreams 

To create and to frame 

The new worlds 

Worlds of amazement 

Beyond worlds of intelligence 

The Beautiful mind needs a

Beautiful Heart 

A Heart filled with love and belief 

A Heart filled with sincerity and compassion 

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Written by nadya in portal Stream of Consciousness
EQUATION OF LOVE
Humanity needs a 
Beautiful World
A world with beauty and equality 
A world with colours and morality 

A Beautiful world needs a
Beautiful Mind
A Mind full of dreams 
To create and to frame 
The new worlds 
Worlds of amazement 
Beyond worlds of intelligence 

The Beautiful mind needs a
Beautiful Heart 
A Heart filled with love and belief 
A Heart filled with sincerity and compassion 
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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Charcoal

"Keep moving," I said as I ran through the town

with both my feet treading on wet, grimy ground.

The people behind me looked hopeless and dead

with each of their faces contorted with dread.

We ran down the alley, pursued by the guard,

who mistakenly thought it was us who had marred

the great chapel at Queensreach with coal dark as night

and now we made rounds round the town in our flight.

Into the countryside, into the fields,

each of the farmers all counting their yields

of the new autumn's harvest of ripe honeydew.

Through this expanse, our cavalcade flew:

chased by the guardsmen on horseback with bow

they tore through our numbers; their arrows did sow

great discontent among men and their needs

who knew that this blood would not nourish their seeds.

Seeds that they planted to feed the guardsmen,

who slaughtered the children, pinning them in

the warm summer's dirt, hard-tilled by the ox,

but soon they'd be lying in their own wooden box

lowered six feet beneath the wet, grimy ground

by the guardsmen that killed them, in the middle of town

beside of the chapel all blackened with soot

by vandals not chased through the alleys on foot.

We all died that day for a simple mistake,

and now we lie buried, never to wake.

So don't lift a hand if in it lays coal,

or forever you'll lay in the ground, you poor soul.

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Written by kiligir in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Charcoal
"Keep moving," I said as I ran through the town
with both my feet treading on wet, grimy ground.
The people behind me looked hopeless and dead
with each of their faces contorted with dread.
We ran down the alley, pursued by the guard,
who mistakenly thought it was us who had marred
the great chapel at Queensreach with coal dark as night
and now we made rounds round the town in our flight.

Into the countryside, into the fields,
each of the farmers all counting their yields
of the new autumn's harvest of ripe honeydew.
Through this expanse, our cavalcade flew:
chased by the guardsmen on horseback with bow
they tore through our numbers; their arrows did sow
great discontent among men and their needs
who knew that this blood would not nourish their seeds.

Seeds that they planted to feed the guardsmen,
who slaughtered the children, pinning them in
the warm summer's dirt, hard-tilled by the ox,
but soon they'd be lying in their own wooden box
lowered six feet beneath the wet, grimy ground
by the guardsmen that killed them, in the middle of town
beside of the chapel all blackened with soot
by vandals not chased through the alleys on foot.

We all died that day for a simple mistake,
and now we lie buried, never to wake.
So don't lift a hand if in it lays coal,
or forever you'll lay in the ground, you poor soul.
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The ability to laugh at your own folly is something wholly underestimated these days. For this challenge, make fun of yourself. You can pick on a particular attribute you have or poke fun at your life choices or whatever else you'd like to make fun of. Alternatively, if you can't think of anything you dislike about yourself, write about how awesome you are. It can be in any form you like.
Written by Storybob in portal Comedy

Don't Take Yourself Too Serious Especially if You Are a Writer

A tourist is walking around Manhattan looking quizzically at

a map of the city.  He sees a man walking down the street caring a large black case with a Tuba inside. The tourist stops the musician and asks, (here it comes) 

"Sir, excuse me but do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?" The musician looks straight at the man and replies, "Sure, practice, practice, practice." (Bah-boom)

Why would I write this old joke? Because the same thing holds true, regarding my desire to become a writer. There I was at the beginning of the most miraculous journey of my life with the visions of sitting by the water at sunrise or sunset; I'll go with sunrise because I'm a morning person.

