A Soul less Existence, Poetry by Barbara Hunt

Left alone in the darkness of solitude trapped in her mind cold and desperate scratching around for escape things becoming tragic as all hope was lost in the depths of the void
A mask covered her face as she was being betrayed and manipulated by someone she loved so dearly

Genre: Dark, Depression, and Hurt

A Soul less Existence by Barbara Hunt

Left alone in the darkness of solitude trapped in her mind cold and desperate scratching around for escape things becoming tragic as all hope was lost in the depths of the void
A mask covered her face as she was being betrayed and manipulated by someone she loved so dearly
A witch with a disguise of compassion and love looked back an evil grin plaguing her face
The evil seeped down turning into tentacles as an evil laugh erupted from her lungs as she smelled pure terror
Capturing her the darkness licked at her heels casting away all hope and love slowly leaving behind a shell of who she once was
As she took her last breath her pure soul stolen she warned the people she loved of its true colors and closed her eyes embraced by the warmth of peace

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My Life Tumbled and I Fell, Poetry by A.Goomer

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to be strong,
When you lose that connection and bond it’s hard to go on.

You find yourself at the depths unable to cope,
You don’t have the strength to look ahead for any hope.

Holding on to every piece of them you have,
How could you leave me Dad?

Genre: family, depression, suicide, grief, loss, inspirational, hope

My Life Tumbled and I Fell by A.Goomer

When you lose someone you love, it’s hard to be strong,
When you lose that connection and bond it’s hard to go on.

You find yourself at the depths unable to cope,
You don’t have the strength to look ahead for any hope.

Holding on to every piece of them you have,
How could you leave me Dad?

The death of someone close to you makes you think,
Maybe life isn’t all rosy and pink.

How can this be happening? What am I going to do?
Will I forever feel lost, alone and blue?

They say time can heal a broken heart,
It gets better, but some days it pulls apart.

Feeling left behind is a horrible feeling,
A lot of nights are left staring at the ceiling.

When tragedy strikes, you see things in a new light,
Life doesn’t seem so bright.

Focus on your happiness with the family and friends you chose,
The sad days will lessen along with your all-time lows.

We must pick ourselves up and live with the living,
These ghosts we see are not giving.

 

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Family Destruction, Poetry by Barbara Hunt

She stared at it a carbon copy of herself stared back smiling exposing it’s horrible jagged teeth and a dead expression

Genre: Dark, Depression, Scary, and Family

Family Destruction
by Barbara Hunt

Dark and sinister it was as it stared down at her a devilish smile played on its lips as amusement raised in its eyes

She stared at it a carbon copy of herself stared back smiling exposing it’s horrible jagged teeth and a dead expression

This monster was of the worst in nature and as she stared at it she became cornered as it pulled her down into the depths of the underworld
Sealing her fate as no cries would ever be heard she closed her eyes delving further into the abyss she uttered it’s name in the eternal silence mourning the loss of peace

 

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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The Fear I Hate, Poetry by Alayah Esotera

Shivers race up my spine
Mouth dry, Fear runs high
What Darkness here, what presence doth cause me so much Fear
I cannot say, I won’t!
This is not meant to be known

Genre: Anxiety & Depression

The Fear I Hate
by Alayah Esotera

Unusually quiet, no familiar sounds, not a soul around
Just dead silence, it hangs over me like a white sheet upon the deceased
The fog hangs low, the air is dense, nothing now is making sense
I wondered, what is this dead of night, Darkest hour, lowest light
What is this dead of night, this dead of night causing my Soul to blight
No hope, no will, just frozen silence
Shivers race up my spine
Mouth dry, Fear runs high
What Darkness here, what presence doth cause me so much Fear
I cannot say, I won’t!
This is not meant to be known
I feel it rising once again, I feel the presence in my head
Stop I say, Stop I yell! Is this to be my eternal Hell
My Hell on Earth, my lonesome self, my failed Worth
What now shall become of me
If I run, am I really free? Free from this madness, free from me
No. I won’t go. I shall stay deep inside my troubled brain
For if not for my mind, where would I be
It’s what keeps me safe from me
The fear I loathe, the fear I hate, the fear that makes me feel this way
Consumed by feelings dark & cold, lonely, slowly getting old
Fear of people, fear of fate, fear of all the things I hate
Depressed, ashamed, so much pain, So much lost with nothing gained
Will this ever go away…
No, it is here to stay.

 

 

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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To love a life, Poetry by Christopher Hughes

Eccentric maybe…but I know that I’m in love but my demons they torture me. My Love. Have you ever closed your eyes and just pictured bliss. Or even better yet dear love; closed your eyes and seen shear terror amidst your bliss? To love unconditionally, my soul? My dear and sweet heart. My soul tear at me, yet I can not find the person to fill my void. I’m trying to love myself. But where can this love come from if it has literally died and dried up from my life.

