I don't want a Hollywood love.
I don't want a hot pink, blazing hot love.
I want my love to be cotton briefs.
I want my love to cradle that which I hold dear.
I want my love to be gentle and soft,
But only I can feel it.
You don't share your underpants
As such I don't share my love. It is only mine.
I want my love to make others feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. Because the more I rant on, the more they realize that while sometimes it sounds constricting, it keeps you all together when you need to move.
I want my love to be marked with my last name.
To have and to hold forever.
Because I know that my love will be with me
Through all the **** all the ******* and every last bit of life.
Even if my love rides up every once in a while
I know that it's just trying it's best. And I love my love for that.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
You were beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You will always be beautiful.
Because when something is beautiful, it will never stop being beautiful.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
When I was a freshman, we read Romeo and Juliet.
My teacher asked us, “Do you think this is love?”
I looked her straight in the face.
“Of course it is.”
She laughed. “This is not true love.
“This is what happens when teenagers have too many hormones.
“What they experienced was not love, love is shown through years.
“Love is shown through deeds through those years.
“Love is what you have after the good feelings leave,
“And the years you have make it all worth while.”
I wanted to scream at her, but I kept my composition.
Instead of saying anything, I bit my tongue, and remained in silence.
Then someone amongst us spoke up.
“I believe that it was true love.”
A young woman looked up at our teacher.
“I believe that it was true love because they sacrificed themselves
For each other.”
The teacher scoffed. “That’s not love. That’s stupidity.”
And with that, the lecture continued.
It only took me a week to tell you that I loved you.
And I meant it, completely and thoroughly.
“Don’t say that, Makana”
“I’ll say it if I mean it, and I do.”
It’s been one year, eight months, and three days.
And we’re still here. Now you can say, “I love you” back to me.
Now we know more about each other than anyone else in our lives.
I’ve shared my darkest secrets and my most ridiculous thoughts.
Together, we’ve cried, we’ve laughed, and I know that I love you.
It took me only a week to know that I love you.
And I don’t regret anything about it.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
I am the hammer.
I cause the ignition.
I am the trigger.
I am the final thought.
I am the bullet.
I am my own demise.
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
Sometimes, I write poetry for show.
People read my metaphors,
And claim that they love them.
I climb onto their shoulders,
Lean against their heads,
And scream in their ears until,
"Oh, wow, that's so powerful."
Then I move on to the next person,
Waving a piece of paper in my hands.
Other times, I write because I want to share.
Not because I want people to love my poetry,
But because I want to know that some people feel like I do.
I love it when I find someone else that had a common misconception.
Or when someone else is a Whovian like I am.
Or when someone one else has read Atlas Shrugged from cover to cover.
It makes me feel connected on a level deeper than all the time, alcohol, and conversations that we could possibly have.
It helps me not to feel alone.
But most of my poetry gets tucked away.
Enjoyed only by me.
Like writing myself sticky notes.
Sometimes they're little things.
A simple phrase that brings entire afternoons back.
A private moment with my father that I loved.
A one-liner that a 10-year-old nailed me with.
They are little things, but they are mine.
Then there are big things.
Things that I have tried to hide from myself, but they reveal themselves eventually.
Until I capture them on paper.
Imprisoned forever and never bother me again.
This is why I write.
To share, to embrace, to remember, and to forget.
Everything else is just me yelling at the world, claiming to be a writer.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
I remember in the days when I wore overalls
And had pajamas with dinosaurs on them.
When a pinky promise was unbreakable,
And whoever could run the fastest was king.
The world was huge.
A trip to the grocery store was a great journey.
A small boat ride was a quest for the Golden Fleece.
Flying on an airplane was like going to another planet.
Then I became a teenager.
The world was smaller.
The internet had compacted it.
The media shaped it.
The elders squandered it.
And I believed them.
I saw pictures.
I saw people write about their exotic trips.
How they found the culture in India to be quite lovely,
But the temperature was over-bearing.
How they found that everyone loves their beer in Ireland,
But the greater beauty was in the landscapes.
Now I am older... ish.
But I see more truth than ever before.
They found.
They thought.
But what do I think?
What do I think of these places that I have never gone to?
To tell you the truth,
I don't know.
But that world that was once small.
That world that was so infinitesimally microscopic.
Suddenly came roaring into my head.
Venice was waiting for me to visit it!
To sail on a gondola with a beautiful Italian girl.
Paris awaited me!
To indulge in delicious cuisine!
Germany had its arms wide open!
They think they can drink?
I say, "Prost!"
The world is open and ready for adventure, my friends!
So, who's coming with me?
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
up. up. down. down. left. right. left. right. A. B. Start
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
They just want to be together.
They desperately attempt form a single word.
But no, their love is thrown away as if it were a 6th grade research paper.
Grammar Nazis reject their love,
And there it lies like a rose trampled on the ground.
Still, I have hope.
I have alot of hope.
"A" and "Lot" deserve to be together.
We see them everyday, and they need each other.
They need each other alot.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
How dare this child look at me with such disgust.
His insolence should be punished.
He should be strung up,
Attached to a horse
And driven through the city in shame.
How dare this pubescent squirt be angry.
He has no reason to be.
I am simply doing what I am supposed to do.
How dare this post-Pampers maggot accuse me of not listening.
After all, he is just a child.
And I.
I am the adult here.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC