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Nov 2019 · 114
who says she's yours
⊹ 
      ·  ˚
·       
  ·    ·  ·      ·  +
   *  ·   ·     she is sea and sand .
fire and wind   ·  ˚
·       
  ·    ·  ·      ·  +·   ·   
   ·    ✵     
  ·  
⋆      
   · ⋆   she is not yours
                                and you are not hers
           .
   ·  ⋆  
    
   · ⋆   *            .   ⊹              ˚  ·
*       ·     ..                         .   *
.    .     *  ·
she is hope and fear
                          miracle and misfortune
·     +  ˚ ·      ˚
       ˚    ·     
.        
.   .        . ⊹    
  . * .    ⋆  ·   she is not yours .      . 
·     +  ˚ ·            lest she mold to your image
* .  .   ·    
   *         .   ⊹
   ·           ·
she is clay and earth
                        and she is her own * .
 *     .   ·    .  *         .   ⊹
   ·    *              
        ⊹     ·
Nov 2019 · 353
pathetically poetic
it's almost poetic
the way you look at me
with such anger,
with such hate,
Isn't it great?

Oh it's poetic
when you set me on fire
and burn me to the ground
with your eyes

You're so poetic
when you give me a smile
yeah you burn me alive
but I love it
and I love you

but
I'm so pathetic
because I still need you
and I'll freeze
without you
Nov 2019 · 188
the children are lying
mama,
the dolls on your dresser stare at me.
their eyes are your eyes
and your eyes are mine,
mama,  
I wear the skeleton of the body we buried,
her weeping eyes full of soil,
mama,
where have you gone?
the swamp swallows all..
no sand nor mud
can hold you down
mama,
your stare cooks the ground
bubbling,
a foolish witch's brew..
oh mama,
what have I become?
silent
swamp and mud and bone..
Have you buried me mother,
with your regrets out back?
dear mama,
cook for me one last time..
salty ragweed soup and cat-tail tea,
oh mama,
bury me
under the sand
beside my dead cat
mama,
bury your daughter
bones thin as my sisters,
oh sister,
dear sister,
your song
breathes out,
down in the muck
whispers of blessings,
of bones,
and the earth down below
the sister we buried
and
the skeleton I wear,
yes bury me mama,
lest I steal your air
some rambles
Nov 2019 · 132
Time
This morning, I glimpsed three little children,
They were burning with bright passion, as little children do,
I watched them for a while, and lamented a happy youth,
But beautiful they were, aglow with smiles on their faces,
It was as though they were of porcelain, made by a kind glass blower,
A soft glass lover, creating beauty out of sand,
Low and behold, there he is
Shaping the glass in the sun, he sits,
The glass blower and his glass children..
Beautiful in their ability to change,
So I watched them from afar, saw them burn, heard them break,
But the peices were melted, to create something new,
The glass blower, and his children reborn,
The phoenix and the flame
The creator, and those created..
And I, the creation's construct,
Was merely doomed to watch.
-
One of my drafts
-
Oct 2019 · 372
What have I become?
I am a list
             - notes on a page
             - paint with these colors
             - do what she says
             - reduced to letters on paper

                                       
                  ­                                My childish whimsy, my squiggles and stars
                                                           are reduced to straight lines
                                                           ­               and I feel little
                                                          ­                  once again
                                                           ­                                                                 ­             
                                                                ­                                                            
              *you are no list, your eyes scream of freedom
                        and mine are mere lines on the page

