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Sabila Siddiqui Feb 2018
Inheriting independence
Intruding boundaries
You let your actions stem
from insecurity and jealousy
You want to protect me
But now I feel,
I need protection from you.

You’re taking my life and air;
Choking
Caging  
Suffocating
And Stifling me.

Love me
Don’t own me.
Protect me,
But don’t bound me.

You’re being possessive
That it turns out obsessive
And sometimes situations get aggressive.

Fire burns in your love
But your intentions become impure.
In becoming possessive
You became invasive.

You try to move my blood to your accord.
Try to be the nerve to my muscle.
But you’re blinding my eyes with tears
And leaving myself internally screaming.
It is like a curse that brings problems without a cause.

I want to b r e a t h e  
I want to s c r e a m  
I want to f l e e  

I wonder,
Where did all the happiness go?
Because I just find myself lamenting
over the days that pass by.

- Beautiful Sensitive Soul
Akira Feb 2018
OCD
When I was thirteen,
I was anxious about my obsessive rituals,
Didn't expect that it was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
And once you have it, it will never leave you.
Even at night, when I go to bed.
My mind drowns in waves of questions.
Have I washed my hands?
Are these plates clean enough?
Did I close the door?
Have I drank enough water?
It was hard for me,
The repetitions,
The struggle of everything turning into endless cycles          

When I was fourteen, I said,
"Mom? I'm having these kind of rituals."
I said, "Mom? Am I getting better?"
Well, mom thinks it's normal. But it's not.      
Well, I feel something bad and I feel that the world was against me, that the rituals were indeed sempiternal.

When I was fifteen,
My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had completely risen up to another level.
I feel anxious, I feel bad, I feel that I am slowly sinking into an ocean filled with unspoken mysteries.
And every time, I try not to listen to those voices, those voices seem unable for me to conquer, those voices become higher than my power.

So when I turned sixteen,
I wished the life of a genuinely normal teen.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is like a spell, a lifetime spell.
A spell that covers me, that controls me,
a spell with ***** hands that touch my soul.
And yet people think I'm crazy, I'm insane, that I'm hopeless, but the truth is I need help. I need people to stop the judgements and please understand my condition.
Mandy Arc Nov 2017
My soul seeps onto clothing
The blood is muddy, murky, gross
So much passion
That you could say it even seeps through my skin
My wrists
My heart
My mind
The words i say to myself are sharp
A blade and cut to the touch
I hope that one day i will see
That i am just enough
The atmosphere around me’s cloudy
The wind is brisk and sharp
And i am all alone
And screaming in the dark

I don't believe in the never ending consequences
I don't believe in the depth
I don't believe in the endless sinking
Of all that is ruined and wrecked
The seams have come undone
And i break and tear to ends
I don't feel whole
For i am a scattered mess

A mess with no starting point and no ending point to foresee
You can’t overlook the thought of me for i am all but unseen
I am alive in a fragile state
A moth caught by its wing
I hope to be okay with me
And all i have to bring
But the bag of tricks that are up my sleeves
are emptying by dusk
But i want to show everyone
That i am just enough
The sappy story of what i entail
Is one i hate to bring
But i have nothing more to offer
Than what i can already sing
I hope to prove to someone
To anyone at that
To even just myself
That i am all i have
Mandy Arc Oct 2017
You tap the lights three times
Because the world around you is dull
And dangerous
And cruel
And the number three is safe
And spontaneous
And comforting
But you look like an idiot tapping the lights three times
And washing your hand five times
And reciting numbers people can not hear clearly under your breath
And they look at you
Like the rare deformity
In the city zoo
Because things that are different
Don't fascinate people like they should
But they scare
And repel
And deflect others
And I can't help but feel alone in a world
Where the tide pushes against me
Trying it’s best to get me out of their vicinity
I don't mean to think over things that are dangerous and scary
And I don't mean to fall into a deep hole of endless sinking
But the words around me are groggy
And thick
Like fog
On a hot humid day
It’s so thick its feels like swimming in quicksand
But I don't know how to swim in quicksand
And the number one rule when caught in quicksand
Is to not panic
Because then you will drown
But no one tells me this when I need to hear it most
And I am the queen of panic
So I struggle
And fight
And flail
Only to fall to an endless doom of deep dark nothing
Where blood is thick like maple syrup
And people are as concealed as concrete
My insides turn into this consistency
Of dog **** and bleach
And it burns my throat
And makes me cry
As I choke on my thoughts
Because by the time I reached the pit of the quicksand
I begin to absorb it
And I then become
The things people call me
When they are most upset with me
be afraid, be very afraid
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna

(some rank as endangered species) rub and band together
to scratch envy of neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche, and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available head room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down

(praying Holy Scott no wash out nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis, where subcutaneous porous droplet size
water ship down pieces of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee bald faced realtor
amidst competing rival bulb buss scissor hands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)

affianced to rapunzel, whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil, one dapper dan d ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured cut above other stylish habitués
(preferring to fraternize, glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs housed by yours truly - Samson

in gleaming puffy pompadour pads tightly secured
with the best dread locks, which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders, who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz

to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience), and teach stragglers
they will suffer a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush against brylcream of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs (hairs) of tousled doo mane.
J Aug 2017
Your smiles are as bright as the sun in the middle of the day

Your laughters as beautiful as the soft sound of wind chimes dancing in the breeze

Your eyes as clear as the twinkling stars that laden the black night sky

Your cheeks as red as newly bloomed crimson roses

And I chase you

Your cries are as beautiful as the howling of lone wolves under the full moon night

Your groans as deep as the guttural growl of a wild animal in the forest

Your tears as salty as the crystal clear ocean water

Your pleas as beautiful as the music of an orchestra playing through the night

And I want to own you

Your soft breathes are as still as the calm waters of a mountain spring

Your pale skin as white as the thick snow after a storm

Your voice as faint as the flutter of a butterfly's wings

Your wounds and bruises as beautiful as an art painted on an empty canvass

And without meaning to

I killed you
J Aug 2017
Hue
With your lips color me in crimson
Let it spread all over my skin
Just like the petals of withering roses

With your fingers color me purple
Let it bind around my neck
Just like the diamond studded collar you force me to wear

With your palm color me red
Let it mark my bottoms
Just like a print on a canvass

With your knuckles color me blue
Let it show on my cheeks, eyes, shoulders
Just like how a fighter looks after a fight

With your love color me in your different hues
And I
Your canvass
Nathan Tuy Jul 2017
Repeat.
Just once more,you have to repeat.
Just once more and you can stop.
Repeat.
One more tic and it'll be gone.
Just one more and it'll be all.
Repeat.
You don't have to listen to anything but this.
Don't you follow any order but your own.
Repeat.
The sun doesn't matter
Nor does the rain.
All you have to do is repeat.
Repeat.
you don't need to sleep.
All that matters is that you repeat.
Repeat.
For you promise that this will be the last.
For you convince yourself that this will be the last.
Repeat.
For you never keep your promises well.
For you know you'll do it again.
Repeat.
All you have to do is repeat.
All you will do is repeat.
For son, you are a prisoner of your own body.
So,repeat.
Just repeat.
blushing prince Jun 2017
Wash your hands before leaving.
Every afternoon the television would have a woman in tears
Spanish dialogue, pastel colored sets
Tongue in cheek, modern romance sipping iced tea by the pool
The antagonist wearing a suit and three rings on each finger
Pause.
Soap bars are made of fat, the grease found in
Breakfast diners and sweat off a teenagers face
The lipids turning gelatinous and all I can think of is
Jell-o; the strange colored dessert that doesn’t taste like anything real
My hands begin to itch and I stand up
Wash your hands before leaving.
My hands have become open desert, dry animosity
The skin around the knuckles is delicate, one clench of a fist
I am sure that it will tear, like the skirt of a girl I once knew
But there are creatures lurking everywhere
In the handle of the bathroom door, in the shake of another hand
In the touch of a frame, in the grip of a key
Wash your hands before leaving.
The scattered murmurs on the screen remind me its 5p.m
The women are arguing with their manicured hands
Their eyes all having the same spidery lashes, spiders
I feel insects crawling under my bones
Termites clipping at my heels as I sit in this couch of horrors
I didn’t know the last time it had been washed
It smelled of the 1970’s and I want to go home
The babysitter is on the other chair reclined
Snoring, letting out bacteria through her mouth
At 8 years old I should be on the floor with a coloring book
My lips are dry, the screen is too bright, I can feel the filth everywhere I turn
So I stay
I hear the door knock and it’s my mother picking me up after work
My lungs sigh of relief
Time to go
But first
let me wash my hands before I leave
my experience with ocd as a child
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