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5.5k · Nov 2015
Meg Nov 2015
At night,
when the sea is still,
you can't tell sky from water,
and everything is
convoluted mirrors
spiraling away into darkness:
an abyss of serpentine stars,
warping the night sky
into a kaleidoscope
of constellations.
The sky is full of stars,
and I get the euphoric sensation
that I am floating in space,
suspended in stellar time
with nothing but oblivion
and pinpricks of light
around me.
this brings me comfort.
It is reassuring
to pretend as though
I am significant
in this world.
Meg Apr 2018
I am alive by luck at this point.
I wonder if the gun that will eventually take me has been made.
Whose trigger will bury me.
How many bullets, like a flock of sparrows, will come carry my life to its final bed.
Today, I am alive but there is no law to thank.
If not me, then someone else.
Born into a game of chance we never asked for. Traded diplomas for obituaries. Traded graduation speeches for eulogies. Traded futures for an early grave. Forced to cash in their chips. We don’t want to play anymore.
And this too is eulogy. And this too is prayer. And this too can resurrect the coffin wood back to a tree. Can sing back alive whatever parts of you died with them. Whatever leapt in your throat at yet another headline.
Mourning until you, too, are a thing to mourn.
But we will no longer be martyrs.
We are the rude awakening to politicians who pawned out our safety, who bartered our lives for bribes.
You say “gun reform is not the answer” but all I can see is a bullet rattling like a pinball in an innocent student’s jaw.
You smell like gun smoke and
I can see the AR15 you're holding behind your back and
I guess it's easy to crack jokes about dodging bullets when you're the one firing them.
Give teachers books not bullets:
Kafka isn’t kevlar.
Bronte isn’t bulletproof.
And how sick is it that we must add school shootings to your list of proud american traditions.
Throwing opinions like punches.
How many more have to die before you decide your ego isn’t as important as you think it is?
And I, too, am buried alive
My soggy grave parting its greedy lips.
To you, my bones, when ground into gunpowder and mixed into water, taste like champagne.
My pulse, as thin as an obituary panting beneath sweaty palms, and sure
We are “just kids,”
But you are forgetting we are the next generation
And you autopsy your fists.
Call it reclamatory.
Lately, when asked “how are you?” I respond with a name no longer living.
And who knows if mine will be next
Performed this yesterday in my first poetry slam and won second place :)
2.9k · Aug 2015
piano of life
Meg Aug 2015
ivory keys
seek the touch
of long-dead

elegant keystrokes
gracefully enchanted

bittersweet tunes
staccato lilts
incandescent harmonies
melancholy melodies

every heartbreaking keystroke
with mournful,
dismal sadness

each life is a
unique song;
each has their own,
single chorus

some are a great crescendo;
some a lullaby;
some are a lonely tune;
some barely even brush the keys

each journey,
has white keys of joy
and black keys of sorrow

even the
black keys
make music
And here's another - how surprising - excessively long poem. Go figure. (Side note: I apologize if this poem sounds racist; that was not my intention.)
2.5k · Aug 2015
love's identity
Meg Aug 2015
Some say
Love is a temptress;
Luring prey into its trap,
Set so innocently
So that victims
Walk blindly into it.

Some say
Love is a trickster,
Cunning and deceitful;
That it intoxicates the soul
And hides the truth.

Some say that it
Kidnaps them,
Brainwashes them,
And leaves nothing but pain
And suffering.

I say
Love is the chance
That no one takes,
The dream
That all fear,
The ambition
That no one feels worthy of.

I say
Love is the soul;
So afraid of death
That it never learns to
2.4k · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
1.8k · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
You whispered my name in the dark silence.
I tried to explain to you
The complexity of the dark abyss
That is my emotion.
But somehow
My words remained silent
*And I could not have described it
Any better.
Aaaaand here's #4.
Reference to one of my favorite lines of poetry in here.
1.6k · Dec 2016
needle & thread
Meg Dec 2016
sewing the open wounds shut
hurts just as much
as the wounds themselves
1.5k · Jan 2017
Meg Jan 2017
do not be fooled - depression is not
depression is seeing scarlet
but not being able to feel the fire's burnished tongue.
depression is seeing aquamarine
but not savoring the feeling of drowning in saltwater lungs.
depression is seeing burgundy
but no longer being able to taste red wine in your throat
or pomegranate seeds between your teeth
or sunsweet berries on your tongue.

