heather-mc-corkle - Hello Poetry

You forgot about me Again Like you forget so many things Your youthful dreams The cold coffee still found in your cup The golden sunlight When it's cold outside The lipstick residue on your chapped lips The strangers who smile at you each day The people you could get to know if you only forgot about yourself But that's one thing you'll always remember

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Dec 3, 2018

Dec 3, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC

Leftover Coffee

You forgot about me Again Like you forget so many things Your youthful dreams The cold coffee still found in your cup The golden sunlight When it's cold outside The lipstick residue on your chapped lips The strangers who smile at you each day The people you could get to know if you only forgot about yourself But that's one thing you'll always remember

11

Your hands look soft, like the formation of a memory Slowly molding it Wet clay that will crystallize to look fondly upon "And with remorse," she atoned "With bitterness" "Yes," I reckoned But your eyes could never manufacture such a memory "How do you know?" She looked at her hands, small on her lap "Because they are beautiful." She smiled She was already knitting a keepsake memory

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Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC

Hands

Your hands look soft, like the formation of a memory Slowly molding it Wet clay that will crystallize to look fondly upon "And with remorse," she atoned "With bitterness" "Yes," I reckoned But your eyes could never manufacture such a memory "How do you know?" She looked at her hands, small on her lap "Because they are beautiful." She smiled She was already knitting a keepsake memory

11

She walks on the bus Finds a seat Somewhere in the middle She's not popular or bold enough to sit in the back She talks some But she doesn't necessarily want to be seen She's about as average as they come It's 6 am Dark outside Cold, wet Despite this, she drifts her face to the window To the shapes and shadows Her thoughts take her Where they only take her on chilly mornings when the stars are bright Deep, philosophical thoughts She knows the origin of the earth She understands the Pythagorean theorem and why a right angle is 90 degrees Things begin to connect and align like the stars Only to be unraveled again when the sun comes out Among these thoughts She wonders about herself She wants to make a difference Even though she's a tiny speck in this vast universe She runs through her accomplishments The time she gave a speech in front of her 8th-grade class at graduation That A+ on her math final Those poems she wrote to her relatives on Christmas That one song she sang that made her mother cry "It's not enough," she thinks. "What have I done that will make any difference in the world?" The stars begin to disappear The sun floats The sky turns colour And the world has form and light She walks to school Feeling burdened and useless I wish she would've stayed a little bit longer In that middle bus seat Looked at that one microscopic star, so small, yet still part of the system called the universe If she had stayed I would've told her "Maybe you won't" Maybe she won't change the world Maybe she won't find the cure for cancer Maybe she won't stop World Hunger Maybe she won't grow up smart and successful Her name in every newspaper Maybe she won't become president Maybe she won't be on TV Maybe she won't climb a mountain Maybe she won't write a book that changes the world Maybe she won't build a castle Maybe she won't found a city Maybe she won't start a dynasty Maybe she won't But she is still important She still matters She still has a purpose She is enough She has a reason to exist She is perfect the way she is

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Oct 1, 2018

Oct 1, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC

Maybe She Won't

She walks on the bus Finds a seat Somewhere in the middle She's not popular or bold enough to sit in the back She talks some But she doesn't necessarily want to be seen She's about as average as they come It's 6 am Dark outside Cold, wet Despite this, she drifts her face to the window To the shapes and shadows Her thoughts take her Where they only take her on chilly mornings when the stars are bright Deep, philosophical thoughts She knows the origin of the earth She understands the Pythagorean theorem and why a right angle is 90 degrees Things begin to connect and align like the stars Only to be unraveled again when the sun comes out Among these thoughts She wonders about herself She wants to make a difference Even though she's a tiny speck in this vast universe She runs through her accomplishments The time she gave a speech in front of her 8th-grade class at graduation That A+ on her math final Those poems she wrote to her relatives on Christmas That one song she sang that made her mother cry "It's not enough," she thinks. "What have I done that will make any difference in the world?" The stars begin to disappear The sun floats The sky turns colour And the world has form and light She walks to school Feeling burdened and useless I wish she would've stayed a little bit longer In that middle bus seat Looked at that one microscopic star, so small, yet still part of the system called the universe If she had stayed I would've told her "Maybe you won't" Maybe she won't change the world Maybe she won't find the cure for cancer Maybe she won't stop World Hunger Maybe she won't grow up smart and successful Her name in every newspaper Maybe she won't become president Maybe she won't be on TV Maybe she won't climb a mountain Maybe she won't write a book that changes the world Maybe she won't build a castle Maybe she won't found a city Maybe she won't start a dynasty Maybe she won't But she is still important She still matters She still has a purpose She is enough She has a reason to exist She is perfect the way she is

61

You are officially someone I write sad, pathetic poetry about You have become ink blots Pencil shavings Illegible lyrics You should feel honoured Pat yourself on the back I'm getting the feeling I could write a book about you I'd probably burn it afterward But it's the thought that counts At least I know you'll never read this You don't like to read A warning - red light - from the start Are you even worth a poem? On second thought, everyone is worth a poem That's the good thing about prose Everyone -large, or small - is entitled to words Yours just might not be so pretty

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Sep 27, 2018

Sep 27, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC

Congratulations

You are officially someone I write sad, pathetic poetry about You have become ink blots Pencil shavings Illegible lyrics You should feel honoured Pat yourself on the back I'm getting the feeling I could write a book about you I'd probably burn it afterward But it's the thought that counts At least I know you'll never read this You don't like to read A warning - red light - from the start Are you even worth a poem? On second thought, everyone is worth a poem That's the good thing about prose Everyone -large, or small - is entitled to words Yours just might not be so pretty

17

I thought that maybe, just maybe You'd be the one to see me through my shyness It was all wishful thinking You're just like everyone else, expecting me to change To "come out of my shell" Can't you see I already have? I'm cracked beyond belief by all these people trying to alter me Why am I not good enough for you?

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Sep 19, 2018

Sep 19, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC

Cracked

I thought that maybe, just maybe You'd be the one to see me through my shyness It was all wishful thinking You're just like everyone else, expecting me to change To "come out of my shell" Can't you see I already have? I'm cracked beyond belief by all these people trying to alter me Why am I not good enough for you?

11

I wish I could hold the night. It doesn't stay long enough. I hardly get a taste of it. I'm stuck in my room, trying to sleep. But I can't. If my bed had wings, I'd fly into the night and I'd see the world without colour and imagine I was the one painting it. -What would you use? I'd improvise. I'd use words. Words have colour, you know. Voices. Thoughts. Music. -What type of music? The type of music that makes you feel life is worth living. That somehow, everything has a place, even when it doesn't. I sometimes wonder about the clouds. They have everything they could ever imagine - nutrients, beauty, a breathtaking view on the top of the world. They're friends with the stars. Yet, they wander. Hopelessly. The sky is different every day because the clouds keep on moving, floating to nowhere. And even though it has it all, it begins to sink as it replenishes the ground with it's rain. -You're a strange one. I used to think so. -Do you think they'll ever write a book about us? That depends. Who are you? -Wouldn't you like to know. Are you my conscience? -If I were, you'd know it. I don't understand. -You will, in time. tell me more. I'm afraid I've run out of things to say. -No you haven't. You never could, as long as the things you say are written. Do you know how I danced? I twirled and twirled without stopping. The crickets was my music. The greenest grass you've ever seen was my carpet. I danced until the moon slid into the sky. I danced, barefoot. -And you laughed. I don't remember anyone being there. -But I was. I admired how you danced like you didn't care if others were watching. I usually care. -You didn't then. Feel the wind! I'm gonna travel it one day! -You already are. Is it bad that I've already begun to craft my memoirs? I think of them at night. I'm too young to die, but a part of my spirit wonders if that's true. -You will never die. Easy for you to say. I'm sure you're immortal, right?.... No response? Well, if I die, it will be from writing myself out until I fade. -No. You'd die if you didn't write yourself out. Who are you anyway? -.....