              - a pristine poet
              - a golden list
              - I am wax
              - mouldable
              - weak
              - an idol
              - created from a weak poets' prose
I used to feel free,
but I am once again trapped..
Sep 2019 · 259
I will not weep
I will not weep for you,
you, who is no lover,
you who,
tears away at skin
from
a delicate pale cream
to sweet chocolate brown,
and yet,
you rip and bleed,
tear apart tender insides
fragile tissue
take a soul away
so cruel, you slice them open
force youself apon them
and watch in glee as
the person underneath you
squirms in fear of what you are
and what you are capable of.
-
-
I will not weep for you,
My tears are for the many
Who cry because of you
you, with your
cruel teeth and claws.
Yes.
I will not weep
for you..
**** is universal,
Anyone can be *****
Men can be *****, women can be *****,
other genders can be *****
-
You are brave,
You are beautiful
You are spectacular
And I should have protected you.
Sep 2019 · 386
Autumn Eyes (Tanka)
I sometimes see you,
Your face lingers in my mind,
Eyes of leaves and snow,
Your colors haunt my pale heart,
I think I miss the autumn.
I saw your eyes
and it was like they were the sun
shining through with autumn gold
you were beautiful
-
but now
all I see
is rotting leaves
Aug 2019 · 178
I am a masterpeice.
You say that you love me and it's like heaven and hell,
it's wonderful and crazy,
you want to take me and break me,
burn me and remake me
into the pristine poet of a person I should be,
but no, you don't get to change me,
Because I like me,
my wax body dripping like false abiguity
and displaying myself on a pedestal of my own natural instability.
I like being me,
and if you really loved me you wouldn't want to change me,
you would respect my boundaries,
my body,
my family,
I am a masterpiece.
I don't ask for much, so just maybe some dignity?
I don't ask for much,
So let me have my dignity.
Aug 2019 · 109
The poetry peak
Have I reached too high?
Slipped and fallen?
Tumbled into something,
Lost and forgotten?
I've acheived freedom,
What else is there to say?
There's no feeling in my heart,
What have I given up?
I said I would do anything to fly,
but now,
I mourn my past life
I cry for what I've given up
Everything that I've lost,
and the solitude I've found
I've hit the end of the poetry high
dived from the poetry peak
to my own demise..
Jul 2019 · 150
Youth
This morning, I glimpsed three little children,
They were burning with bright passion, as little children do,
I watched them for a while, and lamented a happy youth,
But beautiful they were, aglow with smiles on their faces,
I like to think that I'm tough, but I fell to my knees at a single wink,
A single childish grin, and I was gone,
Lost to a world of soft fantasy, and shining smiles.
I would like to think I caught a glimpse of their whimsy.
Though I've never been the whimiscal type,
I like to hope that maybe,
There's still a part of me that dreams like they do..
Children are the world,
Please let them smile..
Jul 2019 · 173
hollow poet
Devoid of words
Nothing to say
Nothing to see
Just pass on by,
A wordless beggar on the street,
An empty-headed poet
Caught in the stream of life,
but unable to describe
what their feelings are,
and what they really mean.
so are they really a poet?
If they can't speak?
If there are no words in the soul,
no spark in the eye?
What are you,
if you are wordless?
If you have no life,
no push behind your actions,
is your heart beating falsely?
Or were you never alive to begin with.
I'm tired, It's as though I've used up all my words,
and now all I am is a shell of a poet.
Jun 2019 · 147
Forever 16
I feel so new,
Like I'll never age,
I'm a flower made of fabric,
A doll of plastic,
And yet,
There is a weight,
On my shoulders,
On my heart,
And if it gets any heavier,
They might just break.
Forever 16,
Spend eternity on tight dresses
And bedazzled jeans,
Don't you remember,
When things were simple,
When you had dreams?
When you were forever 16.
Rambles
never had a place for love
or love poems,
but now that I've found it
I am unsure,
of what to fill it with or what words to use
I'm perplexed,
what should I do,
with this newfound part of me?
this stopper in my mechanical heart
a seemingly never-ending beat
silenced in a blink
by that grin of yours
a lightning bright smile..
but love is an overused word,
it's useless, it's bland
If I could describe
the way I feel about you
it would be in
the colors I see in you
like the fall
you bloom in the most-unlikely of circumstances,
a bright crimson red, the softest of yellows
you look at me and I feel the sun shine on my face,
you're golden, spectacular,
a feeling I can't begin to describe
like a warm spring day
or a dark summer night
you're bright and wonderful
like the stars in the sky,
you,
only with you do I feel color,
and it rushes through my veins,
my heart beats for you.
My heart beats for you,
And somehow you've made me whole again..
Jun 2019 · 313
don't you wonder?
do you see color
in the darkest of skies
do you imagine
a place of safety
in the depths of the mind
or do you see nothing at all
don't you wonder?
I see it all
your eyes
the other side
see
with your mind
you have a gift
a kind of sight
yes, quite a find
so
see the world,
see the night
become like I am
become the wise,
who own third eyes
see the sky,
for what it is
“He who wonders discovers that this in itself is a wonder.”
-M. C. Escher
May 2019 · 217
Poetry Silence
An empty head
when you try to write.
Poetry.
and the silence
Quiet is painful
if you can't make a sound
It swallows you,
buries you,
until you drown
It whispers the things it thinks you can't hear
but desperate for the sound,
you lend it your ear,
"empty" it calls,
from somewhere in your mind
so quickly you reach out,
but nothing you find,
and soon it's gone,
and now you sit alone
eventually,
the silence will become your home.
May 2019 · 135
delicate
don't worry
                     about me,
                                       baby,
                                           I'm just a little
                                  breakable,
                                                                a little thin
                                                a little sharp
                     handle me with care
                                                      but trust
                                                                         me
                       I'm as strong as bulletproof glass
                                                                          but you,
                                    get to see me when I shatter,
                                                                        when I crack,
                                          and you see me
    
