melanie-elaine - Hello Poetry

I wish I could write a poem about what it's like to forget to write. About when a pen feels foreign in your hands and when your fingers can't find the keys of your laptop. How does it feel to lose a gift that you once felt you had, and and a passion that you once held so dear. My words feel like echoes of stories once told and lives once lived. They no longer belong to me. Like my voice with the witch in the sea, and my mind with the gods in the sky. I do not know who I am anymore. How I once envisioned myself, all but scraped away. Can I claw my way back?

0

Jul 20, 2017

Jul 20, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC

melanie-elaine

Amnesia of the Heart

I wish I could write a poem about what it's like to forget to write. About when a pen feels foreign in your hands and when your fingers can't find the keys of your laptop. How does it feel to lose a gift that you once felt you had, and and a passion that you once held so dear. My words feel like echoes of stories once told and lives once lived. They no longer belong to me. Like my voice with the witch in the sea, and my mind with the gods in the sky. I do not know who I am anymore. How I once envisioned myself, all but scraped away. Can I claw my way back?

13

They will tell you that you cannot feel fat. Fat is not something you can feel, it’s just something that you are. Well, I have to disagree. I feel fat all the time. I can feel it on my arms, my thunder thighs, and my bulge of my stomach. Oh, do I feel it on my stomach. And maybe they will tell you that touching your fat doesn't count. Well maybe, I Feel Absolutely Terrible. Feel, F Absolutely, A Terrible, T Well, I may be big, but I’m not stupid. That spells fat. So, it must be true. I’m fat, at least that’s what I've been told. That’s what people everywhere have been told. We grow up looking at photo-shopped pictures of models, because thin is in! So we gorge ourselves on “skinny pills” that market anorexia in a bottle. We tell ourselves that in order to be beautiful or handsome, or desirable, there has to be an inch between our thighs. We tell boys to have broad shoulders and a washboard for a stomach. We tell girls that they have to look like a dog toy when it’s been squeezed, but instead of eyes popping out, its your chest and your **** We have created impossible standards of what beauty is, and so we **** ourselves in an attempt to reach them. We feel hurt by the world, so we cut each other down with stares that could shatter glass. Some may think that they have risen above enough to educate, so they offer you the friendly reminder that skinny jeans don’t make you look skinny if you’re fat, as if we were not intelligent enough to figure that out for ourselves. They will remind you that a moment on the lips is forever on the hips, so we binge in the darkness, to hide because we now feel ashamed of a basic human need. We will cry tears that are dry, so they will never have to know, that being told you have a pot-belly when you’re seven, hurts just as much as being called a fat, little girl when you’re seventeen. We turn away from the things that used to matter to us. We look at clothes before smiles. We take in size, before heart. We call ourselves ugly without any regard for our person. We know that the outside matches the inside, but don’t give a second thought to the kind of person we really are. So we look in the mirror and take a guess. That answer seems good enough. But I am sick of good enough. I want to shatter the glass, let it rain down in a fine powder of the person that we thought we saw. I want to stop looking down at the body beneath me, and look up at the world that surrounds me. But, so much of the world is small, and cruel. So, I hang my head as I walk past. I sit next to my best friend, her perfect size zero is huge in the eyes of the girls who crave it. She tells me that she feels fat, that she thinks she is ugly. I am struck by this; she has more beauty than she could ever know. But I guess I don’t pay attention to what she looks like all that much. I tell her, “You’re not fat. If you’re fat than I have a gravitational orbit.” I try to laugh, but she disagrees with me. I guess she doesn't really pay attention to what I look like either.