*depression is seeing color
but not understanding it.
Those who say depression makes the world seem in monochromatic shades of grey don't understand depression.
1.3k · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
Why is it
That we must
In love,
Like we fall into a trap?
Everything that falls
Gets broken.
*Love is
Fated to end in broken pieces
From the very beginning.
Just an old poem I dug up.
1.3k · Feb 2016
quiet chaos
Meg Feb 2016
i'm sorry
i don't talk much.
it's hard
to think
with all this
in my head.
quiet people
have the loudest minds
and it's
loud enough
in here.
Reference to Stephen King
1.3k · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
to the death
This is another blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
1.2k · Apr 2016
soliloquy of the damned
Meg Apr 2016
Confession of
when the past
comes back
to haunt
This is another blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
1.2k · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
someone once told me
pain is like water;
you need a little
to know you're alive,
but too much
will drown you.
and now I think
isn't it funny
how the things we do
to feel alive
are the things
that can **** us?

i suppose
it's because
we just want to feel
I've been writing a lot of poetry lately. Sorry if I'm obnoxious. Credit to my friend for being the ambiguous person whose quote I used. (Take that, Danny.)
1.2k · Nov 2015
Meg Nov 2015
An open mind-
An open mind is
        An open door
        An open window
        An open book-
        An open book
                Full of blank pages
                Paper before the ink-
                                ­My tears are droplets
                                of ink that I cry into
                     ­   Ink
                                My blood is droplets
                                of ink that I bleed
                                into poetry
                              ­  My sweat is droplets
                                of ink that I work
                                into poetry
                                Tears, blood, sweat
                     ­           Like the sea
                               A bottle of
                                       Stories unwritten
                                       Words unsaid
                                       Promises broken
                               Emotions that I bottle
                               up and reveal only in
                               my writing
                               Things that could've
                               been and almost were
                               if not for
An open mind
1.1k · Apr 2017
Meg Apr 2017
if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
if a teenager commits suicide and no one is around to notice, did they ever exist? when you look at it that way, high school feels a lot like deforestation
1.1k · Jun 2016
Meg Jun 2016
knows no boundaries.
love is love is love
and there is nothing you could say
to change that.
Wishing the best to the families of the victims of the tragic Orlando shooting. LGBTQ pride lives on no matter what.
1.1k · Feb 2016
Meg Feb 2016
i spent a lot of time
searching for love
in shallow spaces

i gave people parts of me
they didn't deserve
and i let myself be hurt
because i thought
that's what i deserved

but once i let go
of trying to shove puzzle pieces
where they did not fit,
once i let go of all the hatred
i secretly had stitched
into the gashes decorating my heart

i met you
1.0k · Mar 2017
toxic relationships
Meg Mar 2017
a little less like an alarm,
a little more like being trapped in a burning building,
mistaking the fire for warmth,
mistaking the heat for passion,
mistaking the smoke for breathless bliss,
but things that promise light seldom go unheard,
and you aren't any different
Different style of my last poem
1.0k · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
The heart

Since writing this poem I have come across the following quote by François VI de la Rochefoucault:
"Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire."
973 · Nov 2016
Meg Nov 2016
she wore her pain like a crown
and she was the queen
967 · Aug 2016
rock bottom
Meg Aug 2016
i guess
the only good thing
about being at rock bottom
is that
it can't get any worse
937 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
i'm too


to tell you

how i feel

so i'll


behind timid smiles

and soft hellos

i'm afraid

that if i ask you

"what do you think of me?"