It began one day a couple of years back. I sat down at my computer and typed out 500 words. Within a few weeks, I was up to 1500 words each day. I'm humming along, not a care in the world. Life is beautiful. Before I know it I'm closing in on 50,000 words. WOW, I'm unstoppable.

One day a voice pops into my head. I have another idea for another book so I start typing. Here I am, working on the beginning of a second book while nearing completion of the first. Look out Hemingway; move over world, I'm even ready to tell my boss I won't be coming back to work because, "I BE A WRITER!"  

I need a mantle for the Peabody.

I have a dear friend let me stop here for a moment. This is a word of caution. Do not have friends who think you are Hemingway because odds are they are confusing him with Heineken. They don't know what you are doing but they keep telling you you're great, and the worst part you believe them. The nightmare all writers face is when a stranger says, "It's not bad, but....."

My world came crashing down as if it ended. "OH, how could I have been so foolish? How could I believe that I could write? What was I thinking?" The only bright spot, I had not quit my job, which I loathed."

Imagine for a moment you are standing at the base of a mountain. A tall mountain with a twisty path that you have climbed for weeks, even months, only to discover you have traveled just a few feet. You look up and see the mountain is taller than you thought it was when you began your journey. OMG! You begin to understand why drinking is a writer's best friend.

I remember at the outset I had typed 500 words. Once I forgot to save them. They disappeared but in the beginning I said, "Who cares I'll just re-write." During my time of hell, I screwed up one paragraph. I thought it would be better if I cut my wrists and just bled out.

The lesson in all of this, practice, practice, practice, eventually it will all come together.

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The ability to laugh at your own folly is something wholly underestimated these days. For this challenge, make fun of yourself. You can pick on a particular attribute you have or poke fun at your life choices or whatever else you'd like to make fun of. Alternatively, if you can't think of anything you dislike about yourself, write about how awesome you are. It can be in any form you like.
Written by Storybob in portal Comedy
Don't Take Yourself Too Serious Especially if You Are a Writer
A tourist is walking around Manhattan looking quizzically at
a map of the city.  He sees a man walking down the street caring a large black case with a Tuba inside. The tourist stops the musician and asks, (here it comes) 
"Sir, excuse me but do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?" The musician looks straight at the man and replies, "Sure, practice, practice, practice." (Bah-boom)

Why would I write this old joke? Because the same thing holds true, regarding my desire to become a writer. There I was at the beginning of the most miraculous journey of my life with the visions of sitting by the water at sunrise or sunset; I'll go with sunrise because I'm a morning person.

It began one day a couple of years back. I sat down at my computer and typed out 500 words. Within a few weeks, I was up to 1500 words each day. I'm humming along, not a care in the world. Life is beautiful. Before I know it I'm closing in on 50,000 words. WOW, I'm unstoppable.

One day a voice pops into my head. I have another idea for another book so I start typing. Here I am, working on the beginning of a second book while nearing completion of the first. Look out Hemingway; move over world, I'm even ready to tell my boss I won't be coming back to work because, "I BE A WRITER!"  
I need a mantle for the Peabody.

I have a dear friend let me stop here for a moment. This is a word of caution. Do not have friends who think you are Hemingway because odds are they are confusing him with Heineken. They don't know what you are doing but they keep telling you you're great, and the worst part you believe them. The nightmare all writers face is when a stranger says, "It's not bad, but....."

My world came crashing down as if it ended. "OH, how could I have been so foolish? How could I believe that I could write? What was I thinking?" The only bright spot, I had not quit my job, which I loathed."

Imagine for a moment you are standing at the base of a mountain. A tall mountain with a twisty path that you have climbed for weeks, even months, only to discover you have traveled just a few feet. You look up and see the mountain is taller than you thought it was when you began your journey. OMG! You begin to understand why drinking is a writer's best friend.

I remember at the outset I had typed 500 words. Once I forgot to save them. They disappeared but in the beginning I said, "Who cares I'll just re-write." During my time of hell, I screwed up one paragraph. I thought it would be better if I cut my wrists and just bled out.

