The poetry of women
contain much more than just words.
The poems are about their hearts:
what's right, what's wrong,
what's inside, and what they're missing.
The poetry of women
is not merely love stories.
It's independence, it's liberty, and it's their freedom to tell us what they're feeling, whether we want to hear it or not.
The poetry of women
can be everything they wanted to tell you and more,
that she always wanted you, but never had you,
or how badly you ****** up when you lost her.
The poetry of women
is strong and does not require you to approve of it.
She's writing you off while she's writing it.
. . .
The poetry of women
is much different from the poetry of men.
'Tis no mere poem, but a tiny piece of her soul.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Skin like chocolate
Beautiful dark knight
Trying and trying as he might
To save little ole me
And I'm wondering why, oh why, of all people is he looking
Dear boy
Didn't anyone teach you any manners?
If I wanted to be found
I'd find you.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
How many hearts are we born with?
Two? Twelve?
And when we die, are there any left over?
Because when we get our hearts broken,
somehow we find it in ourselves to love again.
From the wee age of "puppy love"
all the way to "always and forever", we get back up.
No matter the hurt we endure, we can find a way to revive ourselves.
Or at least most of us, I see,
because while everyone is defrosting their backup hearts,
I lie here dying.
Being born so long ago I must not have been lucky enough.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
I want you to love me so hard,
So painful,
So intense,
That it hurts
Me.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
How can you say you love me if you never notice?
You can't say my name
Because you don't know it
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Wiped out and broken inside,
I've been defiled.
'Tis there nothing that can remove this violation from my stained corpse?
It's doomed to be my own little secret forever,
And even if I never tell, it shall never be undone.
She took me.
She stole my innocence and I'm supposed to be ok with it.
But when I finally worked up the courage to reach out to someone,
They blamed me.
How dare I ever do something like that,
E v e r .
As if it were my fault, I began to spiral.
Socially I was never the same,
She ripped my body and soul in half.
My brain in pieces,
And my heart in shambles, I thought she was my friend.
From then and on I trusted no man,
God forbid another woman.
It was supposed to feel good is what she kept telling me,
That it wouldn't hurt,
That it'd be alright.
But she lied.
It was everything but alright, because we didn't have ***
She ***** me.
She lied to me about everything.
She promised me she wouldn't put me in danger
That she wouldn't turn her back on me,
That we were like family.
I cried a little that night in the shower, scrubbing off the horror.
It's been almost a year and I can still feel the betrayal underneath my skin.
I still feel the lies and the soul-shattering sensation of her riding.
Every time she rode me,
I died inside more and more by the minute,
And now she's had her baby and thinks I should meet him and be his godfather.
She wants M E to be the godfather.
Why? I'm already his father.
And besides, I don't want anything to do with that monstrosity.
But I'll do it,
I'll be what she wants me to be,
because I can't stand the thought of that kid growing up to be anything like her.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
I knew this girl.
A beautiful girl.
Prettier than any other girl I had met.
She was a one in a million kind of girl.
Not many were like her.
And she swore they all wanted to be her.
But I loved her nonetheless.
She took these photos, beautiful, magnificent photos.
I would look forward to them.
They provided a certain service for her.
They filled a void.
They were personal.
Artistic.
Special.
But they were not simply of her.
They were of her mind.
Her soul, her heart.
That girl.
One day she stopped taking those photos.
She lost her mind,
She lost her soul,
She lost her spirit,
She lost her will.
Her spark was gone.
To this day, I still miss those photos.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
He builds robots
with his bare hands.
He takes the wrenches
and the electronics
and the nuts and bolts
and makes out of nothing
Something.
And even though I don’t even know him.
I think I may love him a bit.
I think about
How he puts things together that weren’t connected ever before.
Fixing that which is broken
Or unmade
Or seemingly unfixable.
And proving the world wrong when this man-made machine
is just as alive as the rest of us.
The discarded
are made
into something with a renewed sense of purpose.
Proving recycling as a totally viable concept
[and not just a fad hippies whine about]
Right before your very eyes.
And as I watch him explain
High level mechanics
to the English majors like me,
I think about my broken heart
and the inability to truly love anyone in the last five years of my life
And I think
Maybe
There’s someone out there
Who can finally fix that.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
I’m sick of seeing the same old skies,
Sunsets always look the same in the city.
I’m tired of scrolling through Facebook,
Reading statuses of people I don’t even like.
I’m done with tweeting about nothing when I wanna tweet about you.
I’m done with working all day,
Still thinking about you every hour going by.
I’m over smoking a bunch of ****
Popping pills, doing drugs,
Just trying so hard, for even one second, to not want you.
I want to hate you so bad,
But that’s hard to do when, to me,
You’re
...
(pulls trigger)
...the only one who could save me
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC