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sheepfilms
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
if i look back, i am lost
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@deathspoetry
Heavy Race
Who can identify this corpse-like figure in my mirror?
Can somone get through their wall?
This wall of strange noise and discomfort.
They carry it everywhere with no expression.
Why should they yell into the face of the world?
So it can laugh at them?
Or maybe cry hysterically?
Carry their burden and run.
Dive deep into their struggle.
Fly high at their best.
Then fall, And if you haven’t dissapeared.
You’ll know you’ve past the test.
Knocking on Defeat
You asked me how I was doing and I said I was fine. Of course I was lying. How could I ask for help while I'm dying? I keep the noise going so I won't hear the thoughts. I numb so I wont have the static feeling anymore. So instead of knocking, please just open the door.
bearers of pain tend to recognize each other with a silent hello only they know
NO RHYTHM.
Time is standing still, the world no longer turns, the rhythm has been lost, there’s no beat upon the drums. The ticking of the clock, the hands no longer move, the dancers, dance no more, and the lover’s lost their groove. The patter of the rain, the drops are all awry, the thunder rolls are off, and there’s no echo in the sky. My heart beat and my pulse, no longer beat in time, and there’s no love in life, no more, no grapes to make the wine. Scattered Thoughts
Golden
I watch fields of wheat sway like tender bodies in the tranquil breeze. Each grain is a gold leaf string sprouting from her head.
I look upon her face, my eyes sink into the wrinkles around her smile, and I rest.
Run, Run
I’m sprinting forward leaving large footprints behind.
I’ll admit it, the past was not so kind.
Run, run into that charismatic moon light.
She has treated you well and taught you to fight.
Run, run into those walls that use to tear you apart.
You’ll reach the finish line and look back at it as art.
I am a poem made of bones, and all of them are broken.
Murdering Irrationality
I'm being hung from my neck. Instant pain, slow death. Gasping to survive, I take one last breath. I thought it would end a long time ago. My body begins to feel numb. But life reaches out and tells me not to be so dumb.
Last Selfish Act
Always apologizing for my mind. Slowly cutting away at my heart. After I'm done there will be nothing to find. It will be my last selfish act. No more hurt, no more fire in my chest. It will be life who kills me, not death, that's a fact.
To write only of love
If all your life- you write of love, and only love, how empty must that love then be. For if there- is no contrast, could one ever truly see?
Skywards
With its brittle bones and fragile flesh, the human can be broken.
But the spirit soars and the spirit shouts. So no! we cannot be lost!
Our time is temporary Our space is small. But our stories always burn.
The earth pulls us down still we aspire skywards, tilting towards the sun.
—Mark Dimaisip
prompt: towards the sun
Feeding Insomnia
The endless track of thoughts have nightmares of its own.
It feeds the insomnia until it all goes dark and numb.
Vivid black and white memories chasing after me.
I remember it all, it’s not hard to forget.
You taught me how to shut down while being beaten by a fist.
You told me not to cry because that’s what the weak did.
How could you do this, I was just a fucking kid?
"Forget all the rules. Forget about being published. Write for yourself and celebrate writing."
Melinda Haynes (via journaling-junkie)
Oh heart, how heavy you’ve become and so cautious
tentative beat against the poison of love coursing through your ruins
the glass is curved, like a woman and the sand pours
ready to suffocate
each day another grain spilled under golden glass sky and I wonder who will win
time or poison
I’ve lost compassion for the ones who demand it but fail to give it
I want to say something that I have no words for. Teach me how to say it. Teach me how to find sense in my own sentences, how to communicate without losing what I am.
—Mark Dimaisip (via dimaisip)
“My life, a graveyard for missing persons. Not even carrion birds came to visit. The anguish of the forgotten, while endlessly loud, remains unheard.”
The Remnants of a Poet (via remnantsofapoet)
