Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
**** Nest Raided, Queen Bees Are Stinging Mad!
1969
******, dark night.
Fire and brimstone.
We will burn our own houses down
If it will stop you from taking them.
Pride will begin it’s mending next year.

RARE CANCER SEEN IN 41 HOMOSEXUALS
1981
12,000 dead by 1985.
Genocide by indifference.
Reagan and Anita will never face justice.
We will never get our brothers back.
No vaccine or cure for decades to come.

‘EQUAL DIGNITY’
2015
Look how far we’ve come…
“You can marry who you want!”
Uncle *** still can’t give blood
To save his dying husband after Pulse -
But at least they can share the hospital bills.
This was from a prompt in my creative writing class last Spring. We had to create something from newspaper headlines. I'm not sure how I feel about it even now.
Somehow, I never learned to compromise with gravity.
I’ve been told I move like a drunken camel
or a newborn giraffe on ice skates.
I say it’s just bad genetics.

I’m from a family of shaking hands,
bullet hole egos,
and wobbly knees,
all of us clumsy with our hearts and each other.

It’s no wonder I trip over my own apologies,
stumble at a pretty smile,
falter at opportunity...
This is apples and trees all over again,
and nobody likes bruised fruit.

I am all bruises.
I fall
-over anything,
-into everything,
-for everyone.

There’s a secret to moving gently
that my ancestors forgot to share.
So, this Irish heart runs
on Romanian magic and beats
to the irregular tune of
mis-matched feet
skipping over sidewalk cracks.

Really, I don’t mind the bruises,
The doors turned windows,
the sound of shattering glass.
I just wish I could stop before I smashed
Grandma’s dusty Chinaware and antique mirrors.
rewrite of an old poem. not sure if this is any better or just bad in a different way.
My love is an abused dog
cowering in my chest.
I guard it like a mother wronged,
pacing with unrest.

The caring hand that feeds
blocks the fist from my sight.
I know the saying I should heed,
but I can’t help this bite.
queen of using idioms as crutches instead of creating something original :)
p.s. poem's namesake comes from "Salt in the Wound" by Boygenius.
This uniform is grey
on grey on grey,
like the building too.
All walls but the fourth
are glass from the waist up,
so that any who pass this 9 by 6
can play as witness to a living painting:
Modern “Woman”
Monotony – Shipped by [REDACTED]
#D3D3D3, #808080, #262626


Relief comes in seeing
the other painting here
known only from this side of the frame.
Just beyond the asphalt
there is endless green and blue,
and once a day
the setting sun lights this side
in all the colors of my love’s bouquet.
Security was boring work, but sometimes it was beautiful.
Perfectionist I am,
but able am I not
A look inside my mind
and all you'll find is rot

True worry it may bring
to witness all this waste;
to look behind the mess
and see my living space

But worry not, dear sweet
for rain is coming soon
to wash away my past
and all the sadness too

The Spring is rolling in
along with all its age
I'll be okay again
and then I'll clean this place
******* it happened again. i really think therapy is working. or maybe its just aquarius season making me creative. i hope its both
There is a world in which my mind
Had never fallen blue
And of that world I often find
myself retreating to

In darkest hours this I know:
My life is what I seek
In pools of hope, my shadows grow
And light is at its peak
It's been a long, long time since I've seriously written. I've been... sad. But today was good and even though this isn't my best, I'm so stoked I was able to write anything at all. Shout out to my therapist. Fausta, you're a saint
I long for the day when
the forest rooted in my gut
blooms once more;
when it can make something young
and beautiful
of all these dead leaves
Tell me,
when was your last Spring?
My birthday tells me it comes once a year
but nothing has been reborn
in at least ten
It's all rot
and rot may give life,
but only to maggots and
fear and
the shadow horrors that
lurk in abandoned parking lots
No hope grows here
Next page