Poetry by Ophelia

@DarkerPlaces

@yourlocalIKEA

Hugs this is amazing n acc so relatable in ways

(TW - Thoughts of death)

A Life To Die For

I don't know what to write,

still this stifling doesn't subside.

To write is to bleed,

painful as it is that I want to.

Truly what is the meaning,

of a life and of a self which is not mine?

A life with a mind and a body,

I care for but not cherish?

Oh I am sorry,

I phrased that wrong.

How can I care for a mind,

which is already gone?

I stay at the bottom of the abyss,

in the darkness I search for a flicker.

I don't want to anymore,

yet I go on.

Fearful and despaired,

dismayed by the blinding pain ahead.

If I go blind,

I will be suffering ***.

But I still am,

so I prefer to go deaf.

Why deaf you ask?

So that I never again hear fake sympathy.

I would rather be content with silence,

than be hearing in gruesome clamour.

This very darkness scared me to death,

when I was young and naive.

Now this same darkness gives me comfort,

so much so that even death may feel like a bliss.

I feel great pain,

while saying this words in my heart.

I am grateful yet so not,

that I wish to throw everything away.

I am always reminded by my broken cord of a mind,

that an infinite number of people suffer in a *** worse than mine.

Is mine,

even worth the mercy that I died praying for?

Maybe not,

and I died more.

Everything feels like an unsolvable riddle,

and I an uninformed searcher.

A depraved mind,

for a despaired soul.

Maybe; maybe..

someday I will be out.

A flicker of solace may, 

someday light the darkness.

But I am rather unsure,

if that solace will be life or death.

© Ophelia 

Ps - I am not in crisis, I just wanted to post the poem I wrote a long time ago.

Wow @calmmoon2104!! What a poem! Great expression of feelings and thoughts, it describes depressing feelings precisely and I can fully relate to the severe pain which is expressed by every word on this. It made me feel moved and and it's quite emotional. Thank for posting it! Do you know where can I find more like this, or is it a poem of yours?

@Questionnaireman

@nyxariaaa

@Macylou82

@Ch3rry98

A Neighborhood By The Sea Shore

A dusty street,

an empty neighborhood,

trees and bushes guarding the shores.

A street forgotten,

walked upon by paddlers and passers,

swept hazed by the monsoon showers.

A street near the sea shore,

castle of sands and bridges of shells,

calm and shone.

A street with a shore,

a beautiful hue of blue distant of the shore,

guards of blossoms and stores.

A street with many shops,

but only a single store,

age old yet new born.

A street with an ancient store,

cupboards filled with memories and songs,

of old and young.

A window in the store,

unopened for days,

bygone untold.

The cheers of harbingers of spring,

vanished into the cries of winter,

with questions unanswered.

A face in the neighborhood,

camouflaged by the hanagasumi,

hidden by the breezed salted by the shore.

So many lost laughs,

so many lost worries,

all by those who left them at the shore.

As the twilights brightened,

the lights lit up behind the glass panel,

with chimes.

A walking figure,

with a oil lamp of blue glow,

came upon the deserted shore.

Picking up the sea shells,

watching the castles melt,

the storeowner wandered towards the store.

Strolling the scented neighborhood,

blossoms high up blanketed by nightfall,

gave off a whiff of greeting so soft.

By the streetside,

a queue of homes,

smell of fresh cooked dinner gave away

hearty giggles of those who played on the shore.

The walking figure approached—

the starry store,

and broke the silence with chimes so mellow.

In the heart of the store,

stood hundreds of cupboards,

with boxes filled with what we don't know.

Putting the shells in the boxes,

one by one till none more,

the store owner shed two drops of sea.

With breeze came a wind,

so strong yet comforting,

sweeping away sands from the shore.

Now no trees bloom,

no waft of fresh dinner,

no little giggles in the air.

The walking figure,

no longer walking,

who wanders the neighborhood are ghosts. 

Ghosts of forgotten memories,

ghosts of petals which fell upon the pools,

ghosts of melodies long over.

Shores left unwalked and untouched,

the shells mark the graves,

of soldiers who fell with the castles of the shores.

Now stands the small store,

filled with handful of songs hands can't hold,

with dried petals as camouflage of hanagasumi.

Quiet and languid,

carefree and warm,

a street with blossoms white and pink,

 a neighborhood found someday by the sea shore.

© Ophelia 

A Requiem 

Scraps of leather,

traces of slow dragging,

or a longer struggle.

Blue and violet,

colors of promises and keepsakes,

now smudged and faded on withering walls.

Crisp fragments of gloves,

long since innocently white like your moon,

now as dusty as webs hanging above.

A beautiful lavender gown,

laced with roses royal and daisies cute,

lying flayed under your countless feet.

A dream of infinite dreams,

or a nightmare of eternity,

was I living?

In your seas of wine 

and intricate tapestry of pastries,

was I drowning?

Shoved in my mouth,

broke my teeth you so much loved,

were they pearls or jewels?

I don't care,

yet you say I look regal,

need medicine yet you give me sweet poison.

Wish,

oh so much wish I knew what you were,

before plunging into the embrace of

 a snake's snare.

Why,

oh give me the truth,

am I an angel of your happiness,

or a witch born of your desires?

Before I am devoured by despair,

drowned in depravity,

give a kiss that I will remember.

A love so ***,

that it sucked me pale,

now not even bats and falcons near my grave.

To never be a fool for your heart so cruel,

to never fall for your love ever again.

Never till eternity.

(Oh,

oh why does not the piano play a requiem,

for a forgotten pain,

a sadness long gone,

for my detested life of a showpiece,

broken and thrown,

in the serene river?)

© Ophelia 

@DarkerPlaces

@yourlocalIKEA

@Questionnaireman

@nyxariaaa

@Macylou82

@Ch3rry98

Flowers for Luna

How long will it take,

before this music will end?

Will the day come,

when this broken keys break shrill play?

What will become of a tragedy,

which became a comedy before its end?

What time will it be,

in the moment I learn of this insanity?

Is that day and that time,

still so far away that I will forget—

that the curtains have already fallen,

yet I go on shouting my scripts,

that I have gone insane,

because I am already?

The torn scripts,

the gone voice.

The audience crying at the tragic end,

or laughing at the tragic comedy?

The curtains now dust,

so is the river under earth.

The river which flowed the banks of flowers laden earth,

now submerged in the earth's grave with flowers that drowned with me.

(yet the melancholic melody plays on and on.. 

a last act of love unloved)

© Ophelia 

@DarkerPlaces

@yourlocalIKEA

@Questionnaireman

@nyxariaaa

@Macylou82

@Ch3rry98