The poem as prey, as blood luscious, elusive. The poem as the locked room.

37 posts

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Is it normal to grieve yourself?

And still yearn the grief?

To know you'll be eternally hurting,

Why is it such a relief?

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More Posts from Unlikelyanonymous

2 years ago

There is love in my mother's disapproval.

It is there in the way she looks at me,

The way she loathes my existence.

It's not visible but it's there.

There is love in my father's resentment.

It is there in the way he talks to me,

The way he is ashamed of me.

It's not apparent but it's there.

There is love in my family.

It is there in broken dreams.

It is there in domestic scars.

So much love that you almost mistake it for hate.


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2 years ago
He Called Me Neurotic

he called me neurotic

but what i think he really meant

was that the roots of my anxiety

are growing deep within my head

-

sometimes my thoughts run far

away, escape all rhyme and reason

the seeds of logic overthrown

by the fruits of anxious seasons

-

i just take my time to breathe

and think up a solution

i take a minute and i trawl

through the depths of this pollution

-

poison planted in my mind

by words and dirty looks i catch

in a net of pure self hate

in which fearful thoughts hatch

-

he called me neurotic

and sure, ill take it on the nose

my garden of fear and self hate

truly needed that last rose.

-

(photo via)

2 years ago

If I believed in god I would ask him why he did this to me.

But I do not.

If I believed in myself I would ask me how I let this happen.

But I do not


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2 years ago

I wish I was religious so atleast I could pray to something.

But I talk to god and the sky is empty.

For nothing can restore my faith,

This is not the world I wish to live in.

I wish I was what my parents wanted me to be.

But I look in the mirror and I am empty.

Nothing can restore my self,

This is not the body I wish to be in.

I scream and cry and yell at you to have given me this life.

Birthed me ugly,broken,tarnished and useless.

Ruined me and made me hate myself.

But what right do I have to blame you or anyone else?

For no one has been as cruel to me,

As I have been to myself.

You didn't ruin me; I just hate myself.


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