your reply will be

*"i don't."
907 · Aug 2016
Meg Aug 2016
If I sit on my roof
and block out the light from my house,
I can forget that I exist.
I can swim among the constellations
and lose myself in the bittersweet triviality
of our existence.
I can break free from the intoxication
of my life wasted on autopilot.
I can pretend that I am merely thoughts,
free of the weight of a life
and of society
and of reality.
I can question things
and depersonalize
and forget this anchor of a body
and all its bitter consequences.
for now,
all I can do
is lay beneath the stars
and forget.
807 · May 2016
Meg May 2016
i don't want to look there anymore for fear of the clockwork ****** that i make of my own memory every time i pass that house on Sheridan Circle. it is filled with the ghosts of childhoods well spent but long past and i can't help but think how the rope by which the old swing used to hang looks like a noose, which it may as well be. maybe one day i will swing from it for the last time.
More prose.
781 · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
emotional stakes
are changed
when a young girl,
tasked to bring hellfire,
lays off the trigger
This is a blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
741 · May 2016
Meg May 2016
there's a roof outside my window.
not too high, not too steep.
whenever i lose myself in whatever I decide to call my nameless hell
(perhaps Depression, or Madness, but more likely both;
i've never been a fan of titles),
my toes find their way to the edge of that roof.
calm. unafraid.
i did the same last night at 3 am.
except, something was different.
i was afraid this time.
i had spent all that time on the roof,
wondering if i was going to jump,
until one night i did the same,
hoping i wouldn't fall.
737 · Dec 2015
Meg Dec 2015
I want to trace
every line and contour of
your face,
your hands,
your throat,
and commit it to memory.
Cover every inch of my body with salty-sweet kisses,
my back against the wall,
your breath on my skin,
leaving goosebumps in its wake.
I can feel your heart pounding with intensity,
your lungs expanding with ragged breaths,
your hands shaking with desire.
We are utterly lost in our passion,
rendered clumsy with shaking fingers
and quivering breaths.
Fervent eyes meet for a brief moment:
a pause before it all shifts in and out of focus,
and I can't decide whether everything has been obscured,
or if everything is so vivid all at once.
719 · May 2017
Meg May 2017
your energy is intoxicating
if this is addiction
i don't ever want to be sober
671 · Aug 2016
Meg Aug 2016
do not call me "cutie."
if you're lucky enough to call me anything,
call me beautiful.
call me spectacular.
i want to be a force of nature.
i want to be remarkable.

i do not want to be "cute"
669 · Jan 2017
Meg Jan 2017
demons rarely come dressed
in a red cape and horns.
they come dressed as
everything you've ever wanted.
656 · May 2016
unbreak me
Meg May 2016
i think the reason why i fell so deeply and helplessly and utterly in love with him was that he was not broken. i thought that maybe loving him would somehow unbreak me, make me a little less shattered than i was. i have seen and felt and fallen and broken and aged and heard and been more than i ought to have but there's nothing i can do about that now. and so i was drawn to his innocent, unbridled naïveté, which may as well be the last thing that has been left untouched by the bitter darkness of this world.
This is more of prose than poetry, but I felt that this style matched my thoughts better somehow.
644 · Nov 2016
Meg Nov 2016
my body is a temple
but i don't believe
in the god it was built for
625 · Nov 2016
Meg Nov 2016
my bones are hollow
like those of a mother bird's
but when i force myself to throw up,
the only child i am feeding
is the madness
that lives in the nest
of my own mind
Meg May 2017
Dear misogynists,

Let’s be very clear here.
Boys are not ******* by nature. It’s not in their genetic makeup to automatically be mean-spirited or cruel. Being born with a ***** does not predispose anyone to being the kind of person whose hands make a welcome mat of my hipbones, who licks his lips as if looking at an appetizer, whose breath laced with tequila, privilege, and desperation slurs "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, baby?" from the other side of the street.
Genetics does not do that. Society does.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I know Title IX better than my own social security number. It is the reason I have to clench my keys in white-knuckled fists when I walk home from school. It is the reason I avoid eye contact at all costs because that "counts as permission." It is the reason I am told my mouth is useless unless he's the one putting something in it. It is the reason women all over this ******* planet get asked "Well... What were you wearing?" because apparently my outfit speaks louder than my voice, but you must not have met me because I can be pretty **** loud.

Dear misogynists,

It is the reason I am told "You know boys won't like you if you don't stop with that feminist crap." Who the **** asked you? If you think that passionately wanting equality and not being afraid to voice that is "crap," I don't want you to like me anyway; in fact, I want you as far away from me as ******* possible. I don't give a **** about your disapproval and I never will.

Dear misogynists,

Maybe you're right - "locker room talk" is as American as baseball, or apple pie, or roofies. "How could he possibly help himself? If he saw you in that dress, what was he supposed to do? NOT assume you wanted him??"
YES. That's exactly what he was supposed to do: NOT assume I wanted him, or anyone else in the room for that matter. Stop excusing ****** harassment because "boys will be boys;" my skirt is not an invitation, nor is anything but the sober word "yes" - and I include the word "sober" because yes, it does make a difference.

Dear misogynists,

So no. I don't give a ****.
And no. I won't stop with "that feminist crap."
And no. Boys will not be boys. Boys will be held accountable for their actions, just like everybody else.
And yes. I do kiss my mother with this mouth, but you can keep dreaming.