Genres: Love and depression

To love a life
by Christopher Hughes

My Love? How dare I address you so?

Or maybe I’m the crazy one…

Eccentric maybe…but I know that I’m in love but my demons they torture me. My Love. Have you ever closed your eyes and just pictured bliss. Or even better yet dear love; closed your eyes and seen shear terror amidst your bliss? To love unconditionally, my soul? My dear and sweet heart. My soul tear at me, yet I can not find the person to fill my void. I’m trying to love myself. But where can this love come from if it has literally died and dried up from my life.

It’s quite painstaking…to say the very least. Your soul has left your body and yet what do you do?? Your yesterdays are gone. You can’t take them back. Your heart yearns and begs forgiveness yet you never get any. Do you really deserve forgiveness? Or should you just continue to beg?

I try to keep my head high and be hopeful, but finding a love and losing it is a hard one.

What is love?

To me it means this: Giving yourself unconditionally to someone and despite their faults and failures…you accept them unconditionally. Yet I have failed the ultimate sin of infidelity. Oh my heart and soul…how you torment me.

First we must dig within ourselves to love ourselves.

 

 

 

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39 WORDS, Poetry by Josslyn Rae Turner

birth family childhood friendship learn explore

adult love sex family children parent

dreams build break broken torn

tears anger fight affliction

Genre: Dark, Depression

 

39 Words

By

Josslyn Rae Turner  

 

birth family childhood friendship learn explore

adult love sex family children parent

dreams build break broken torn

tears anger fight affliction

 

birth family childhood friendship learn explore

abuse bully hate destroy

darkness deep hell within

struggle

no

more

END

 

 

 

 

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MISERY’S DISPENSARY, Poem by Nick Meridionale

emotions have always meant the most to me
I mean, really
do you think there’s anything in life
not worth feeling?
words slither through our skin
and enter our bodies
like my brain emits T.H.C. ;

Genre: depression, addiction, sad, suicidal, dark, drugs, confused, empty, bitter

Misery’s Dispensary
by Nick Meridionale

emotions have always meant the most to me
I mean, really
do you think there’s anything in life
not worth feeling?
words slither through our skin
and enter our bodies
like my brain emits T.H.C. ;

T.
H.
C.

this
head
can’t
take
hell’s
campaign;
the
hanging
chord,
the
hop
from the chair
this. head. can’t. take! hell’s campaign!
the hanging chord, the hop from the chair…
the hanging corpse!

common symptoms include:
blotched eyes and dry sweat
depending on what high you’re aiming for;
joy or sadness
I cough and I choke,
trying to fill my lungs
up the most,
but my throat becomes a waterfall
layered out in smoke
and I ponder if my mother will witness
my ghost
after she lowers my body into an eternal and
earthy comatose.

I think the most miserable types of people
are one’s whose bodies have become
empty and dried up rivers
where even dead fish can’t deliver
satisfaction to the bellies of vultures
our hearts can’t get
accepted by society’s norms or cultures
we are different types of people
who feel much deeper than others
we hear words heavily,
and we listen with keen ears

so I had my first high
and suddenly
my empathy was at an all time high,
I was able to see my
own desires and dreams
physically by my side
and I could smell the future’s meadow
but after a few hours
I returned to my past’s shadow

now that I’ve had my last hit
it’s hard for me to feel it;
the emotion.
the passion.
I’ve fallen in love with the fashion
that withdrawal dresses me in
instead of clothes I wear my skeletons!

“save that hit for
a rainy day.
and if your head
feels like a hurricane
then take as many as you may.
if your vice keeps you dreaming
at least it mutes the sounds
of your demons screaming.”

lately I’ve been stuck in my creative ocean
I used to row a boat and feel the motion
of the waves;
typing words down on a cracked phone screen
just to feel solace
under the hot summer sun
but I’ve lost a paddle,
I’ve broken a few wings

so when these sharks circle me
and they start to sing
I fear that I may die.
I feel death in my tiny stone soul
consuming my heart
and continuing to grow;
so when the sun screams at me
and my skin starts to crow
I long for the colder climates
of the coffins down below

I love feelings
I love feeling sad, even miserable
I love feeling happy and joyous
jubilance is a fruitfulness that I rarely emit
and morbidity has scrutiny when it fishes
for the bigger catches inside of me
once the sun dries me up, and
depression devours all that I have to give,
my river will become the trench
that murderers bury the victims
they deemed unworthy to live

my soil can’t decay, it actually
grows wealthy at the taste of lifeless skin
I kiss the corpses of young women and children
to feel a sustenance
that beautiful women
and children’s eyes
once poured into my soul,
I once held an abundance of substance
now I’m a bag of blood,
abusing myself by using substances.
I’m a bag of bones
amusing others, swearing I know what substance is…

but as the days go on,
and the sun’s volumes become more and more immense
I will decay and feast on whatever
the devil can dispense
this sobriety is painfully subsiding,
it’s fastening the blade to my wrists
how many cadavers does a dying man have to kiss,
to confirm he has a pulse,
and swear he’s not one of them?