0

Mar 9, 2015

Mar 9, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC

melanie-elaine

Fat

They will tell you that you cannot feel fat. Fat is not something you can feel, it’s just something that you are. Well, I have to disagree. I feel fat all the time. I can feel it on my arms, my thunder thighs, and my bulge of my stomach. Oh, do I feel it on my stomach. And maybe they will tell you that touching your fat doesn't count. Well maybe, I Feel Absolutely Terrible. Feel, F Absolutely, A Terrible, T Well, I may be big, but I’m not stupid. That spells fat. So, it must be true. I’m fat, at least that’s what I've been told. That’s what people everywhere have been told. We grow up looking at photo-shopped pictures of models, because thin is in! So we gorge ourselves on “skinny pills” that market anorexia in a bottle. We tell ourselves that in order to be beautiful or handsome, or desirable, there has to be an inch between our thighs. We tell boys to have broad shoulders and a washboard for a stomach. We tell girls that they have to look like a dog toy when it’s been squeezed, but instead of eyes popping out, its your chest and your **** We have created impossible standards of what beauty is, and so we **** ourselves in an attempt to reach them. We feel hurt by the world, so we cut each other down with stares that could shatter glass. Some may think that they have risen above enough to educate, so they offer you the friendly reminder that skinny jeans don’t make you look skinny if you’re fat, as if we were not intelligent enough to figure that out for ourselves. They will remind you that a moment on the lips is forever on the hips, so we binge in the darkness, to hide because we now feel ashamed of a basic human need. We will cry tears that are dry, so they will never have to know, that being told you have a pot-belly when you’re seven, hurts just as much as being called a fat, little girl when you’re seventeen. We turn away from the things that used to matter to us. We look at clothes before smiles. We take in size, before heart. We call ourselves ugly without any regard for our person. We know that the outside matches the inside, but don’t give a second thought to the kind of person we really are. So we look in the mirror and take a guess. That answer seems good enough. But I am sick of good enough. I want to shatter the glass, let it rain down in a fine powder of the person that we thought we saw. I want to stop looking down at the body beneath me, and look up at the world that surrounds me. But, so much of the world is small, and cruel. So, I hang my head as I walk past. I sit next to my best friend, her perfect size zero is huge in the eyes of the girls who crave it. She tells me that she feels fat, that she thinks she is ugly. I am struck by this; she has more beauty than she could ever know. But I guess I don’t pay attention to what she looks like all that much. I tell her, “You’re not fat. If you’re fat than I have a gravitational orbit.” I try to laugh, but she disagrees with me. I guess she doesn't really pay attention to what I look like either.

66

This one is for the dreamers. You see the world in technicolor even when it screams out in shades of grey too bleak, too stormy. You dance in the rain. This verse, this is for the believers. You saw others in vibrant hues of yellow, of green, of orange, when they were a navy blue, stirred together with black. This is for the wishers. To you, I was pastel purple. I knew I was cold, dark, and obsolete. But you, with your kindness, with your heart, with your spirit, you colored me a different shade.

0

Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC

melanie-elaine

And They Saw The World In Color

This one is for the dreamers. You see the world in technicolor even when it screams out in shades of grey too bleak, too stormy. You dance in the rain. This verse, this is for the believers. You saw others in vibrant hues of yellow, of green, of orange, when they were a navy blue, stirred together with black. This is for the wishers. To you, I was pastel purple. I knew I was cold, dark, and obsolete. But you, with your kindness, with your heart, with your spirit, you colored me a different shade.

21

Words may be a hindrance Forming hard crust over feelings You wanted to convey At the core of those words The true meaning is lost forever At times, when words don’t suffice Pure and raw feelings are more potent There are many miles traversed Between the feelings and the words Somewhere, the line is drawn inadvertently Hurdles imaginary are the toughest ones Endless numbers of words do not right The wrongs meted out to the true feelings Heart will wither away, if not revived At the avenue where words are shunned It’s where hearts shall meet, without prejudice Not weighed down by the frills of words Life is embellished with silence When hearts do the talking, sans the words

0

melanie-elaine

Feb 20, 2015

Feb 20, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC

amitav

Without the Words

Words may be a hindrance Forming hard crust over feelings You wanted to convey At the core of those words The true meaning is lost forever At times, when words don’t suffice Pure and raw feelings are more potent There are many miles traversed Between the feelings and the words Somewhere, the line is drawn inadvertently Hurdles imaginary are the toughest ones Endless numbers of words do not right The wrongs meted out to the true feelings Heart will wither away, if not revived At the avenue where words are shunned It’s where hearts shall meet, without prejudice Not weighed down by the frills of words Life is embellished with silence When hearts do the talking, sans the words

19

You should have seen it, The way the fire flies from her mouth; The way the embers sparkle on her lips; The way her tongue flames. She is a work in progress, But god, the way she shines... When she speaks You can hear the passion build in her voice. She may not be perfect, But oh my, is she lovely. You should have seen it.

