Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Carla Apr 15
People ask me why I smile
Why I stick right through it all
Why I walk another mile
Instead of slowing to a crawl

I look up to them and smile
A soft billow in the day
I whisper after a small while
“Because I don’t have much to say.”

They look down and smile too
And I know they understand
They know what I always knew
Why I smile secondhand.

So we go our separate ways
I wander and wait, versatile
For another soul to cross my days
To ask me why I smile.
Carla Mar 21
In the right corner
You have a quiet ear
To listen to your woes
Don't talk, only hear

In the left corner
An opinion, so loud
Wishing to share
Words, deep and proud

The fight always ends
Only to restart
In three, two, one
Feelings depart

Reason is thrown out
It's all in the ring
Ear vs opinion
Where no one will win.

It's all for nothing
Just listen to their woes
Cry at midnight
When nobody knows
Carla Mar 21
Sometimes I wonder if it's me you care about
Or my looks
My hair
My body
My waist
My chest
My eyes

You know not of my mind
Not of my talent
Not of my life
And not of my heart

So tell me
Sir
Why you think you own it

It's always

****
Cute
Gorgeous
Beautiful
Pretty
Adorable

And never

Sweet
Loving
Generous
Wise
Caring
Intelligent

It's always

What's your bra size?
What are you wearing?
Are you *****?

And never

What are your interests?
Tell me about yourself?
Who is your role model?

It's always
The trap I fall into

And never
The arms that welcome me
Carla Feb 28
Three small words are a promise
But the words ‘I promise’, are more.
My heart leapt from my chest to my throat
And slowly withered and tore.

I chundered all my emotions
And retched up all my care,
But my fears never left me
While your distance left me bare.

You made a promise twice,
Words not two, or three, but five.
“I love you, I promise”, you promised,
Your language ate me alive.

I succumbed to your sweet song,
Your innocent, droplet eyes.
But little did I know then,
Your words were my demise.
Carla Feb 28
People tell me everything and I say nothing.


Late night talks filled with secrets and
  bittersweet  sorrow.

The stars tell me their stories,
and I tell them    nothing     of it.

The moon whispers
   words of
       worried
           regret,
never once asking mine.

I hear the sky’s gossip and thoughts of
    wilful      sadness,
and the wind chimes in with the
    sound     of      anguish.


But I am okay.


      This is the façade I’ve grown into.


Sometimes I wish for an ear,
          to listen to what I hear,
     to keep what I want kept,
  to no longer be the Keeper.


But I am okay.
Carla Feb 28
fluttering wings in morning sun
handsome bugs filled with beauty
a myriad of lustrous peculiarity
Carla Dec 2020
“I only wish I had your talent.”

No.

Being a poet is not as much of a gift as you would like to believe.

You are forced by your own internal writer
to measure your thoughts perfectly
and pile them pristinely
onto a piece of piercing paper
that wishes
nothing more
than your emotional demise.

Mapping out every thought and emotion
is not a gift,
but a burden.

The more language you know,
the less words you seem to find
to describe the ever growing complexity
of the depths of your mind.

Being a poet is not a gift at the best of times.
Next page