(n.j.m.)

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Anxiety, Poetry by Shellie Palmer

Every breath I ever take those moments my hands
tremble and shake. I can’t control it, want to lose it all, then
reminded of my faith. The Lord steers the way.
I will never control my inner self, it just
doesn’t work that way. Anxiety, what’s it all about anyway?

Genre: Mental Health, Anxiety, Depression, People

Anxiety  by Shellie Palmer

Every breath I ever take those moments my hands
tremble and shake. I can’t control it, want to lose it all, then
reminded of my faith. The Lord steers the way.
I will never control my inner self, it just
doesn’t work that way. Anxiety, what’s it all about anyway? It’s a
normal kind of life. I have my happy place and along the way there
is grace. I get the poor pitiful you, nope!, not with me I’m better
off independently free. Anxiety won’t ever take hold of me. I’m gonna
have those day with a cloud over my head. I push it far far away the
light is just up ahead. Anxiety, don’t let it be. It’s nothing more than
uncontrolled feelings. In my heart I see nothing less the Lord gave
me a voice to be there. Together we’ll stand strong, we will just be.
We know what it’s like to have anxiety.
@7:21 pm
Tuesday, Jan. 26,2016

 

 

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counting bricks, Poetry by lee pettengell

sitting in this cell of mine counting bricks to pass the time

800 and 9 or was it 10 shit ill have to start again
paced the floor a 1000 times from the bed to the chair
just aint getting any were
out the window freedom calls
across the yard over the walls

Genre: Prison, Depression, Loneliness

counting bricks

by lee pettengell

sitting in this cell of mine counting bricks to pass the time

800 and 9 or was it 10 shit ill  have to start again
paced the floor a 1000 times from the bed to the chair
 just aint getting any were
out the window freedom calls
across the yard over the walls
but the bars i cannote budge
freedoms there but out of touch
so its back to counting bricks again wish i could stop this silly game
but its that or think of you like i always seem to do

 

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red wrists, Poetry by Sanchana Krishnan

we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit’
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.

Genres: Realism, Modern Day, Spoken Word, Self Harm, Depression, Strength, Recovery, Generation Y.

red wrists by Sanchana Krishnan

we’re the cool girls of this generation,
the ones with the words ‘i .cannot. give. a. shit
slashed across us in bold red,
the little lies we tell ourselves to go to bed,
instead of spending midnight hours strung on the edge
unable to seek behind or storm ahead.
the ones who fell asleep
to the sound of constant yelling, artillery shelling; bitter bullets exploding
into ugly bruises splattered across still skinny limbs,
shifting stories of anger and frustration, guilt and regret
expressed across inches of innocent skin;
the ones whose clothes were just a little bit frayed on the edges
the wear and tear of secret battles
fought behind sunset alleys, behind midnight tea stalls
or on bright Sunday afternoons
at the bus stand,
desperately fighting hungry eyes and hungrier hands.
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones with the
red tips red lips 
red ribs red wrists.
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones that house boys in our hearts and
smoke in our lungs,
the ones who spend way too much time inside their own head,
asking a hundred questions before every step in this game of wizarding chess that
never seems to slow down –
we’re the ones that can be found
wandering insomniac across sulphur-sodden streets,
wisps of distant wishes
settling into the foggy vestiges
of a high mind longing to soar higher.
we’re the cool girls of this generation
the one that are still allowed just the right rationing of
action emotion expression complication communication
while wearing a constant resting not-so-bitch face
head sorting information in a frenzied daze,
heart swinging between your fingers and a suitcase –
the ones with one foot in the present and
other parts traversing through parallel dimensions,
searching for a back up plan if your hearts refuse to allow us home;
the ones whose mouths became graveyards
for all the words that went unsaid,
for all the words to which we came undone,
for all times your eyes asked us questions that we shunned
we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones that belong to roads unknown and bodies untouched,
the ones that find stories in shipwrecked planks
that ride stormy oceans only to find homes
or perhaps even build them –
amidst the crumbling sand castles on the sea shore.
because we’re the cool girls of this generation –
the ones with the
red tips red lips 
red ribs red wrists.

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