Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jun 2015 RP
Mick
this is not an apology

I’m sick of saying “sorry”
when I take my clothes off for you

my body is beautiful
even if you never said so

I’m sick of saying “sorry”
for knocking back the bottles
harder than you knocked me around

this is not an apology

I don’t owe you anything
hell I never did

I’m sick of the sorries
because my lips were too slow
my tongue too fast

my hands never met the speed of your measure
the tick tick tick of your metronome

I’m not sorry for walking away
when this was only ever one sided

this is not an apology

and I am glad you’re gone
 Jun 2015 RP
Mick
Ex Girlfriend
 Jun 2015 RP
Mick
And this isn’t some sad love poem about how I still love you
I don’t

But out of all of my mistakes, you’re still my favorite
 Jun 2015 RP
Jade Musso
I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.
 May 2015 RP
kaye
i'm tired of reading between the lines.
i'm tired of digging through the dirt with my fingers,
trying to find something that isn't there.

you were never black or white,
and i used to like living in gray
but now it's the color on my walls
and the paint inside of my eyelids
and I'm getting sick of it.

we used to visit art galleries just after the sun sets
because we didn't want to miss the orange light spilling over the clouds and covering everything up.
it was a masterpiece that was always there but is never the same.
but maybe we liked its absence better -- you'll miss it more if it's always gone, right?

despite the paintings and art pieces we breathed in, there was never color in our story.
we were children's coloring books that never got touched, left to gather dust in an uninhabited nursery of broken dreams.
we were unpainted swing sets that no one bothered to start, let alone finish.
we were clay bars that no one wanted to mould.
we were meant for something more,
i told myself over and over again.

now, it's past the usual bed-time and i'm still digging.
this is why my nails are long, you've always wondered about that.
i'm digging our past back up,
i've tried burying them to fool myself there was never anything there.
i know I'm a fool for trying to get them back,
but these are the only places I could see a hint of color.

i'm tired of living in gray.
i'm tired of treating you like a work of art that needs to be figured out.
you're only with me after the sun sets.
where are you in the morning, except inside my head?
i'm starting to think this is not about absence making you miss me anymore.
i'm starting to think you only ever see me as an art gallery --
a place to visit, but never really stay.

are you happy?
it's the middle of the night and i'm screaming in pain --
my fingers hit something hard.
i'm bleeding red.
i look through the dirt, muddy with my tears, and found the thing my fingers scraped on.
hey, tree roots somehow look like veins.
but they don't drip color when you cut them open, right?
i found a bit of red in my nails, now.

i've been searching for a while, but always in the wrong places.
i think i know where to find color now.
i don't even need to dig.
 Mar 2015 RP
josh wilbanks
I drink away the pain because I can no longer cut it out but give me a chance and I will carve your name.
I think about the day because I no longer remember the nights but give me a chance and I will forget the days too.
I smile when I remember our memories because they have always been my favorites but give me the chance and I will forget them all.

Let me stop drinking.
Next page