                                             when I break..
in a delicate mood today,
I feel so breakable
May 2019 · 120
How do I make it better?
You're hurting,
But I can't hold you,
You're broken,
But I can't fix you
You're fickle
And I can't understand you
So
How do I make it better?
How do I make you smile?
I'm not worth much
I know that,
but
But you
Hold me anyway,
and you
are so soft,
so warm
something I need
to protect
but I can't even do that,
how
useless
am
I.
Love,
I'm useless.
May 2019 · 242
less and less..
You ask me what I live for,
and I say,
less and less..
May 2019 · 346
87 drafts.
eighty-seven drafts
and
now there are eighty-eight
yet another blank slate...
So,
I will ask myself only one thing.
-
What are my words worth?
May 2019 · 309
inconsequential
-
You can call me crazy,
Or insane,
But I'm sorry
-
Baby,
I'm just not worth saving.
-
an older draft of mine
May 2019 · 105
a poet is a poet.
a poet
is a poet
we whisper empty verses
and live inside our dreams
we sit on our ceilings
and sip honeyed tea
we bend over backward, to take it all in
and channel our feelings
a poet writes to remind themselves
that they are still breathing
not all poets feel the same way
but at least they're still feeling..
a poet is a poet
and all poets feel
but not all of them hurt,
not all of them burn,
some are happy
some are sad
some mourn what they wish they had
others look forward
and occasionally look backward
for something inspiring,
something electric
a universe of words
stitched into poet skin
sweet sweet poet sin
-
where does a poet fit in?
rambles
-one of my older drafts-
May 2019 · 229
Notification
So,
you found me,
-
but not in a good way
you found me,
-
and I whisper
that I am afraid
-
you found me,
with all your prodding
and pleading
-
you found me online
can you hear when I'm breathing?
can you feel what I'm feeling?
-
you make me afraid..
Apr 2019 · 270
broken youth
-
They call me a broken youth,
Cuz' I've got no guilt
Because I don't cry, no, I don't weep.

I've got no heart, just tin, and steel.
-
They call me a broken youth,
Cuz' I don't laugh, no I'm not sweet.
Instead, I fight with tooth and claw,

I've got no fear, just dust, and dreams.

They call me a broken youth,
Cuz' I don't mourn spilled milk,
One mistake can't break me.

I've got no time, just anger and lies.
-
They call me a broken youth,
Cuz' I'm a faulty piece of machine,
Kind of a waste, run out of steam.

I've got no purpose, but that's ok.
-
You can call me that,
Because it's a fact.
-
So,
this broken soul doesn't look back.
-
most of our feelings,
they are dead,
and they are gone.
Apr 2019 · 271
False reassurance
"If it gets really bad, we'll get out."
a mutter of false reassurance
from parent to child
from person to person
-
whispered at night
in a variety of situations
when a scared child
has lost all your patience
-
It is a whisper in the daytime
stemmed from fear
a nightmare, a sound,
that you can't quite hear
-
given like a gift
over to gullible hands,
yes, turn a deaf ear
pretend you can't hear
the screams of the innocent,
And he sharp scent of fear.
-
Or,
Drop the false niceties
And accept that you are afraid,
Because fear is what lets us,
Live another day.
-
Apr 2019 · 152
People Pleaser
"call me what I am"
I say,
                    a people person
                                               an extrovert,
                                                                     soft as moldable clay.

        "but is that really what I am?"
I wonder,
                 "what am I really?"

          Am I a doll with fine china skin,
       breakable and beautiful,
                    held in a glass cage of sin?
                                           Or am I a person of sticks and stones
                                     stripped of her humanity,
                                                      for much thicker skin?
                    Ah, perhaps I am a mannequin,
                                forced in awkward poses,
                                          to appease some form of majesty,
                                  a fool in pretty clothes.
I must be a human.
         because my heart continues to beat,
                                                  but I could be a machine,
                                                            or a dancer powered by steam,
                                                   click
                                       click
                          click
   I'll move my limbs,
                until you lose my key.
                              But,
                                       I think I have decided,
                                                     to be a blank canvas instead,
                            I'll paint myself too look like me,
         my own magnificent image in my head.
Mar 2019 · 275
nevermind
"I-"
-
a hesitation
an inhale,
an exhale
one word
and then the silence
-
"Nevermind."
silence
burns
Mar 2019 · 291
cherry tree air
catch your breath
on cherry tree air
and
then
swallow rose bush thorns
bright as a flame
so much
like a
sinking paper boat
inside your eyes,
like seeing you
inhale the brightest sky,
the way you
catch your breath
on cherry tree air,
makes me smile
and
spin sweet words
on spider silk,
beginning
the
whisper
that:
"you are my one and only
because you,
are you."
breathe in the cherry tree air.
because someone, somewhere, loves you.
Mar 2019 · 343
False garden
apple tree
don't mourn me
from your grassy hilltop
you can touch the sky for me
cry apple shaped tears
when I cannot,
you will feel
and I will not.
that is alright
dear apple tree,
you instead
will feel for me,
together we will watch the sky
in this garden of planted lies
I'm sorry that you grew here Tree
but this is what you were meant to be.
an empty,
empty
peace offering.
rambles
Mar 2019 · 572
Selfish
Is it selfish to not forgive?
Is it selfish to let you suffer,
for the things you've done?
Is it selfish for you to need me,
After all the times I needed you
And you were never there?
I wish I was selfish,
But you need me
So I just keep coming back
And you just keep on breaking me.
I guess I'm not me.
Mar 2019 · 219
ghost
so
pathetic,
is
this
empty minded poet
sitting in the corner
swallowing verses
all alone,
killing time,
in love with
a ghost,
called poetry
yes,
how
pathetically
poetic,
is
she.
she is a poet
wrapped in verse
a ghost of ideas,
how poetic
is she.
Mar 2019 · 501
Perhaps,
Perhaps I am strange,
but
I know life is short
so
I'll live out my life
like it isn't falling apart
I'll smile and breathe
until I cannot,
and
I'll say that it's fine,
until my heart stops.
This is what we do, but are we delusional?
For living for breathing, for no reason at all?
Mar 2019 · 511
Some thoughts:
What are we, but uncivilized and irrational, for wanting comfort in what we wear?
And yet, Who are we, in defining our status through clothing, announcing our wealth on golden watches and expensive shoes?
Is it truly fair to judge someone based on the quality of clothing?
How do we know this to be true?
My thoughts on school uniforms and restrictions
Feb 2019 · 742
feel nothing
amber
honey on the clock
slows it to its stop
and dangles towards the floor
crystal
numbs the moving
the wind a-blowing
until all is trapped
in a single second
and sloth-like
turn and hide
but the world is frozen
it is not cold
you see,
instead, feel nothing at all
in this second.
For there is only stillness
in insanity.
Feb 2019 · 122
Not Your Woman.
plastic, and fake
cracked like a blue china plate
you just take up space
in my proverbial cupboard
you're garish
all false smiles and crazed eyes
sagging cheeks
you call me pretty
but you scare me
calling you handsome
would be comparing
a garnish
to a rose,
I will not
tell you
what you want to hear
I won't call you wonderful
I will call you unsettling,
and
you hurt my eyes,
it's not that I despise you
but I just can't help myself,
because
I'm not here to entertain,
or be given away,
I have words,
I am a person,
I have eyes,
I have ears,
I will not fear you.
roles will be reversed
tables a-turned
for I have a heart
and
I am a woman.

