It happened again
Just like we both knew it would
Yet you still left me alone with him
He didn't hit me this time
He might as well have
Words hurt too you know
Please don't worry i am doing fine
You were never much of a mother to me any ways
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
I’m French. And since yesterday, I guess it’s enough to understand how I feel.
I learned about the attacks on Paris as soon as it happened. And I can’t get them out of my head since.
It’s not just a fact, it’s an emotion. A feeling. That everything you ever fought for mean nothing. That peace is just a concept, and will never be reality.
I know, that horrible things happen every day, every moment, everywhere. But I never had to face it, ever. I’m a young adult, and I never felt insecure in my country. I never saw war. And I always thought that I never will.
But is it real? Is it possible, is it really happening right now?
I’m afraid.
And I will never give up.
Just give me a little time to only think about my country, my freedom. Give me a little time to cry, and think.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
" Funny how somethings
however different we are
happens with each one of us,
all the time...
Like,
How we can be happy and sad together at one time...
Like,
How we all anxiously wait,
Staring at the notification button
to show a new like, a new follower, a new comment
Like,
How we judge as poets,
that, 'Oh, This guy is a newbie,
'Spare me the broken hearts,
'No, this poem isn't my type',
And the worst -
*Are you kidding me, this poem is so plain!!
No rhymes no metaphors, did I waste my time reading this?
What a pain!!*
Funny,
How we forget as poets,
That the sole reason we became poets,
was because of this itch in our hands...
that arose from our experience,
our past, our conscience
That tempted us to explore our demons
Funny,
How we forget as poets,
that even if someone doesn't have a writing charm,
the whole reason they write anyway,
Is to keep themselves sane
The romantics, the broken-hearts, the amateurs, the no class
Don't worry I shall welcome your poem,
Because I am a poet, a poet like you
A poet writing to feed his demon
A poet writing to keep sane "
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
1. We are critical.
We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.
2. We are never satisfied.
We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.
3. We never forget.
We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.
4. We are fickle.
Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.
5. We are exposed.
We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.
6. We are vulnerable.
We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.
7. We will never stop.
We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.
We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
Heart of glass, wings of lead, feet and body carved from stone, sinking instead of flying.
Eyes of dirt, that crumbles and thrown into the air.
Hair of growing grass, mouth of diamond, and my blood is oil, I bleed black.
The ground is all I fear, for when it hits me, I will shatter and it looms
nearer, and nearer in every second.
I now realize I'm not falling down but soaring up.
I am a cement angel.
My glass heart is shattered and my wings no longer move.
My eyes now are empty and my diamond lips have cracked.
My hair has now died and my blood is all drained out.
My world crashed in front of me and my loved ones, taken away.
And I here fall, with nothing at all,
and have nowhere else to stay.
But through fire and ice, I will try to fly, even with my broken wings.
Because that is who I am, and who will forever be.
I am a cement angel.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
We’re not cut out to fit in this world
Where everyone’s living a sugar coated lie
Men are being slaughtered everyday
Yet we’re still rendering life without taste or feel for our soldiers
You see it’s all a show
Filled with so many deceptions and misconceptions
The numbness is spreading
Why so ignorant?
Why so naive?
Why so blind?
It fills my eyes with fury
Homes demolished
Lives diminished
It’s the end of the day and what have we accomplished?
The same monotonous thing
Whereas
Our men have been carrying all our burdens and woes
Our men have been fighting and bleeding for our freedom
Our men stand tall in the streets, and bleed without a sound
Now tell me again,
What have we accomplished?
That’s right,
I’m going to war.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
I thought you were mine
You even bought me French wine
Turns out you only wanted to consume me
Like a ******* candy
You told me I was in for a treat
I was nothing to you but a ***** with a heartbeat
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC