Reblog – Melancholia by Rahul Gaur

Such a brilliant capture of the feelings of loss and uncertainty. The accompanying image complements the emotions well.

Melancholia

The act of wanting consumes⁣
my mind so much that ⁣
I never realise what I really wanted⁣ after all
Losing myself at the ends ⁣
of her fading footsteps⁣
and the silence left by her echoes⁣
and the echoes left by her silence⁣
I only end up imitating my wants than ⁣
really know what I wanted at all⁣
The melancholy monster consumes me for not
knowing but that is when I know
this monster is really not a monster
as I ponder…

…where do I go from here ⁣
if not inwards ⁣
To save me from the beginning ⁣
of the building blocks of my utter doom⁣
Melancholy opens up wounds
that can only be closed by facing the fears
that created them as I realise
All I receive is connected to all I give
amidst the karmic cycle of my intents⁣
The ignorance of the immediate fate⁣
I put too much emphasis on
The laughter of my perpetual bloom ⁣is
connected to the whispers of my eventual tomb

Reblog – Spotlight Poetry – ‘Without Love’ – by Goff James

Even with the despair in both the image and poetry, there is still hope. I thoroughly enjoyed the emotional ride both took me on.

Art, Music, Photography, Poetry and Quotations

© Serj Fedulov, Loneliness

Without Love by Goff James

Poem Attribution © goffjamesart/photography/poetry

Click here to read more poetry by Goff James

goffjamesart.wordpress.com

Image Attribution © Serj Fedulov, Loneliness, (Date Unstated)

Source Attributionhttps://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Loneliness/324530/215097/view

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The End Of Hope

only some children
can claim that life is easy
only some adults
have a life that is easy

for there are many whose dreams
shattered before their eyes
heartbreak and heartache
the sum of their existence

when what is spoken is not true
when deceit dominates
yet forgiveness is expected
escape to better living is excruciating


Reblog – Take It All In by River Dixon

There’s such a raw feeling to this piece. River takes on a heavy subject and delivers its message so eloquently. It will leave you feeling heavy.

The Stories In Between

We don’t have boulevards to forget

Our dreams lie broken on dirty streets

Nicotine stained fingers prod for meaning

Calloused hands wring out the last

Drops of chance we believed were waiting

Don’t tell me about hope and the possibility

Of what may come

I see it, smell it all around me, the hope

It stares me in the face, around every corner

Hangs from light posts and street signs

Flows through the gutters like paper boats

Made from yesterday’s news

It’s been dropped, thrown, torn to pieces

Left, to drift on the wind

It’s stepped over, walked through, trampled on

Trapped in a cycle of rot and growth

Yes, there’s hope, it’s all around us

But how many are too tired to stop and pick it up

Too weak to carry it, along with everything else

That fills their arms, lives on their backs

Sometimes, we manage to tuck…

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Reblog – Fall by Steph J. Millz

Is restoration ever possible? This piece highlights the depths we go to and quite possibly never recover from.

New Beginnings

Nothing has been the same since you left.

I am far from myself.

Trying to be things I feel I cannot.

It isn’t what you would want from me.

You knew the real me. You had accepted it with open arms & wanted me to stay that way. It was something that should have been so easy to do.

In fact it was.

But it was not easy for me somehow.

Incompetent I am for failing to do a simple task.

How I wish I could revert to that last time we spoke. Had I known it would be the final time, my words would be rearranged to keep you. To give myself a final chance to prove myself.

Every time I look back I that day, I consider it one of my biggest failures.

Because time after that has me filled with so much regret for all of my…

View original post 507 more words

Shituation

20/20 doesn’t mean what it used to
hope was sucked out of our beings
drowning us in metaphorical waters
the despair vibrated in the gasps of the dying

can we recover…

politics, and the anger it fueled
climate change, and the natural disasters which ensued
sickness, and the devastation that followed
all of it ravaged the land, the body and the heart

i hope we can recover…

but there are stronger ones among us
survivors, come what may
we’ll need to lean on them
or forever lose our way

we can recover…

Thanks to my hubs for the title of this piece! I’d wanted to write one final piece about the year 2020 but hadn’t found what I would call an acceptable way to lead into it. Recently, while having a discussion, I misspoke trying to utter the word “situation.” Great discussion and a title was born!

Reblog – PAIN by Asonje Jesse

Very profound thoughts. I was impressed with how the writer captured the emotions “feeding” on our misery. Well done micropoetry, IMO.

incomprehensibus

Photo by Brian James on Pexels.com

The pain is a parasite

Feeding on my hurt

Growing and mutating

On the sorrows of my ego

The child of a bad experience.

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John Collins

man wearing halloween costume
Photo by Laura Garcia on Pexels.com

From Beyond

I know what you want
Dark mysteries from beyond
Chills the blood within
Open your eyes to the void
The curtain lifts on your doom

Cycle of the Witch

Child of earth
Lives and learns
Wisdom grow’s

Woman’s Life
Grimoire’s verse
Imparts love

Come of age
Passed the test
Old Crone rests

Woman

Thine own eyes see all
She is of body and mind
Her beauty revered

Despair

What do you want when you see me?
Am I not good enough for thee?
No more can I stay
Now I must away
Your goodbye
I won’t cry

~~~

John’s a self-proclaimed poet and storyteller who writes for a hobby and professionally. He’s from the coastal city of Swansea in South Wales and has had a vivid imagination from a young age. A lover of mystery and conspiracy, little green men and things going bump in the night. You can read his work here – The Mush from the Hill

Untitled

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Reblog – dark again

It is dark now but the light will come back again. This piece so eloquently expresses we must proactively seek out hope. Reality will eventually catch up.

Breaking the silence

anxiety born to be hidden

just like everything else

except the mask

never the mask

for it serves as a shield

hope

followed with confusion

relapsing fear

breaking illusion

creation

limited distraction

but important factor

inevitable now

when I feel down.

making art

to let my pain out

determined to fight

to exit the dark

when I start to write

and in aftermath of all my crises

resilient hope still thrives

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Reblog – There are no rehearsals left, only curtain fall by Candice Louisa Daquin

This piece will take you to the depths of sorrow and despair. Oof! It’s certainly one that hit home for me!

pexels-photo-705425
pexels.com

Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala 3/1/20

As it grows dark

As the corners of today’s page furl

Empty rooms, homes without windows, drugs without users, a body untouchable, growing cold

As if alight sparing flame

Never to relive

Nor consume nor nourish

This terrible emptiness

As she feels the pain that comes afterward

Inevitable. Old. Crushing. Familiar.

She wants to run to you

But you’re long gone, if ever present

Diminished and relinquished

Pouring medicine down the drain, till needful of no refreshment

Even beauty turns to stone

Even love robs itself destitute

As lovers hate the very thing that made them burn

The taste in her mouth of ashes

Written across her brow in heavy stroke

The cross, the lantern, the falsehood

This room loses light as she gradually declines

On her knees, so many years without touch; lies in place of comfort

Words growing smaller and smaller

A shadow book within a grace freshly dug, till she can see no more but the internal crush of loss

She was an addictive personality who couldn’t get out of her mould, it stuck like jello, that tendency toward

Melancholy and suicide

If you find her dead you can bet one of her vices is responsible

When she meets people who have not soaked their souls in cigarettes and vodka

Feeling more in the daytime bar than ever something clean and starched

Broken girl parts

Snapped in half before they knew how to stand up

Hers is a sickness, dances in pearls around her neck till pulled tight

Wanting the abyss of psychedelic music and dream of hashish

Intoxicate the pain, numb further urge to destroy what’s left

And push yourself inside me, join the sorrow dot by dot till we both burst

Such is the loveliness of sex in the fulment of grief

Replacing one pain with another small death

The telephone doesn’t ring

She doesn’t call or receive these days

The silence as palpable as the knife she carves her arms into ribbons with

They’ve danced this dance before

There are no rehearsals left, just curtain fall

Think of how it felt, long ago

Before the end, in the middle, lost now

The heaviness of her wanting is blunted by knowing

These people have only their irrevocable actions

Sparring with one another, the blood of first strike hitting white snow in masterpiece

Crimson against a hundred promises, a new form of murder

Sitting, watching herself go through the motions

Good girl who kisses her loved one, tucks in the bed sheets tight

Dreaming of broken glass down her throat, three grey birds and a fingerful of coke

The rage of impotence across flayed landscapes

That flesh and sinew long hung to cure, speaks nothing

Doesn’t forget the rebuke, even as forgiveness is yoked, chain on soft skin

To every ending

Time ticks down without mercy, and if she lives to your age

Just like you, setting the tableaux of your life, there’ll be nothing to say

But the horror of silence before deafening rain

Then she picks up her existing and leaves

Soon it seems, she was never there, just a handful of misspoken words and rage

Drinking clouds, the truth, spares the speaker

She has a generation of distillers and eyes that carry pain as if it were their child

Tonight she won’t be meeting you, she’ll keep on driving

There’s a drop off somewhere, she knows, a fateful road where the turn is sharp

And unexpected

Even for the most familiar driver

It takes a kind of control

She never ever possessed.