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 Jun 2019 Nevaeh Lynn
KieraYale
write as if your heart
were your lungs at the summit
then gasp for air, breathe
 Jun 2019 Nevaeh Lynn
Poet X
I was told
I love too much
to the wrong things
too often .
I wonder when I can learn to love right too
 Sep 2018 Nevaeh Lynn
Alexander T
help me,
I want to die
I want that knife
I want the lasting peace

I hate me
I hate how I have everything,
and I still feel like dying
I hate how I cant love her enough

I want to die
I want an end
I am sad
I am depressed
everything that should be happy,
just isnt

I need your help
I need something
I want to keep going,
but I want to die

I love her
She loves me
I have everything I have ever wanted
so why do I feel this way

I am empty
a void
I need help
I dont want to leave her

she is everything
I dont want to hurt her
I am scared that I will,
if I say that I still want to die
help me
self-explanitory
 Jul 2018 Nevaeh Lynn
emnabee
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
 Jul 2018 Nevaeh Lynn
Elizabeth
I spend my days wasting the world away, replaying our favorite song. Our favorite song says something like falling in love is a crime, but I didn’t get it until I’d committed treason of my own heart and my feelings. When the sun isn’t shining, and the rain softly patters I hum the beat and tap my feet to the 1. 2. 3. Stomp of the rain. When the wind is blowing, I whistle the chorus with the birds who nest high up in the trees away from it all. But then I wondered how else do I go about spending my time when the scream of the tea kettle reminds me of us. How do I go about humming a different tune when the birds don’t want anything but we. The birds and I want you and me.
The patter of rain on rooftop
My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.
Thank you to anyone that reads this.
I spoke to Kissinger this week

~for C. C.   the reluctant poet~


read him your poem,

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1933595/kissinger-on-park/

spoke of your reluctance
to write without the encouragement of others
(see below)

K. said poetry writing
very similar to decision making -
a single letter addition makes it into a wry thing:

writhing

but once you’ve published,
  once you have made the policy decision
then and only then begins the incision
that others cut upon your chest,
to fill with infectious assassination or
admiration,
at the risk taken

K. said: pray and trust that you reluctant fellow
and I
can non-disclose (hide) our internist discordance,
neath a sheen of stolidity that is a
pretense gravitas cover-up certainty,
for we wince when they shoulder tap you with
hindsight queries that you recognize
as retro grade F seeds
of inequitude

if you require recognition as encouragement, K. intoned,
prepare prepayments for your poems,
you have failed before even starting

please your self, lad, no one else,
reluctance is the chief ingredient in failure
do the work and pray for grace to do some
yeoman-well-enough to carry others upon the outgoing tide
of your burdened shoulders

this man who transmits my words
has been kicked off the fence, rejected,
a
frequent wrong road chooser,
for at least 25 years too,
stiff-necked like me, refuge survivor,
who leaves it all the way out
from no one nothing hiding,
freely acknowledges the policy errors of his wasted life,
can not be but the finest fodder for the retrospective historians
but he reminds us
loving children and animals is one way to say
I am so sorry for
the human judgments one must make when
first you sign your true and honest name
at the end of a
poem
or a war they call yours

reluctance is a luxury one can ill afford,
it seeps and permeates in the guise
of a sleepless temerity
and cracks the reflection served up
in the mornings first judgement,
that is,
if you dare to
reflect

<•>

~ a message from the Reluctant Poet~

“I'm a reluctant poet myself -
just started getting some
positive responses here recently,
which is ever so heartening.
I have three poems total posted!...
I'm just happy when
I can get deep down and say
what I want to say, and
hopefully give it a little beauty and
poetical magic for good measure.
The rest is up to the dear readers.”*

<•>
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1933595/kissinger-on-park/

Apologies for the delay in reaching
inside myself and pulling deep out
with some reluctance the thousand
poems you have intuitively commissioned

indeed,, started this child over and over,
most recently over two slices on East Fifty Second & 3rd,
but in matters of gravity, write in the situ appropriate
and so it came to compo-fruition intuitively reached
in the neo-natal nook where my best ones were birthed
then released to the sea breeze carrier free to roam,
tickle fancies, kiss new brides, release the hiding
reluctant to come forth, joining conjoining words and people,
becoming the hypotenuse of some others lives/
  

and I had to get ahold of Henry which isn’t easy
 Jun 2018 Nevaeh Lynn
Molly
Home
 Jun 2018 Nevaeh Lynn
Molly
Empty and grey
A waiting room
Haven for those
Too tired to rise
And blind to what
Would make them
Glow
From inside out
My dear old Home

Stars concealed
By jealous clouds
I heard
Their call
You pulled
Me down
To my hands
Warmed
By a tiny flame
Disguised
As an excuse
To stay

Time to time
You let me see
Light
Fugitive
From the cracks
Of what was
What would be
If
I didn’t go
But that’s in the past
My dear old Home
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