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I've No Talent For HappinessI've no talent for happiness
My smiles are frail at best
And though I try to remember
A time when I felt truly blessed
And no matter how I try
There are always times
When I can't help but cry,
Though even as they fall
I try to cradle the tears
To see if I can find
Happiness beneath the fears
In these delicate crystals
Of hopeless memories...
But I've no talent for happiness
My heart never wholly mends
And though I dove so far
Dove until I reached the end
Of that vat of tears and miseries
I found only
More tears left to cry...
I've no talent for happiness
My soul cries endless seas
In which I try to drown
Myself and my memories,
But I think I once had it
The bliss you call happiness
And every now and then
I feel it
Rise to greet you
And attempt to shine
From beneath my tears
So that you may know the truth
Of how you make me feel.
So I've no talent for happiness
My memories sometimes choke me
My hearts never wholly mends
(nothing)Sitting on this bus,
I know that I am distinctly
I am the absence of this bus,
and the other passengers
There is some sort
of truth to this;
some sort of credence
that I can't
place my hands on.
(I am not the paper, only the folds
made by my fingers.
I am not the blankets,
only the indent left behind.
I am not the rain,
only the dry spots
marking the pavement.)
Even when I'm standing still,
I am not the air.
(I can only hold it in.)
It is the DarknessIt is the darkness that cumulates, coils and collects
At the edge of the visible light; a haven in the night,
Never quite visible, always tangible. Always pulling
On the fraying edges of the mind’s tapestry that one day,
As all things must, will unravel, unwind, and remain unfinished.
It is death’s running chase that reveals ones innermost self.
There is the rain and the moon and the dark stormy clouds
And these are evocative of their master. They’re the painter’s stroke,
The craftsman’s signature style, and above all else,
They are the Roman’s requiem, solemn and persistent,
Fashioning a loose, straightforward arrangement of ominous drums,
Strong and defiant, yet quavering uncertainly in the face of painful realisations.
Death’s touch is surely the softest. They say love is a flower,
Soft and delicate, beautifully rare. But Death, Death is all these things,
Calling you softly “come in from the cold”, enfolding you gently i
26. Tears "Coward."
The accusation was spat sharply into the still air.
Not offended, the silence waited.
"Fool. Didn't you see? Couldn't you tell it wouldn't help?" Drip, drip.
The lone figure stood at the foot of the new-turned grave, crying. They had waited until the rest of the mourners had gone, lingered on the outskirts until they could tell this dear deceased how they really felt. In person. Alone. They who never cried.
"You knew it wasn't going to work. You knew that even if you escaped, we'd still be here, still trying to deal with our own jacked-up lives, but without you, now. You knew you'd only cause us all grief and despair. And for what?" Drip, drip. A clenching of teeth and fists. "A miserable little coward that left me all alone."
You StoleI greatly underestimated just how much I was affected by you leaving
My fear, my nerves, my will to improve
In some ways I should thank you
Being alone has taught me to stand on my own
Accept who I am
Make my own decisions
Failure doesn't scare me anymore
My drive to improve is returning
But this time it's for me
Not to try and impress you
If I happen to fail
I will continue to work
Be the best
I wonder how you're doing now
Since there's no me to run to
I hope all is well
Meant from the bottom of my heart
Not only did you steal my heart
But you stole a part of me
Days of innocence
All of it
Sleeping, Dying BeautySleeping, Dying Beauty
White hairs replacing her golden locks,
dark bags, pale skin, the millionth twelve o'clock.
Eyes closed, arms crossed, breath blocked.
Far away, to her he does not dare walk.
In her dreams, there is life and hope.
In her dreams, there's a way to cope.
She dreams in color: red, green, and blue.
She dreams her dreams are more than dreams,
she dreams her dreams are true.
But the veins have shown themselves,
clearly underneath her thin hands.
Dust covers the romance books on the shelves,
shelves that can no longer stand.
In her dream, she is in his arms.
In her dream, he looks down at her with stars in his eyes.
In her dream, she is far from harm.
In her dream, she and he watch the sun and the moon rise.
In his world, another is in his arms.
In his world, he looks down at his new wife with stars in his eyes.
In his world, he protects her from all harm.
In his world, he watches his son take his first steps, watches him fall and rise.
The candles flicker in the lonely
It's Just Us and the Birdswe are as pious as
screaming in cathedrals and witches' chimneys alike because
who's to tell us that they're not the same,
dear? we can only hope to be
innocent enough for the chimney sweeps;
for we aren't in the safety of the tree branches
our swift-beating hearts framed in
skeletal promises are fragile
as summer flowers after
caught up in
the embodiment of inconviction-
we will always be torn between
up and down
[yes and no
right or wrong?]
and forever try to
despite us being
two long stomachs for
eating and shitting,
we've still embraced ourselves
that's a miracle that can't be bought at any price
we're alive, but
whose bullet flies faster,
theirs or ours?
we just don't have the required muscle to survive in the cold
so find a way to make i
Tomorrow won't be remembered.Some days I just want to write.
Write but no words come out.
Those jumbled thoughts won't make it to words.
How am I supposed to explain myself
when all I can give is silence and stutters.
Other times I just want to scream.
Scream from the frustration of the words
stuck in my already cluttered head.
Sometimes it makes me want to fall.
Fall away to another world where only
made up dreams come alive and
those words are forever forgotten.
Or maybe even disappear
because sometimes invisible people
have lives to live too.
They say I'm crazy.
because these fucking words don't make sense.
and to me, that's okay.
I'll just dream away my life anyways.
Tomorrow will not be remembered.
We are only made up words stuck inside our heads.
Only sometimes do they come out.
Hard to gain.
But easily lost.
The effects will always remain.
Unless we pay the cost.
Instead of abiding by the same
seven is lucky, eight is infinitysuddenly all the pizza grease songs
are about you. all
of my intrinsic, righteous habits
are a closed off vessel
of God’s deduction of you. seven
eighths of my day
are earned and spent by the
my imagination over your silence.
you have stumbled on to a path not
destined for you to take. you
are turning circular tables, never
changing, do you not
see the irony in that?
i imagine you walking
my unfamiliar, light-devoid
road of the void in my experience
as a human being. you see, i am still
suckling and giggling
half-God at the idiots in weed school
and mediocrity is my forte, i’ve
been told; i know only,
how to walk the earth lightly, how
never to hint at your dismissal
and existential uprooting.
i am a door creak so quiet you don’t even move in your body
high. her sighing wakes you up; in her arms
i imagine you feeling
thinner and so,
so naked, just like me shell-shocking you
with my acute, unbearded
you deserve a poem, you need
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[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of your
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
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