but not your woman.
I don't care who you are,
I will not go freely.
Feb 2019 · 583
an ode to the silence
substantial breakable quiet, the moon
shimmers above, a great beacon of tranquility
the night whispers a hidden new tune
and hides its face in an attempt at humility
quickly the sound is gone too soon
a misty white evening
with boats on the bay
the water churning, until it is gray
an empty stillness weaving
the tapestry of the night
a multitude of dreams, and quiet hearts
the living hold breath, at the magnificent sight
because of the silence, the mind can't help but spark
we are a simple people, it is with the absence of sound
Our scholars and our work, have become renowned
in the beginning, there was silence and today there still is,
we cannot live without the quiet, unbearable though it is.
rambles
-
I don't know what this is honestly.
Feb 2019 · 1.2k
Bland
-
a tasteless empty word
like numbness of the fingers
like numbness of the tongue
a numbness of heart
and false plastic lungs
-
bland face
bland skin
bland stomach
and bland eyes
-
gleaming
with
wax satisfaction
in a false candle pose
bland
wax candle prose
written
by plain poet hands
-
I am a wax figurine poet
who writes
beautiful
but bland
verses.
Feb 2019 · 919
Hear Me Now,
-
My words could caress your ears,
and you still wouldn't hear.
-
"That I love you?"
-
"That I love you."
-
And I might be crazy
but when I look in your eyes
Some part of me says
You were meant to be mine.
Jan 2019 · 838
Ancestral Regrets
it's my job.
to make it in life
it's my job.
to turn your wrongs into rights,
it's my job,
and I will shoulder your dishonor,
because I am your daughter.
-
Like a sheep bred for slaughter,
I will always be your daughter.
-
Jan 2019 · 594
one side of the glass
The monotone mumbling of a prayer
rumbling and memorized
i hear it
in my third eye
or my third ear
what, can't you hear?
the sounds of the faithful
who pretend to be unbreakable
but are just people
who pray at the cathedral
to a marvelous person
of which the existence
is uncertain
He who created the world
and then left us to destroy it.
unpopular opinion:
we aren't really living
but we aren't really willing
to give this false life up,
why?
you wonder,
do we live in this life
if something inspired
is on the other side
well we don't know,
we are humanity,
a mix of profanity
of hate
of lust
and a false understanding
of what we are
and what we can be
so we pray to something
that we can't see
so we are bold and confused
broken, overused.
and still we believe what we tell ourselves true
but we are just cells and atoms
remnants of cosmic dust
rejected by the universe
and I mean no offence
to those who believe in
a mighty man in the sky
but I cannot
not because I can't see him
or because I can't feel him
but because
I do not know him
and sadly
I do not wish to
call it weak
or call it strong
but I do not belong
with the saints
hung on my mother's walls
I do not belong anywhere
because I do not see
fate or luck
all I see
are the mistakes
humanity has made
and I do not know
if someone
is watching me now
write this poem
hiding behind
two sided glass
but if someone is,
I only ask of them this:
"what truly awaits us?"
a ramble
(a little controversial, and I am sorry but I just had to write like me.)
Jan 2019 · 424
Love?
The boy with the gray backpack
And the girl with a tan leather jacket
Completely different
But somehow the same
Tied together
By the strings of fate
Destined for despair
But created by hope
These two may be different,
But they're bound by the same rope.
Is it love and affection,
That is bound by fate?
Or maybe instead,
We are ******* by hate.

