stephanie-marie
I am a kid. A teenager. A human being. I write to write, and that's all there is to it. I may not be perfect, I may not spell correctly...my key board sucks. I really just want to share what I have written, it intrests me on how people react to my writings. I am no proffesional. But I want to be.
It’s all about texture, cracks on the dried up leather
where you curl up and and bury yourself, it’s all about the way your skin moves around your bones
how far you can touch your toes
like details crashing, instant passing
we glance and look over those cracks, scars, stains, lines, scratches, anything that makes us human, anything that pulls the paint farther across the canvas than smears it up and down with angry finger prints
we are reaching out with red or pale marks, purple dust that turns into mountains
you work with the colors you are given but you build texture
you create movement
you discover what makes you, you
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Flower bloom/ Flower forever blooming
Flower always bloomed/ Flower never blooms
Flower functions like the skin soaking, soapy
Dough skin slipping, like dehydrated petals
Falling from torn green legs, limp to much
****** dusty hands pretending we are
Forever, always bloom(ing)ed
Because that’s what we want, to
Be unknown green grass drying in the sun
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Bubble gum was
A past time favorite, smacking lips, sugar kiss
Teeth warming up to ******* tongues, licks
Of whistled no you can’t do that, **** in
Pop! Tripped bubbles, blow onetwothree
Inside each other and then Bam
Bam Bam, the bad man is head over heels
For the girl with pink lips, licking sticky
Bubble gum crumbs off her skin.
And you say we always win; winner-winner
Chicken dinner for two or three or
Just you; a lone loner is alone;
It’ll be okay pink bubbles, one after another,
They’ll keep coming your way.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
I don’t care about the set of patients with high blood pressure
Or finding the number of people who did not have exactly two of the indications listed: patients with high blood pressure, patients with high cholesterol, or patients who smoke cigarettes.
I couldn’t careless that three circles make up this (venn)-diagram
And that you must start in the center,
Nothing good will come from me knowing that 46 people have high cholesterol when I don’t even know how to fix them. They’re all made up anyway.
I won’t obtain anything from sitting in a cold classroom, listening to a student hack up his lungs because he’s over 50 and still threading smoke through his lungs; he probably has all three problems.
All I do is poke and **** at time that moves so slowly
And exchange ideas with my fingers, ignoring calculator instructions and written kindergarten numbers
Hoping the day stays young and my eyes stay open
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
This is by far the best moment I can recall, besides the ones when I’m with you.
I hope this will become a favorite past time,
When my child looks at me
Asking how I felt when I was 19,
I’d say pretty **** well;
For I sit on my bed after my alarm sound, class would be calling in 45 minutes.
I spend most of my mornings alone, thumbing through past words exchanged or written poems still hungry to be edited.
I blanket my legs
And wear his sweat shirt
With a coffee mug sitting on my left thigh, my four fingers curled around the handle. I can still feel the heat of it all.
This is by fair my favorite moment when I’m not around him, because I have just woken from a dream and my eyes are still heavy with sleep but the caffeine seems to be digging its way through my blood stream.
The air conditioning sounds remind me of a hotel and if I close my eyes I can smell the ocean.
But the coffee, I’ll taste through my English class
As I adore my professors ways,
Thinking it feels pretty **** good
To be nineteen.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
You’re indifferent to time and space;
You look at the stars and know that God doesn’t exist
But you don’t argue with organized religion,
You don’t even bash it.
Your lips are pale but your face is red,
You’re always calm and coughing, always
Waiting for coffee or tea.
You feel the weight of your bones, and sometimes
It terrifies you, I can tell
Because you kiss me harder when reality is drifting
Away from you. But when you feel like 1,000
Pounds you gently press your lips
To my forehead. You tip toe across the earth
Scared your foot print will be too permanent
For the wrong reason.
And I often find you digging through
Words, puzzled, and asking why
The universe is shaped like a cheerio,
You leave me with possible facts like
Ghosts are just sounds humans shouldn’t be able to hear
And then I wonder why you are afraid of the dark
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
You’re not a smoker,
You may buy packs of cigarettes
And even own a few lighters, but your
Lips do not curl the way smoker’s lips do
You do not **** in the smoke with a death wish
Nor do you enjoy the thick air slowly threading
It’s way through your lungs.
You might find yourself holding one like a smoker
But you do not have ash stained fingernails;
You do not cough like a smoker
You do not inhale nor do you need one more
After you finished your last one.
You’re not a smoker,
You’re fingers do not lack hope
They are not broken or fading away
They are not yellow and they are
Definitely not grey.
They seem to be alive,
Very much alive.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
The moon had a belly ache and
He told gravity to slow down
He told time to slow down
He told the universe to slow down.
But they didn’t listen to him,
Because the moon is
So quiet,
So quiet,
So quiet,
They didn’t hear him
Whisper his worries
And the Earth wouldn’t even
Vouch for him
When he mentioned it at the next
Office meeting.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
All he wanted was a wet kiss
Stained red. And all he was,
Was a concrete floor. And all I did
Was slap him once, because
All he wanted was my
Blood on his skin, and all his skin
Was nothing but destruction. And for once,
All I wanted was destruction. And he
Finally kissed me back, and all I remember
Is bleeding and laughing and crying. And he
Didn’t say much. So all I did was lay
On top of his concrete body and wait,
Because I knew they’d come. All they
Wanted was to see him love, and all I
Did was love. And I promise I won’t
Do it again. (do it again) (do it
Again). I promise.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
Fluctuating back and forth on the idea of how to relieve
The theme of cynicism throughout your life;
Tough like nails: too stubborn to let go of whatever
They were hammered into; the hits we take
Make us unstable and unmovable from certain aspects.
You chose to Stitch your eyes up
With a thin piece of cynical string and a metal needle.
Threading the idea of light and dark in each vessel,
Causing your body parts to glow and show
Off the direction of ideas, in out and down,
But never up, for the sake of falling for the
Instinctual trust and hope humans so conveniently thrive for.
Conquered and obtained the conflict from your child
Hood, fluctuating on the idea of morally right
And morally wrong. Cough, cough, cough. Right
Lung punctured by stale smoke, your lips twitch in
The environment. Blood swells in your veins, forget
That women’s ******* are to feed her children.
Wipe the grin off the old man whose sipping warm
Whiskey, tell him his wife is six feet under and partying
With the demons he drove her to acquire.
Like water, you are the universal solvent
Cleaning, clearing, conquering and
Creating a new symbiosis with human beings and
The world they are submerged in; We take it for granted.
Cynicism in brevity, is beautiful for the fact that it claims to be
Open and calm like ocean waves during low tide
Or a baby child’s gaggle and coo. Fluctuating between calm
And ignorant, more so unintentionally rational to the point
Of tearing your human anatomy apart and dipping the
Soon to be suffocated air in heavy smoke.
I’m afraid
Humans just can’t handle the **** truth of reality.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC