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Cobalt Jan 13
The word is an agitated shade of red, that hides and lurks beneath subdued greys and darker blues. Anger sneaks up behind you, churning and festering with every word spoken until
Snap!
And everything you were concealing is done and gone and out.
It’s out in the open and yet you wish you could take it all back inside

Because the dangerous thing about anger isn’t the slamming doors or the screaming fits,
It’s the broken hinges and hoarse voices,
The words you will never be able to take back,
And the regret that fills every part of your being.
Cobalt Jan 13
I really, really don’t want to be beautiful.

I want to make people tremble.

I want to walk into a room and turn people’s heads- not because I’m pretty, but because I walked in with such confidence that people go “****.”

I want the wrong people to be scared by me, and the right people to take me as a challenge, but I want everyone to be intimidated by me.

I want to be the woman no one dares **** with.

I want to be compared to Cleopatra- not in terms of how pretty or symmetrical her face was, but because she seduces men into her bed with her mind and intellect.

I want to be compared to powerful and unstoppable forces of nature, where they aren’t powerful Because of their beauty, but beautiful because of their power.

So this is why I get insulted when you call me pretty before you call me smart.
Cobalt Sep 2018
Do you ever have memories that are just so nice and tranquil that they stick in the back of your mind forever?
Nine years old, and I’m wearing an all purple ensemble because I haven’t quite grasped the concept of matching clothes yet. I’m twirling around in the park. There was a lot of rain so the field Im twirling around in is covered in dandelions. I’m giggling because I’m dizzy, and then I fall down and fluff from older dandelions flutter around my face as I lay there, laughing, the sun touching everything and I feel golden and sun kissed and everything’s alright.

I’m 14 years old, and I’m laying on a 30 year old banana yellow surfboard that’s been patched up a few too many times. I’ve paddled out farther than the rest of the families on the beach and all is quiet except for the gentle lapping of the water. The deep blue water is broken up by patches of white from where the sun hits the small waves. I run my hands over them and watch the ripples disturb the already present patterns.

I’m 15, and my best friend and I are scream singing shamelessly to a rap song in her car. The windows are down and the wind is blowing both of our hair around everywhere. It’s 6:00 in the afternoon and the August light is starting to turn golden. We’re both laughing and smiling at the clever verses and the distasteful words. My lips are sticky from the mint chocolate chip ice cream I just ate, and my friends eyes are wild and mischievous. I couldn’t care less that school is starting in 5 days, because today is the epitome of summer and I’m having the time of my life.

I’m 16, and I walk out the front door at three in the morning. I’m wearing a hoodie and I’ve tucked my long hair into a beanie. The neon lights of the road reflect on the puddles and cast up brilliant yellow and orange splashes of color against the black of the asphalt. I walk and I walk until I find a high vantage point, where I can see the entire city and it’s twinkling lights and I sigh in contentment, taking my hair out from the beanie and relaxing my grip on the pepper spray because I finally feel safe and whole.

And even when I'm 40, 50, 60, 70,

I will never forget how it felt to be young,
And I will do my damndest to keep on feeling this type of way throughout life,
And make many more tranquil happy memories.
Cobalt Feb 2018
I will write
Until my fingers bleed
And the angels beg me to stop
  Jan 2018 Cobalt
McKenna Finley
to believe that poetry is something human
is to forget about the sea.
as we sit, hunched at our desks, expressing our love or frustration,
the waves are writing sonnets.
their watery touch makes
lyrics or limericks or odes or haikus
of wet sand.
the ocean, it writes in invisible ink.
as we lay in bed, pen poised on the page,
the ocean is crafting a memoir.
a tale of a journey
of tumultuous seas
of calm glassy waters
a ship caught in the breeze.
time is its pen,
recounting a story on weathered, worn limestone
in Mother Earth’s native tongue.
so, as you draft stories of the sea ever-blue,
don’t you forget —
the ocean’s a poet, too.
Cobalt Jan 2018
So.
You wanna be a grown up.
You wanna learn how the world works,
And what to do to make it like you.
Well kid, first things first
(And you're hearing it from a fellow kid)
(So don't take my word as gospel)
But the world won't bend to you.
It won't accommodate you.
It won't care.
It's unyielding,
And, debatably,
Unforgiving.
(Depressing, right?)
But, kid,
None of that'll matter.
You have to take a leap of faith.
Go forth and go to art school,
Go and join the military.
Cut all your hair off,
And wear what you **** well please.
Kiss who you want and when you want,
And flip off the "very fine people" at Charlottesville.
Verbally decimate your cheating ex,
And stand up for the bullied kid.
Rise up, shout,
Make sure your bruises and your battle scars are heard across the globe.
You'll make a difference.
After all, you don't have to be a Ghandi or a King to change the world.

You just gotta be you.
  Jan 2018 Cobalt
Taylor Jennica
Her eyes
begged him to stop.
Her mouth could make no
sound.
But in her mind,
she was screaming.
She didn’t want this.
But when he asked her if she liked it,
she answered yes.
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