al - Hello Poetry

12% why does my father treat me like his son instead of daughter 15% library inside ribs, it holds a world instead of lungs 21% school is an injury education is attempting to bandage 29% there is a reason i used a calculator for these percents 33% hangout with nature and let it break your heart

0

Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC

construct a venn diagram out of the following data:

12% why does my father treat me like his son instead of daughter 15% library inside ribs, it holds a world instead of lungs 21% school is an injury education is attempting to bandage 29% there is a reason i used a calculator for these percents 33% hangout with nature and let it break your heart

5

the sun is reaching out her rays; they pierce through the barrier that divides insanity from tranquility and shine brighter and brighter until suddenly, i am lifted from the depths of my comfort. my hair is dancing underwater; as soon as i break surface it knots on my back like the braids my mother twisted when i was a child (so innocent and withdrawn from harsh reality). childhood was a gift that i did not learn to cherish. since i was young i knew of the therapy of water; how you heal a burn by running it under the faucet or how summer days beckoned a thirst only it could satisfy. so then, when i dove into the pool, life cascading around me with injuries i could not heal with a dab of a wet cloth, how could i have known it would not fix my existence in the same way? the bottom of the pool tastes like relief and broken memories, the water is seeping into my soul to heal the wreck i've caused. as the liquid fills my lungs i am resurrected by the sun; the hammock of her rays assures me that i will forever be healed.

0

Dec 23, 2013

Dec 23, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC

drowning

the sun is reaching out her rays; they pierce through the barrier that divides insanity from tranquility and shine brighter and brighter until suddenly, i am lifted from the depths of my comfort. my hair is dancing underwater; as soon as i break surface it knots on my back like the braids my mother twisted when i was a child (so innocent and withdrawn from harsh reality). childhood was a gift that i did not learn to cherish. since i was young i knew of the therapy of water; how you heal a burn by running it under the faucet or how summer days beckoned a thirst only it could satisfy. so then, when i dove into the pool, life cascading around me with injuries i could not heal with a dab of a wet cloth, how could i have known it would not fix my existence in the same way? the bottom of the pool tastes like relief and broken memories, the water is seeping into my soul to heal the wreck i've caused. as the liquid fills my lungs i am resurrected by the sun; the hammock of her rays assures me that i will forever be healed.

28

English teachers were right when they told us always to finish our sentences. They said that fragments lead to grammatical errors and a loss of idea cohesiveness. They said that ramblings overexcite the mind of the reader into a state of faulty comprehension. Full sentences engulf the paper; there are no thoughts left behind. Maybe that's why poets are so **** sad. You see, when I started using fragments, I began to exclude ideas that were too ridiculous to put into words. Now I am haunted by the thoughts I never finished and the words I was convinced were better off silent. The fragments couldn't connect in my mind and they couldn't find their syllables and they wandered off looking for you when you could only be found in commas and periods and sentences containing only one conjunction. Fragments create halves of moments and halves of feelings and maybe if I was more careful I wouldn't have created a fragment of you. Each sentence has a subject and a verb but the ambiguity of the subject in a fragment does not mean that you were not there all along. Nowadays, it's too hard to read my writing without wanting to burn it in the fireplace. I want to watch the flames flick away the broken rhythm of our past and join the fragments into whole sentences and whole paragraphs and whole stories but I can't find the punctuation. Maybe I should have listened when my teacher told me to combine ideas and make whole. Maybe then I'd know that complex sentences do not always lead into complexities. Fragments cannot stand alone and make sense. You could not stand alone and find your sense in me.

0

Dec 9, 2013

Dec 9, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC

A Lesson on Fragments

English teachers were right when they told us always to finish our sentences. They said that fragments lead to grammatical errors and a loss of idea cohesiveness. They said that ramblings overexcite the mind of the reader into a state of faulty comprehension. Full sentences engulf the paper; there are no thoughts left behind. Maybe that's why poets are so **** sad. You see, when I started using fragments, I began to exclude ideas that were too ridiculous to put into words. Now I am haunted by the thoughts I never finished and the words I was convinced were better off silent. The fragments couldn't connect in my mind and they couldn't find their syllables and they wandered off looking for you when you could only be found in commas and periods and sentences containing only one conjunction. Fragments create halves of moments and halves of feelings and maybe if I was more careful I wouldn't have created a fragment of you. Each sentence has a subject and a verb but the ambiguity of the subject in a fragment does not mean that you were not there all along. Nowadays, it's too hard to read my writing without wanting to burn it in the fireplace. I want to watch the flames flick away the broken rhythm of our past and join the fragments into whole sentences and whole paragraphs and whole stories but I can't find the punctuation. Maybe I should have listened when my teacher told me to combine ideas and make whole. Maybe then I'd know that complex sentences do not always lead into complexities. Fragments cannot stand alone and make sense. You could not stand alone and find your sense in me.

