Loneliness Poems
Hear me
by Okunola iyanuoluwalinktr.ee/Iyanuoluwa_Okunola
Continue readingThe Scam of Caring
by Richard Johnson
I like the concept of love, I do. But the idea of having to care about someone when I can’t muster the bottle to care about myself is about as attractive as the bloated carcasses of the nobodies who couldn’t wrap their heads around the fact that nobody wanted them. And the Torah of rules for falling in love should really face their hard truth that I couldn’t be bothered reading it- god willing, it’ll take itself out back and add itself to the list of people that made up that last sentence. I suppose its odd for me, I don’t struggle to find my footing on the ridges of drunk girls’ hearts, with my dour smile and shadowed haunch- so why am I so lonely? I can blag the intricacies of the novella your wife keeps by the washing machine, I know, I’ve done it countless times before. It always starts with a smile, a fake smile. Sheltering two lurched grey dots from the howitzers of some girl’s earnest connection. I have a constant burn on my chest, like the bacon fat that plasters an office block’s blood pump, but I’m healthy enough- the pain is there nonetheless. I sometimes wonder if the magnet of this woman could fix my problems, bleed the constant sadness, but she’d probably want something like care in return- I’ll wait till the price comes down a bit.
I’d stumble through the front door of our studio crack house, with a welcome mat by the pile of bedding we’re too afraid to open lest the fetid remains of a year of bad luck rot back at us. My eyes are cracking at the seams, stretching to break like the lace of your charity shop lingerie. You were waiting in the kitchen for the huff and sigh of my deluded tie, really you were gagging to inject some love and romance into this sexless living arrangement that drags us to the corner table of countless wedding receptions. It’s our own fault I suppose, It’s dwarfed by the fear of being alone- even if we are paranoid with the “will they? / won’t they?” looks of other’s better halves. We’d never act on it, of course, how could we? Who’s fucking bed would we use? We are at the end now, there is no Byronesque romanticism in blowing each other’s brains out in a Wetherspoons lavatory, let’s just do it here.
Affect Of Breakup In Relations & Children's Lifes
by Christen Kuikoua
In life Relationship,
Useless Battle Between Couples
Must be avoided
Because there is no need for negative energy
In the midst of Love
My Bible say love cares
Love protects, Love put a smile on faces
Love forgives & Finally Love don't hate
I am no expert in love
because I myself always learn from it
......
Closing Time (aft. L. Cohen)
by Lee-Ann Azzopardi
I drink my whiskey alone tonight
In my favorite bar
Wondering if anyone would join me
From the crowd of youth celebrating
Their age of stupidity
But no one has
It's after midnight the crowd is still going
When I cut out
And walking down the loneliest road in town
I turn around the corner and see
......
guess we're both crazy after all
by Bogdan Dragos
"It's not that it was the worst
but it was very bad," the old
man said.
"I wasn't hanging but the noose
was so thick around my frail neck.
I was nine. And the
forest was
dark.
Night.
And holding me, they made my
......
The Sailor's Wife
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
......
white sparkling wine
by Ella Sophia
poor girl keeps getting haunted
deep in mind , she’ll done be screaming
all words rushed down throat
throughout left and above , nothing made sense
jostled yet stayed
pinned up against all crosses ;
she’ll be living solely in delusion
fantasy at twenties , be fearless they say ,
here in square-tinted blue room
one knees bent crying it all-out confines of
......
bouquet of white flowers
by Ella Sophia
i never received flowers
there was none
, not even the color i like
no yellow , no pink , no purple
i never received flowers
only when i was buried
mind buried alive
body deep down at sea
......
butter orange paste
by Ella Sophia
the substance tasted sour though as if there’s one who had the chance to have a taste of it .
i can feel pretty . at times , i wonder how it would be like to live a life without worrying about how you look when people try to see your entirety behind their own eyes . i imagine a life of one with no such concern about the time they’ll spend just to blend with other bodies — moving around town . i manage to understand what fits me ; the angle that i must calculate for every picture taken by soul without comparable life , the things that i can waste my time on by doing just to feel normal like the rest .
how can i own up to every spoiled matter that consumed me when i was still living the life i used to own ? must i continue to wonder how comparing everything leads to ruining what image actually exists ? or just to pick up the threads and be whatever i was molded in to be ?
we are blessed by the dead : remembering old friends
by Ella Sophia
a poet who had a life one envied
writing , scattering , scribbling
on papers with words only she
can understand
paragraphs unwritten —
only learned-off by mind ;
sick , sitting still , thinking
what life really means
......
