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Macy Opsima Jul 2016
how kind is the planet
that it continues to
rotate around its orbit,
giving us both warm and cold
despite the bombs we explode
in its scalp?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to sprout
leaves and fruits
to fulfill our empty, needing stomachs
yet we cut of its green hair
and cover the brown & green with grey?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to force away
humongous space rocks from colliding with us
regardless of the hatred
that walks around it's crust?
one day the planet will get so tired
of pushing space rocks
like how tired we get from
pushing our own kind away
and one day, our memories
will turn to dust that will
float in the deep, unmeasurable universe.
but the ashes of earth
will find it's way back into our bones.
Macy Opsima Jul 2016
one day the world
will forget our names,
our memories will be
wiped away from the surface of the earth
and the things we used to own
will turn to ashes with us.
then, we'll be buried underground.
we will become one with the earth
and our flesh will linger through
the wildflowers and sprout again above our coffins
and we'll say our last words to the wind.
the temples that were made for us
will turn into an artifact,
a museum of what we were
and what we could have been.
one day, the last star will collapse
and the universe will be inhabitable.
but we will linger around the
dark and black void that we
once called home.
rewritten version of a poem
Kelly Bitangcol May 2016
you were the little rain,
and i was the hurricane,
everybody knew you were meant to fix something,
and i was meant to destroy everything.
you are the definition of lightness,
while i was the meaning of darkness.
your body is the realm of all the lost things that are found,
while mine was the other way around.
to sum things up,
we were the polar opposites.
the east and the west,
the tame and the wild,
the day and the night.
when i was young,
people would say that someday,
someone will knock on your door and when you take a look at it,
you will not recognize who the person is,
your mind will be blasting with the questions,
"who are you?", "what are you doing here?"
and maybe you would even tell the person to get out.
but the person will leave something in front of your door,
a thing that you perhaps wanted or despised,
a thing that even the closest people in your life can give,
but instead, this time,
a stranger will.
it's called the unexpected.
you came knocking on my door one day,
thinking you can settle things with the hurricane,
at first i just laughed and said,
"nobody can handle the hurricane."
however after that i never thought a little rain
would have so much effect on me.
that was when i realised you are also the thing
that you left in front of my door.
you are the unexpected.
and by means of unexpected,
you never did anything i expected you to do.
you didn't give me mix tapes of the songs that remind you of me
but my favourite songs are nothing compared to your voice,
one simple "hello" of you will make me stop listening to my playlist.
you didn't take me to art museums
and admire the wonderful paintings with my presence
but you made me feel like a living masterpiece every single day.
when i told you i love art,
you asked why don't i love myself.
you do not connect me to a rose,
or to a smoke,
you do not make metaphors for me
and you do not love poems as much as i do
but your words have the power to hit me more than any other poets could
and i am just a coward to not admit it.
you didn't call me at 11 pm to ask
if i wanted to go see the stars,
like i've always dreamed of.
but just by staring at you,
i can see the stars, the milky way, even the whole universe,
and i knew that moment
that there is no need for stargazing in the middle of the night
when i can look at you all the time.
you didn't enjoy my favourite shows,
you couldn't take it because of how much blood was shown in it,
you hated blood,
and i saw beauty in it.
you didn't think raisins taste good
when in fact they were my favourite food
(actually, you even told me they taste bad.)
and you didn't think that the wolf and the moon were in love,
when that was my favourite love story of all time.
this is probably a poem about
our disparity,
our contrast,
and our dissimilarities.
but you did something that i never expected you to do,
you did the unexpected.
you found the light in me
no matter how dark it might be.
my body was no longer the realm of lost things,
because you've done everything to find them.
and i was no longer the hurricane who is known
to destroy everything,
because for some reasons i couldn't destroy you,
you were the exception.
despite of all the things i wanted you to do that you never did,
the mix tapes,
the museum dates,
the appreciation of poetry,
the stargazing.
you did something that took my breath away,
something that i couldn't ask for more,
something that was unexpected.
you loved me,
and that was enough,
**that was more than enough.
Anna Dulaney Feb 2016
he didnt know
what it cost me
to say that to him

he took everything
but i think he gave some
in return

hes all i ever wanted
but i know i will never be
what he wants

my eyes stop at the crinkle
that is him

but his eyes graze over the tear
that is me

so together we pass the paper
that could be us
he wont get out of my head. get out get out get out get out get out!
Kiah Griffin Apr 2015
the awkward part is

sleeping without your breathing leaves me lost in the dark.

close to weeping with slient heaving i shut my eyes hard.

the opposite of feeling, barely seeing i'm dependant on you.

no longer solitary, you're one with them and maybe,

thats the awkward part.

k.g.
ruby stains Feb 2015
i like the typ<e tha?t's
dif}feren\t th=an
me in every way and
fo ^rm * (it'll h_]urt
le.ss if th-ey hu"rt me
'cause:: i know *if that
were m'e//, i neve:/r w
ould'a done it) ,


i like the type that'll
always make me la
ug
h ev%en whe^n i can't
bre##athe (even though
it'd bu
rn and const
rict,
that, right the+re, wo[u
ld be h ea v)en).

i like the type that won't ob
s
e_ss over me as i obs@ess
ov$er the m;(wouldn't wann
a put 'em throu
gh that kin*da
m is e r      ,y.)
this is getting worse.
(honestly i wanted to make this sweet, but it just never happened)
la nuit Aug 2014
i push people
away.
but the few friends i try
holding on to
tend to slip
away
from my grasp.
the sensation still
r u n n i n g
through my fingertips.

people like you
leave paper cuts.
the third poem in a collection that unravels into a story. read it on my wattpad, the link is in my bio if you're interested.
nichole r Jun 2014
one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."

and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.

but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"
no one May 2014
such a small word
blending into the background
always making an appearance
but never recognized
so used
so beaten up
so lost among the swirling fog
such a simple concept
but as familiar to us as water
slowly trickling over our sentences
over our words
embellishing our writing without us even knowing
sometimes
i like to think
that we should become more aware
of the little things
of the tiny details
of the lowercase
in our lives



-k.l.

— The End —