1

when it seeps into my pores my hands shake no one can see it but I know it's there it may not exist but it still makes me panic. it is 3:14 and I can't control the weather sometimes giraffes stick their heads in the clouds to see better sometimes I make up facts to distract myself from the panic. it is 3:16 and I can feel it in my bloodstream of course there's nothing there but my panic notes otherwise if this is a disease why am I the only one dying? it's 3:19 and you put your hands on mine. the warmth washes over my skin and I feel the tension escaping, like you are ******* the venom from a fresh wound. it's 3:58 and you are still here I can feel you seeping into my skin but there is no panic.

0

Nov 29, 2013

Nov 29, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC

OCD

when it seeps into my pores my hands shake no one can see it but I know it's there it may not exist but it still makes me panic. it is 3:14 and I can't control the weather sometimes giraffes stick their heads in the clouds to see better sometimes I make up facts to distract myself from the panic. it is 3:16 and I can feel it in my bloodstream of course there's nothing there but my panic notes otherwise if this is a disease why am I the only one dying? it's 3:19 and you put your hands on mine. the warmth washes over my skin and I feel the tension escaping, like you are ******* the venom from a fresh wound. it's 3:58 and you are still here I can feel you seeping into my skin but there is no panic.

15

Two years ago I met a boy that knew how to finish crossword puzzles without picking up a pencil. I didn't know how he kept track of the letters but he said that you don't need to write them down to remember. Two years ago the boy and I became friends. We wrote stories together, roamed the streets carrying flowers from the meadow, and arose from the friendship a cliche couple comprised of poetry made with teenage wonder. This is not a sappy love story, nor is it a depressive tale of separation. Sometimes you meet a person that has the ability to crawl into your skin and make whole the most vacant parts of you. They grip onto your cells and preform symbiosis with your mind but that doesn't guarantee an infinite presence. Stories have the power to outlive their creator, but sometimes the story gets crushed underneath those who made it. Crossword puzzles can be easy to complete but sometimes the letters don't even need to be written down. The relationship you have with someone will always be everlasting no matter when the story ends or how the puzzle is understood. Two years ago I met a boy that knew how to finish crossword puzzles without picking up a pencil. I didn't know how he kept track of the letters but he said that you don't need to write them down to remember.

0

Nov 27, 2013

Nov 27, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC

Crossword Puzzles

Two years ago I met a boy that knew how to finish crossword puzzles without picking up a pencil. I didn't know how he kept track of the letters but he said that you don't need to write them down to remember. Two years ago the boy and I became friends. We wrote stories together, roamed the streets carrying flowers from the meadow, and arose from the friendship a cliche couple comprised of poetry made with teenage wonder. This is not a sappy love story, nor is it a depressive tale of separation. Sometimes you meet a person that has the ability to crawl into your skin and make whole the most vacant parts of you. They grip onto your cells and preform symbiosis with your mind but that doesn't guarantee an infinite presence. Stories have the power to outlive their creator, but sometimes the story gets crushed underneath those who made it. Crossword puzzles can be easy to complete but sometimes the letters don't even need to be written down. The relationship you have with someone will always be everlasting no matter when the story ends or how the puzzle is understood. Two years ago I met a boy that knew how to finish crossword puzzles without picking up a pencil. I didn't know how he kept track of the letters but he said that you don't need to write them down to remember.

26

I remember every month you would get a haircut because you couldn't stand the strands touching your face. You blew it out of your eyes and folded it back from your forehead but you weren't at peace until it was gone. When you left, it wasn't entirely your fault. I liked tomato soup while you liked chicken noodle; you watched television in the mornings while I flipped through the channels at night; I couldn't blame you we just didn't work out. Yet in this moment I am biking past your house, it is late and I can see the television flashing through in the window shades. It is when the house is out of sight when I start thinking of you; the yellow dotted street line is your spine and I am tracing the curves with my wheels, the leaves strewn across the road are your freckles and I am so lost in a sea of your anatomy that I do not even notice the headlights. They say before you die your life flashes before your eyes, but all I see is the television through the window, strands of me draped across your face, and how at peace you must be now that I'm finally gone.

0

Nov 27, 2013

Nov 27, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC

Streetlight Anatomy

I remember every month you would get a haircut because you couldn't stand the strands touching your face. You blew it out of your eyes and folded it back from your forehead but you weren't at peace until it was gone. When you left, it wasn't entirely your fault. I liked tomato soup while you liked chicken noodle; you watched television in the mornings while I flipped through the channels at night; I couldn't blame you we just didn't work out. Yet in this moment I am biking past your house, it is late and I can see the television flashing through in the window shades. It is when the house is out of sight when I start thinking of you; the yellow dotted street line is your spine and I am tracing the curves with my wheels, the leaves strewn across the road are your freckles and I am so lost in a sea of your anatomy that I do not even notice the headlights. They say before you die your life flashes before your eyes, but all I see is the television through the window, strands of me draped across your face, and how at peace you must be now that I'm finally gone.