0

melanie-elaine

Feb 19, 2015

Feb 19, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC

kailey-browncy

You Should Have Seen It

You should have seen it, The way the fire flies from her mouth; The way the embers sparkle on her lips; The way her tongue flames. She is a work in progress, But god, the way she shines... When she speaks You can hear the passion build in her voice. She may not be perfect, But oh my, is she lovely. You should have seen it.

11

Maybe she's not as confident As she thought she was

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melanie-elaine

Feb 19, 2015

Feb 19, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC

RJB

Then Again

Maybe she's not as confident As she thought she was

2

This is a poem...... you don't have to read. You're busy at home watching Cable TV. On Twitter or Facebook, reading all the minuta that comes down the feed. My words may be little, my words may be small. But, each and every one of them, I own them all. Some will take time, and others will pass by. These words will be mine, till the day that I die.....JMF 2/19/15

0

melanie-elaine

Feb 19, 2015

Feb 19, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC

ShamusDeyo

The Unpoem

This is a poem...... you don't have to read. You're busy at home watching Cable TV. On Twitter or Facebook, reading all the minuta that comes down the feed. My words may be little, my words may be small. But, each and every one of them, I own them all. Some will take time, and others will pass by. These words will be mine, till the day that I die.....JMF 2/19/15

15

If you take away our literature, you take away our sight. We become the blinded king of nowhere. When we look out on the world beyond the valley of ashes, we will conceal our eyes and forget that you don’t need a pair of glass slippers to be Cinderella. We will forget that we need need to be home by midnight, because after midnight it’s so dark that you might go out hunting and mistake a mockingbird for a crow, or a crow for a raven. When we try to use our words, words, words, they will cut out our tongues and force us to play a game that leaves us more hungry than satisfied. This is because instead of pure knowledge, we are being spoon fed a corrupted education, and we will no longer eat alphabet soup without our big brother standing over our shoulder preaching to us about the glorious future that will be 1984, and we will all be forced to live in that cowardly, old world. And there they will lead us like lambs to the slaughter. Where if they see the spark of curiosity they will try to wash it out like the ****** spot they see it to be. We will forget why the caged bird sings and why the baby’s gravestone only said Beloved. They will paint an A on our chest which will stand for absent, as in absent from the conversation because we are not able to comprehend what they are saying. We will not find joy in the poetry written on baseball glove because we will not know how to read it, and we will never be the catcher because we will all be separate and and still not live in peace. When we come to a fork in the road we will take the path that everyone else has traveled on, because we have not learned to stand on our own two feet. Which means that we will never be able to find Alaska or where the fault is in our stars. We will not hear the stories of what happened to the handmaid, and they will tell us if we are brave, kind, honest, intelligent, or selfless, because you can only be one. Our whole lives we will never have pride, but we will accept their prejudice. We will hear the heartbeat in the floor boards and blame it on the wind. When we find ourselves stranded we will reach for the conch and fight over it, because we will all be stuck between a rock and a hard place, and when the sirens of our society call to us with lies about what our future will be, we will jump from the boat and swim towards our deaths. because life without books is just as good as no life at all. We will lay dying in coffins that our children build for us as unspoken poets with our heads in the oven. We will be condemned to make the past our future and we will watch as they test what they can burn at 451 degrees. And finally when we all sit down and accept the bibliocaust they have stoked, we will forget the things our dear friends Ellie and Anne warned us about what can happen in an annex or in the night.