Normally I don't speak of love, because in my family it happens to be scarce, but I thought this to be an appropriate title.
Jan 2019 · 149
Umbrella tears
a never ending shower                                                                    
of water and salt                                                                
                               drip                  
                                      drip
                                            dripping

                                              down
                                                  the
                                               plastic
                                                    of my
                                                umbrella
                                             to the ground
                                        swallowed by the grass
                                                  and the green.
                                                one with the unseen
Jan 2019 · 422
Who is to blame?
You said
the pills would make me better
and I guess they really did
-
because I can't seem to cry at all
but I cannot seem to live
the pills took a piece of me
-
something I just might want back
the pills took a piece of me
that something I now lack
-

I have been made sane,
-
but the pill is all to blame
Jan 2019 · 229
Letting you go
I let you go,
Just thought you might want to know,
I'll stay here all alone

Cause' I've decided to let you go
I've seen how happy you are
When I'm not around

So I'm ready
I'm prepared to face it on my own
And I love you still, I know,

but that won't stop me from letting go
It's my fault after all,
That you lost your dreams

So I'll step back,
So you can move forward.
and though I'd hate to say goodbye,
I know that leaving you is right.
--
an older poem of mine
--
Jan 2019 · 2.2k
genuine fake
My mother is like a lightbulb,
She makes her mistakes
She burns and she brightens
And then she breaks.
-
My mother is like a lightbulb
She brightens the room
But make no mistake,
She can darken one too,
-
My mother is like a lightbulb
She blunders and cries
But don't think she's harmless
It's a well crafted disguise
-
But regardless of it all
Someone gets hurt
Palms are cut open
And fingers are burnt
-
And yet,
my mother is unlike a lightbulb,
Because broken lightbulbs
are replaced.
I wish she was different,
but I try not to regret
so I guess,
I'll take what I can get.
Dec 2018 · 1.0k
Empty
I think the wind
Stole the stars from your eyes
Because your smile is a
Distant memory,

And now all I am is lonely.
Writers block,
One of my poem drafts.
Dec 2018 · 1.1k
Uncertainty
You're a puzzle
a mystery to solve
both confusing and entertaining.
-
You keep me on my toes
I keep wondering,
whether or not
this is love.
-
No,
this is
uncertainty.
Dec 2018 · 547
Winter, not Spring.
I'd love to wax prose
about the beauty of a rose
but I  mourn the loss
of winter's frost
so I think
i'll wait
for
the
end
of
spring
I'll wait for the trees,
so wide and tall
to abandon their leaves
in the fall
I'll wait for the sun to go down
and I'll lay around
or
maybe I'll get lost,
waiting for the frost.
Scrap poem
I've got such bad writers block help
Dec 2018 · 142
Sidewalk glass
i think I saw you

in the glass

on the sidewalk

i saw your eyes

and they smiled

they crinkled at the edges

i saw you wink and I laughed,

i felt my eyes sparkling

someone asked

why I was grinning

and I said

"I saw someone I missed."
I miss, something, I think.
Someone?
I see it everywhere but I can't find it anymore.
Dec 2018 · 540
Rejection
It hurts only a little
Like a needle to the heart
-
A stretched rubber band
Finally falling apart.
Dec 2018 · 1.6k
fear.
Spilled soda
Sticky on the carpet
Red and glaring
Watching me.
So I scrub
So I clean
But it doesn't go away
So I scrub
So I scream
And I watch the stain
And it watches me back.
A never-ending cycle of
Scrubbing
And
Cleaning
and then I look down
at where I have been cleaning
and I see that my hands are bleeding
that the blood is not my own
and then I start screaming
I might be insane,
or sick of the mind,
but my nightmares,
don't always happen at night.
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