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In the dead of night, everything is supposed to rest. It’s the only time of day where no one expects nothing from you and all you really have to do is sit there in the dark of your room, the only light coming from the glow of your computer, and just make sure you keep on breathing. But for some reason I can’t even manage that. I feel like I just pounded 17 shots of espresso and then injected liquid caffeine straight into my blood stream; my heart is beating so hard inside of my chest.

I can’t blame this on anxiety or genetics or anything of the sort. I can’t blame it on anything because I can’t hear myself think over the sound of blood rushing through my body. In this dark room, I can’t see my hands shake, but I don’t need to. My entire body is beyond jittery; violently shaking in my seat. It hurts. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. It all takes its toll.

In the dead of night, everything is supposed to rest. It’s the only time of day where no one expects nothing from you. It’s supposed to be peaceful. Silent. So why do I feel so betrayed by my body right now?

- Jean-Luc Dumont

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I Wonder - A Poem

shaky breaths,

and teary eyes,

i wonder if anyone sees through my disguise?

so much whining,

and always so needy,

i wonder if anyone sees me?

thoughts of lust,

and thoughts death,

i wonder if anyone would care if i took my last breath?

salty tears,

and intrusive thoughts,

i wonder if i’d be left to rot?

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all i know is sadness
and grief.
and longing.

but you taught me how
to smile

to laugh and to
you showed me
it was okay to be myself
in your arms.

your window faced the valley
that we found love
just for the night.

but when the sun arose,
i saw it in your eyes
we were something more
than a roll around your sheets.

because that day you
held me
in a way i never

it is possible
to find solace
in a person.
in the rise and fall
of their chest.

i wish things ended
for you are a lover
i cannot forget.

the way we laid together
so blissfully
you made me forget
my pain.

i long for you
like the waves do
a shore to crash

it is imperative that
these words
find their way to
your ears.
and maybe we can
go back
to that valley
of lost and found

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Why I Consider Myself a Poet

Why do I consider myself a poet?

Some days I don’t even know.

Maybe it’s because while I can carry a tune, I couldn’t write a song to save my life.

People say I can draw, that’s not gonna get me anywhere, and while neither is poetry, it’s similar to writing, and if you can write poetry then you can write sentences and then maybe you can write books and that’ll get you somewhere, probably.

I can’t dance, I’m barely coordinated enough to walk, and even though I’m learning to ride that’s not that’s not helpful in the long run.

I can match words with other words and that’s kind of poetry.

If they rhyme it’s more like poetry than not poetry. And if you have a big enough vocabulary then you can just think up words that flow and then that’s poetry, right?

Not really.

There’s something about poetry that’s different, it just hits different.

You can look at someone and you can say “oh god they’re gorgeous” and mean it, but you can also look at someone and write about the way they make you feel, the way that when they look at you your heart stutters, and how the curtain of hair down their back reminds you of a waterfall, and how their eyes are like stars, and that’s poetry.

I think I consider myself a poet not because I can almost write, but because I see the world like a poet does.

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Poets Do

Do other poets live poetry?

Do the bags under their eyes grow with each passing night, not only from nights full of fright, chasing away nightmares, praying for dreams to come racing like stallions, but from writing?

From carving delight into their small corner of the world, begging their phone battery for ten more minutes, so they can finish this last phrase. Pleading with their pencil lead to hold up for six more syllables.

Do they pace like jungle cats without prey,

Waiting for the right words to fall from their brains to their lips, their hands, so they might snatch them from the air and save them from oblivion?

Those of us stuck in our small corners of the world, the only way we make sense of it all, the words running a mile a minute through our skulls,

So loud they drown out all rational thought, having to shove a tap through our throats to release the pressure, spilling the light onto paper like ink.

Do they all bear the marks of a poet?

The mark of a poet is not a stamp of approval on their latest work,

But a document half a mile long filled with longing unseen to any other eyes.

The mark of a poet is bags under their eyes that could carry a lifetime of words and then some.

The mark of a poet, is not a visible one.

Rather, it can be heard when they read their work like a spell, chantingly and hauntingly, like it’s their only lifeline.

Because poets do.

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He makes even the saddest songs light.
Fills my soul with overwhelming delight.
Even his whisper is as strong as a hug.
Every breath reaches for my heart with a tug.

He brings hope in dark times.
He brings luminescent flames into blurred sights.
He is the highlight of each and every one of my nights.

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My Love Letter To Love

My forever love, I don’t know if I wanna know you now

Especially when I’m finding so much out about myself

How can you know if I’m a plant or an orchid

How can you know if I’m verse or chorus

My life can change so fast, next week I’ll probably be out of orbit

Sometimes I feel fresh like Orbit, or weak and depressed like Norbit

Sometimes I just try to ignore it

You see, a year ago I couldn’t admit that

You would have to strip and do backflips and attack kids just to get me to admit how I get and how stupid I acted when I let my ego out to practice

I just want to be with me right now

Despite what I might write about

Let the page and pen be my cage for sin

I’m an aging man open to change for a chain of wins

Still, I’m evolving within

Maybe one day I can be me again

And baby we can be friends until then

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Afterlife Carry-On

I need only take two seconds with me,

I’ll gladly give up all my treasures,

To keep the moment you smiled,

After I said; ‘I love you,’

And before you said it back,

Let me take that

By OxyregretsGen

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Poem: The Fire Between The Lines

Straight lines of fire traveling through the cold night sand

Tribal dances passionately moving the first row along

The next, only for mediation

Pass through the last two weaving into each other

Souls connecting through the worst of times as danger lurks between the lines

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Something Different (wip)

When you’re worried about your own potential,

there’s nothing to do but sit.

Why move at all if nothing good will come of it?

Let time turn you into a permanent fixture;

let vines wind graciously around your limbs and let small things live in you-

Hair is a particularly good place for bird nests;

spiders have been known to make their homes inside ears…

Perhaps, if you sit for long enough, an insect utopia may form beneath you,

as it would under a rock.

When it rains, let woodland creatures suckle on your water-clogged clothes,

let them catch raindrops from your fingertips in their gaping mouths

and when they bite, let them.

We’re all in need of an outlet

and a purpose

so sit

just sit

and make yourself useful.

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