The lesson in all of this, practice, practice, practice, eventually it will all come together.
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Written by Joycechabbott

Who's Your Mother?

She lay there dying. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow.  The time we tried so hard to stave off had arrived.  The room began to shrink. My head felt light. Somewhere in the distance I heard my sister's voice begin the final prayer in preparation for Mom's departure. Our mother took one last breath, and then she was gone. 

My brothers and sisters were all around, but I hadn't noticed them before. The silence was broken by muffled sobs. 

Staring at her face, I noticed the lines had softened. She was free from all her suffering.  I touched her hand and thought back to when I held that hand to cross the street as a little girl. I remembered them as she brushed my hair and could still feel her gentle hands gather me up.  They lay so still now.  Their work all done.  

And there we were, all seven of us, motherless.  Middle Ages orphans. 

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Written by Joycechabbott
Who's Your Mother?
She lay there dying. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow.  The time we tried so hard to stave off had arrived.  The room began to shrink. My head felt light. Somewhere in the distance I heard my sister's voice begin the final prayer in preparation for Mom's departure. Our mother took one last breath, and then she was gone. 
My brothers and sisters were all around, but I hadn't noticed them before. The silence was broken by muffled sobs. 
Staring at her face, I noticed the lines had softened. She was free from all her suffering.  I touched her hand and thought back to when I held that hand to cross the street as a little girl. I remembered them as she brushed my hair and could still feel her gentle hands gather me up.  They lay so still now.  Their work all done.  
And there we were, all seven of us, motherless.  Middle Ages orphans. 






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ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief.
Written by dobbyness3

Empty Shell

A raging whirlwind,

hair tearing from the roots,

Anger,

Denial,

O' so tempting of fruits.

But all that remains

when the storm settles down,

the tears of the world

in which to drown.

A hollow husk,

drifting atop the waves,

A castaway shell

is all that remains.

Listless, we float,

the sky a prison of gray.

Time, an endless drone,

no night, no day.

We seek warmth, solace,

the guidance of light,

But in the depths of this misery,

not a thing shines bright.

Concealment is our mandate,

to veil the world from our sorrow,

This weak flicker of light,

artificial,

only borrowed.

The world rushes by

without a backwards glance.

The dirges our accompaniment

To this mournful dance.

How to express, to define,

an ache so deep,

A pain that even haunts

the promised escape of sleep.

It does not burn,

it does not lick

with a tongue of flame.

It leeches,

it devours,

leaving you with not but a name.

It does not bite,

it is not hasty,

not a stinging pain.

It engulfs,

All-consuming,

A merciless drain.

Battle is futile,

Hope a mythological thought,

It seeps, a slow poison,

Leaving you craving that one shot.

But to capitulate, to surrender,

Cannot be our course,

Carry on in the name of love,

Remember, without remorse.

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ProseChallenge #67: Write a poem about grief.
Written by dobbyness3
Empty Shell
A raging whirlwind,
hair tearing from the roots,
Anger,
Denial,
O' so tempting of fruits.

But all that remains
when the storm settles down,
the tears of the world
in which to drown.

A hollow husk,
drifting atop the waves,
A castaway shell
is all that remains.

Listless, we float,
the sky a prison of gray.
Time, an endless drone,
no night, no day.

We seek warmth, solace,
the guidance of light,
But in the depths of this misery,
not a thing shines bright.

Concealment is our mandate,
to veil the world from our sorrow,
This weak flicker of light,
artificial,
only borrowed.

The world rushes by
without a backwards glance.
The dirges our accompaniment
To this mournful dance.

How to express, to define,
an ache so deep,
A pain that even haunts
the promised escape of sleep.

It does not burn,
it does not lick
with a tongue of flame.
It leeches,
it devours,
leaving you with not but a name.

It does not bite,
it is not hasty,
not a stinging pain.
It engulfs,
All-consuming,
A merciless drain.

Battle is futile,
Hope a mythological thought,
It seeps, a slow poison,
Leaving you craving that one shot.

But to capitulate, to surrender,
Cannot be our course,
Carry on in the name of love,
Remember, without remorse.
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