21

when the first flake of snow falls onto the ground, it melts into the earth and waits for the others to pile upon it. only then, with thousands of others blanketing and falling and dancing across the sky will that one snowflake be defined as snow. thoughts react similarly. one thought can too easily melt into the earth. but with the addition of many there is a revolution, a war, a definition with the power to create more definitions. a movement depends on the voice of one but the idea expands to plant seeds so flowers grow even when there is no soil. we are the flakes that give meaning to snow. do something about it.

0

Nov 23, 2013

Nov 23, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC

definitions

when the first flake of snow falls onto the ground, it melts into the earth and waits for the others to pile upon it. only then, with thousands of others blanketing and falling and dancing across the sky will that one snowflake be defined as snow. thoughts react similarly. one thought can too easily melt into the earth. but with the addition of many there is a revolution, a war, a definition with the power to create more definitions. a movement depends on the voice of one but the idea expands to plant seeds so flowers grow even when there is no soil. we are the flakes that give meaning to snow. do something about it.

16

so many thoughts inside my head but they won’t come out. trapped between the folds of my mind overflowing like an ocean contained in the space of a stream. i want to paint the world in your eyes and i want to explain the sensation of your touch. it’s been so long and i yearn to remember but all i see is blank paper a blank notebook and blank memories. maybe it’s not writer’s block maybe i just forgot.

0

Nov 9, 2013

Nov 9, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC

writer's block

so many thoughts inside my head but they won’t come out. trapped between the folds of my mind overflowing like an ocean contained in the space of a stream. i want to paint the world in your eyes and i want to explain the sensation of your touch. it’s been so long and i yearn to remember but all i see is blank paper a blank notebook and blank memories. maybe it’s not writer’s block maybe i just forgot.

14

WHEN I WRITE ABOUT YOU I WANT TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE YOU ARE MOMENTOUS AND EXCITING AND WORTH SO MUCH MORE THAN LOWERCASE LETTERS. YOU ARE THE SUN BEAMING AT NOON NOT LIGHTLY ON THE FACE OF DAFFODILS AND CHERRY TREES BUT SCREAMING THROUGH WINDOW BLINDS OF TEENS TOO BEATEN DOWN TO CLIMB OUT OF BED. YOU ARE FUZZY CHRISTMAS SOCKS AND HEAVY QUILT BLANKETS NOT BECAUSE OF YOUR WARMTH AND SINCERITY BUT BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU ENGULF EVERYTHING YOU TOUCH AND MAKE THEM A PART OF A SEA OF COMFORT AND REMEMBRANCE. YOU ARE 3 AM EPIPHANIES YOU ARE THE END OF A STORY MADE OF PROMISES AND BUMPY PLOT LINES YOU ARE A BOUNCE CASTLE AT A KID'S BIRTHDAY PARTY. YOU ARE CREAM CHEESE BROWNIES, STARS SPRINKLED IN THE SKY, THE FINGERTIPS OF A KINDERGARTNER IN THE WINTER TOO STUBBORN TO WEAR GLOVES. YOU ARE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD ANYONE COULD HAVE ASKED YOU TO BE BUT YOU ARE MOST DEFINITELY NOT LOWERCASE LETTERS.

0

Oct 26, 2013

Oct 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC

CAPITAL LETTERS

WHEN I WRITE ABOUT YOU I WANT TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE YOU ARE MOMENTOUS AND EXCITING AND WORTH SO MUCH MORE THAN LOWERCASE LETTERS. YOU ARE THE SUN BEAMING AT NOON NOT LIGHTLY ON THE FACE OF DAFFODILS AND CHERRY TREES BUT SCREAMING THROUGH WINDOW BLINDS OF TEENS TOO BEATEN DOWN TO CLIMB OUT OF BED. YOU ARE FUZZY CHRISTMAS SOCKS AND HEAVY QUILT BLANKETS NOT BECAUSE OF YOUR WARMTH AND SINCERITY BUT BECAUSE OF THE WAY YOU ENGULF EVERYTHING YOU TOUCH AND MAKE THEM A PART OF A SEA OF COMFORT AND REMEMBRANCE. YOU ARE 3 AM EPIPHANIES YOU ARE THE END OF A STORY MADE OF PROMISES AND BUMPY PLOT LINES YOU ARE A BOUNCE CASTLE AT A KID'S BIRTHDAY PARTY. YOU ARE CREAM CHEESE BROWNIES, STARS SPRINKLED IN THE SKY, THE FINGERTIPS OF A KINDERGARTNER IN THE WINTER TOO STUBBORN TO WEAR GLOVES. YOU ARE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD ANYONE COULD HAVE ASKED YOU TO BE BUT YOU ARE MOST DEFINITELY NOT LOWERCASE LETTERS.

30