Signed, a Feminist
Slam poem
614 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
Your words
In a sea
Of the
Saccharine sweetness
Of insincere consolation
And empty phrases;
In an ocean of
"It will be okay,"
"I'm sorry for you,"
Deceptively accompanied by
Awkward apologies
And bittersweet lies
Disguised as comfort,
As understanding.
601 · May 2016
Meg May 2016
my vision swims with tears;
i'm on my hands and knees,
hands ****** with broken glass
as i pick the shards
out of the spilled beer;
my body is racked with sobs -
the aching, breathless kind:
a catharsis of the unbridled emotion
i've been bottling inside;
i guess my bottle broke too
*and now i'm kneeling in the shards
581 · Nov 2016
perfect little angel
Meg Nov 2016
I will not only speak when spoken to
I do not belong to you
I do not belong to anyone
I am not a prize to be won
Not a trophy to collect dust on a forgotten shelf
Not a perfect doll with lifeless eyes
Not a possession
Not a territory for you to mark
Not a piece of meat
Not whatever you want me to be

And yes
I do kiss my mother with this mouth
Don't get your hopes up
557 · Oct 2016
Meg Oct 2016
if you had asked me as a kid,
"what do you want to be when you grow up?"
i could've rattled off a whole list
but i never imagined i would grow up
to look just like all the skeletons in my closet
555 · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
we found our
the world saw butterflies

Again, it's a
My friend wrote this
538 · Jul 2017
Meg Jul 2017
I don't believe in heaven
But sleeping in your arms is the closest I'll ever come
I would rather sleep next to you than experience heaven for the rest of my life.
532 · Feb 2016
we the broken
Meg Feb 2016
for we,
the broken,
it is a gift
to share our laughter,
but, love,
it is a much greater gift
to share our tears,
to expose our sadness,
to make vulnerable
the darkest
the dustiest
corners of our minds,
the places where
we sit
and think
and stay
the places that
are our homes
530 · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
i've spent my whole life
trying to get away from myself.
why would you waste yours
trying to get closer to me?
*save yourself
while you can
518 · Apr 2016
perfect matches
Meg Apr 2016
perfect matches
seem to stare down the
but together, there's
chemistry - which
turns to
despite the fiery
This is a blackout poem I wrote using a newspaper.
510 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
You said,
"Is simply unachievable."
I used to think that was true.
You seem to have
507 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
I wonder
How you managed
To slip so easily
Into my heart.
In a matter of days, minutes, seconds,
Who knows?
My head tells me,
"Are you blind?"
My heart tells me,
*"I've never seen the world more clearly."
Aaaaand this is the third poem I've written on the same topic. Whoops.
506 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
She loved storms
Power whirling around her
The sheer force of nature's rage
Every atom in the air charged with tension
Full of reckless, unpredictable life
Thunder that made it sound as if the heavens were to splinter apart above her
Lightning that cracks the charred and blackened sky
Sunlight struggling to get through
But there will be no sunlight in this storm
Rain lashes down
The brutal power raging all around her
As if it were a living being
She loved the power it gave her.
Out there in the fury of nature
Daring the world to go ahead;
Do your worst;
Bring it on.

No thing had a shadow
For we are all in one great shadow,
Are we not?

She loved storms because they reminded her that sometimes

*Even the sky breaks
Sorry this is so long. It kind of got away from me.
497 · Aug 2016
Meg Aug 2016
You make me believe that I am made of stardust.
That starlight is trapped behind the glossy spheres of my eyes.
That there are a million galaxies in the curve of my fingertips.
That a myriad of collapsing stars smatters my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose like freckles.
That my mind is a complex web of constellations, of which you have memorized every star.
You make me believe that I am a cosmic masterpiece, of both dark matter and light.
You make me believe that I am a celestial mystery, the Last Frontier, hiding so much among Suns and black holes and eclipses, and you were the only one who dared to look up.
Thank you for making me believe in myself again :)
475 · Apr 2016
Meg Apr 2016
hearts are wild creatures
that's why our ribs are cages
but maybe that's why
they sing so often
464 · Jun 2016
Meg Jun 2016
why do we
hold ourselves back?
we tell ourselves
not to fall for
the boy in the cafe
or the ******* the train
or whoever it may be
because what if they don't like me?
my answer is
then they were never worth your time.

don't risk missing out on what could've been
when all that was holding you back
was you
Take a risk.
448 · Aug 2015
Meg Aug 2015
You tell me that I'm beautiful.
That I'm "simply amazing."
That I'm adorable.

You tell me about the universe.
About perfection.
About society.

You tell me all these things;
A hushed whisper in the darkness of my mind.
Compliments and poetry mumbled in a groggy, half-asleep voice.

I like listening to your voice.
I like hearing you rant passionately about life.
I like hearing my name on your lips.

I wonder why you even bother talking to me.
Why I'm even worth your time.
Why I'm different.

You say I'm

Yet you are
Sorry for ******* everything up.
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