0

Feb 19, 2015

Feb 19, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC

melanie-elaine

If You Take Away Our Literature

If you take away our literature, you take away our sight. We become the blinded king of nowhere. When we look out on the world beyond the valley of ashes, we will conceal our eyes and forget that you don’t need a pair of glass slippers to be Cinderella. We will forget that we need need to be home by midnight, because after midnight it’s so dark that you might go out hunting and mistake a mockingbird for a crow, or a crow for a raven. When we try to use our words, words, words, they will cut out our tongues and force us to play a game that leaves us more hungry than satisfied. This is because instead of pure knowledge, we are being spoon fed a corrupted education, and we will no longer eat alphabet soup without our big brother standing over our shoulder preaching to us about the glorious future that will be 1984, and we will all be forced to live in that cowardly, old world. And there they will lead us like lambs to the slaughter. Where if they see the spark of curiosity they will try to wash it out like the ****** spot they see it to be. We will forget why the caged bird sings and why the baby’s gravestone only said Beloved. They will paint an A on our chest which will stand for absent, as in absent from the conversation because we are not able to comprehend what they are saying. We will not find joy in the poetry written on baseball glove because we will not know how to read it, and we will never be the catcher because we will all be separate and and still not live in peace. When we come to a fork in the road we will take the path that everyone else has traveled on, because we have not learned to stand on our own two feet. Which means that we will never be able to find Alaska or where the fault is in our stars. We will not hear the stories of what happened to the handmaid, and they will tell us if we are brave, kind, honest, intelligent, or selfless, because you can only be one. Our whole lives we will never have pride, but we will accept their prejudice. We will hear the heartbeat in the floor boards and blame it on the wind. When we find ourselves stranded we will reach for the conch and fight over it, because we will all be stuck between a rock and a hard place, and when the sirens of our society call to us with lies about what our future will be, we will jump from the boat and swim towards our deaths. because life without books is just as good as no life at all. We will lay dying in coffins that our children build for us as unspoken poets with our heads in the oven. We will be condemned to make the past our future and we will watch as they test what they can burn at 451 degrees. And finally when we all sit down and accept the bibliocaust they have stoked, we will forget the things our dear friends Ellie and Anne warned us about what can happen in an annex or in the night.

48

This one's for you my friend, who sits alone and is perfectly content. This one's for you my friend, who sings along to their favorite songs. This one's for you my friend, who prays for love to come their way. This one's for you. There's no promise of true love to sweep you off your feet, and there's no promise that someone will notice your god-awful day as you sit, and there's no promise that someone won't tell you that you can't sing. But please, keep hoping for that true love, because nobody can take that away. And please, keep singing to your songs, your singing is beautiful. And please, don't be afraid to say that you are lonely every once in a while. Everyone struggles, that's life, now come here and sit. I care, I'll listen, I'll try to help.

0

melanie-elaine

Jan 5, 2015

Jan 5, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC

Starlithe

This one's for you

This one's for you my friend, who sits alone and is perfectly content. This one's for you my friend, who sings along to their favorite songs. This one's for you my friend, who prays for love to come their way. This one's for you. There's no promise of true love to sweep you off your feet, and there's no promise that someone will notice your god-awful day as you sit, and there's no promise that someone won't tell you that you can't sing. But please, keep hoping for that true love, because nobody can take that away. And please, keep singing to your songs, your singing is beautiful. And please, don't be afraid to say that you are lonely every once in a while. Everyone struggles, that's life, now come here and sit. I care, I'll listen, I'll try to help.

33

I want to be the Savior, the one who catches them all. I want to keep them Safe, and keep them all so small. I want to be their Keeper, the one who saves the day. I want to hold their Innocence, like fireflies in a jar. I want to be the Catcher, but sometimes I need to be caught too.

0

melanie-elaine

Dec 2, 2014

Dec 2, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC

kailey-browncy

Catcher

I want to be the Savior, the one who catches them all. I want to keep them Safe, and keep them all so small. I want to be their Keeper, the one who saves the day. I want to hold their Innocence, like fireflies in a jar. I want to be the Catcher, but sometimes I need to be caught too.

20