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Sep 12, 2018

Sep 12, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC

Notes to a Nobody

I wish I could hold the night. It doesn't stay long enough. I hardly get a taste of it. I'm stuck in my room, trying to sleep. But I can't. If my bed had wings, I'd fly into the night and I'd see the world without colour and imagine I was the one painting it. -What would you use? I'd improvise. I'd use words. Words have colour, you know. Voices. Thoughts. Music. -What type of music? The type of music that makes you feel life is worth living. That somehow, everything has a place, even when it doesn't. I sometimes wonder about the clouds. They have everything they could ever imagine - nutrients, beauty, a breathtaking view on the top of the world. They're friends with the stars. Yet, they wander. Hopelessly. The sky is different every day because the clouds keep on moving, floating to nowhere. And even though it has it all, it begins to sink as it replenishes the ground with it's rain. -You're a strange one. I used to think so. -Do you think they'll ever write a book about us? That depends. Who are you? -Wouldn't you like to know. Are you my conscience? -If I were, you'd know it. I don't understand. -You will, in time. tell me more. I'm afraid I've run out of things to say. -No you haven't. You never could, as long as the things you say are written. Do you know how I danced? I twirled and twirled without stopping. The crickets was my music. The greenest grass you've ever seen was my carpet. I danced until the moon slid into the sky. I danced, barefoot. -And you laughed. I don't remember anyone being there. -But I was. I admired how you danced like you didn't care if others were watching. I usually care. -You didn't then. Feel the wind! I'm gonna travel it one day! -You already are. Is it bad that I've already begun to craft my memoirs? I think of them at night. I'm too young to die, but a part of my spirit wonders if that's true. -You will never die. Easy for you to say. I'm sure you're immortal, right?.... No response? Well, if I die, it will be from writing myself out until I fade. -No. You'd die if you didn't write yourself out. Who are you anyway? -.....

31

Art is made in the darkness It is clothed in the darkest shadows The ones that come to haunt and to despair Art is made when the sun sinks When it floats to the surface and rests The moon rises in a illumination And looks fondly to the world Art is made cuddling the moon Covers thrown over a bed Eerie noises Everything is transformed The world looks so different when there is no light to balance out the darkness Lying awake My eyelids are heavy But I can't sleep Ideas are floating in my mind The rain bounces off the window The branches slick to my view like a thin trail of mud Art has a way of making light when there isn't any It appears when you least expect it When you're unconscious but there's a cinema going on in your head Dreams The greatest poems, the sweetest notes All come when the mind is refreshed When the room is dark If there wasn't any art We'd all be living in a bubble of black Even in the middle of the day I thank God for the shadows I thank God for the stars Misery and pain seem useless and burdening But it's from those times that we can create the most good Art Is made in the shadows

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Jul 30, 2018

Jul 30, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC

Shadows

Art is made in the darkness It is clothed in the darkest shadows The ones that come to haunt and to despair Art is made when the sun sinks When it floats to the surface and rests The moon rises in a illumination And looks fondly to the world Art is made cuddling the moon Covers thrown over a bed Eerie noises Everything is transformed The world looks so different when there is no light to balance out the darkness Lying awake My eyelids are heavy But I can't sleep Ideas are floating in my mind The rain bounces off the window The branches slick to my view like a thin trail of mud Art has a way of making light when there isn't any It appears when you least expect it When you're unconscious but there's a cinema going on in your head Dreams The greatest poems, the sweetest notes All come when the mind is refreshed When the room is dark If there wasn't any art We'd all be living in a bubble of black Even in the middle of the day I thank God for the shadows I thank God for the stars Misery and pain seem useless and burdening But it's from those times that we can create the most good Art Is made in the shadows

34

I was told that I have a small personality What does that even mean? I've been trying to figure it out The accusation coursing through my veins while I bleed How small exactly? As knit as a picnic basket? As crushable as an ant? As microscopic as a germ that festers and grows into a size where it has symptoms but no sight? Huh If I am a germ that means I can start epidemics that sweep nations Racking coughs and blood-shot eyes Why are you acting surprised? Don't worry, you don't realize IF I were that small, I'd never use sickness as my disguise I guess you assume I'm small because I'm shy No, not shy Reserved I'm not scared to talk to you I'm not scared to show my emotions I just don't Here you are, trying to fix me into something I'm not When you don't even know the real me Because if you think I'm small You don't know me at all My personality is BIG I can switch from being mellow to violent as quick as a magic trick And by violent I don't mean I'll cover someone with scratches I mean vibrant and burning - here I am with the matches Colours So many colours Soft yellow and grass green Amber, scarlet, indigo, violet My world is encircled by rainbows Noise My volume has the widest range - it's my choice when I decide to speak softly But I can yell And I yell proudly Please don't tell me I'm small Please don't try to fit me in a box There's nothing wrong with being reserved Unless you lack passion which allows you to jump To fly, actually I've seen every corner of the sky Have you? I don't think so I don't mean to be cocky But I'd rather my personality be rocky Than put on a front where I laugh and smile and scream I'll let my heart speak when it wants to Don't mock me So no My personality is not small Not at all I'm like a flower A bud In a sun kissed room Just give me water And I'm going to bloom

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Jul 30, 2018

Jul 30, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC

Bloom

I was told that I have a small personality What does that even mean? I've been trying to figure it out The accusation coursing through my veins while I bleed How small exactly? As knit as a picnic basket? As crushable as an ant? As microscopic as a germ that festers and grows into a size where it has symptoms but no sight? Huh If I am a germ that means I can start epidemics that sweep nations Racking coughs and blood-shot eyes Why are you acting surprised? Don't worry, you don't realize IF I were that small, I'd never use sickness as my disguise I guess you assume I'm small because I'm shy No, not shy Reserved I'm not scared to talk to you I'm not scared to show my emotions I just don't Here you are, trying to fix me into something I'm not When you don't even know the real me Because if you think I'm small You don't know me at all My personality is BIG I can switch from being mellow to violent as quick as a magic trick And by violent I don't mean I'll cover someone with scratches I mean vibrant and burning - here I am with the matches Colours So many colours Soft yellow and grass green Amber, scarlet, indigo, violet My world is encircled by rainbows Noise My volume has the widest range - it's my choice when I decide to speak softly But I can yell And I yell proudly Please don't tell me I'm small Please don't try to fit me in a box There's nothing wrong with being reserved Unless you lack passion which allows you to jump To fly, actually I've seen every corner of the sky Have you? I don't think so I don't mean to be cocky But I'd rather my personality be rocky Than put on a front where I laugh and smile and scream I'll let my heart speak when it wants to Don't mock me So no My personality is not small Not at all I'm like a flower A bud In a sun kissed room Just give me water And I'm going to bloom

59

Today you said "How are you?" You've never done that before It startled me Like a riveting storm when the weatherman prophesied clear skies Today you looked me in my eyes You've never done that before It surprised me Seeing the waves of amber and brown leather as if they were somehow tangling with the brown hues of my own All of this matters It's never mattered before

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Jul 16, 2018

Jul 16, 2018 at 2:16 PM UTC

How are you?

Today you said "How are you?" You've never done that before It startled me Like a riveting storm when the weatherman prophesied clear skies Today you looked me in my eyes You've never done that before It surprised me Seeing the waves of amber and brown leather as if they were somehow tangling with the brown hues of my own All of this matters It's never mattered before

10

Before, every object had a word Every action had a verb I could see it printed in my head like the dots on a crinkled newspaper The sky wasn't just a sky It was a robin's egg blue canvas painted on with wisps and spirals and flecks of the most vibrant white Expanding, curving, fluctuating into a sphere that covered the earth The ground wasn't just a ground It was emerald green whistles, strands bending in the air, speckled with white and dotted with lavender Floating and coursing with the wind This was before This was when someone said something I'd see the words, ",he declared" This was when someone looked annoyed, I'd peg, "He raised his eyebrows" This was before When I had words Every word was a colour It would ache if the colour wasn't the right hue And refresh if it was Now, all I see is reality And it turns out it's all in black and white

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Jul 11, 2018

Jul 11, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC

Before

Before, every object had a word Every action had a verb I could see it printed in my head like the dots on a crinkled newspaper The sky wasn't just a sky It was a robin's egg blue canvas painted on with wisps and spirals and flecks of the most vibrant white Expanding, curving, fluctuating into a sphere that covered the earth The ground wasn't just a ground It was emerald green whistles, strands bending in the air, speckled with white and dotted with lavender Floating and coursing with the wind This was before This was when someone said something I'd see the words, ",he declared" This was when someone looked annoyed, I'd peg, "He raised his eyebrows" This was before When I had words Every word was a colour It would ache if the colour wasn't the right hue And refresh if it was Now, all I see is reality And it turns out it's all in black and white

19