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Dec 2014 · 1.3k
how to save a poet's life
nichole r Dec 2014
when our metal collided,
forming a beautiful mess of flames and exchanged paint,
they dragged my unrecognizable hunk of meat,
fire still dancing on my skin,
to a blinding, sterilized building smelling of alcohol and copper
usually reserved for bullets in the chest and praying mothers.

they pricked my arms and legs and chest and everywhere in between.
never was there a moment
where cool palms were not smoothing down
the few strands of hair still attached to my scalp.

howls never failed to fill the night-
every night-
and my father joined the wolf pack
once they whispered
"we have some bad news."

their methods had failed to see my body perfect again.
but what they didn't know
is that instead of dripping recycled blood
down the tubes jammed in the holes decorating my skin,
they should have poured words
in to my running river veins.

especially since I'm entering this for a chance to win classes taught by an actual college professor about poETRY EEP I WOULD LOVE TO BE ABLE TO LEARN IN THIS CLASS.

if this poem is not worthy, then please please tell me, or tell me how to make it better, or even if I should pick a different poem all together.

this class/audition is only for high schoolers, and I'm 14 by the way.

thanks fellow poets, and have a creative day !
Nov 2014 · 3.2k
nichole r Nov 2014
boy, do I miss
everything about
when you kissed
I felt supernovas
exploding and
left bruises staining
neck that
never want
to heal.
Nov 2014 · 653
nichole r Nov 2014
moonlight reflects
and your skin glitters
like the stars.
you are translucent,
I see the icy chill of your veins-
a striking blue
against the ghostly surface.

an apparition,
contrasted against the dark ink
of the 2 am sky.
Nov 2014 · 1.5k
nichole r Nov 2014
crisp pages
indented fom my pen's point,
whisper beneath the dry skin
of my cracked palm.
they flutter together,
butterfly wings,
and weave together a time
so melodious.
nichole r Nov 2014
I am your canvas,
your lips are the brush.
decorate me with bruises
the colors of the universe.
haven't written in a while so sorry if it's not very good quality :((
Aug 2014 · 505
nichole r Aug 2014
I leak butterflies from the slits I'm my wrists
their wings flutter against my palms.
Aug 2014 · 1.7k
nichole r Aug 2014
ice water clogs up my veins,
chilling me,
as most rises from my skin at dawn.
cerulean lips that match my eyes
spread over bared diamond teeth,
as I convulse and writhe on the steel table.
ribs crackle and split so suddenly
that not even a sharp gasp
can knive itself
past my throat.
organs fails and shrivel together,
abandoning me,
as gloved hands rip them out
from the incision along my belly.
my once silky tresses
fray and dry
before eventually falling out,
outlining my spasming figure.
grey brain matter numbs and
electrical impulses cease to a halt.
no more thoughts...
no more movements...
just a dead body with a beating heart.
Aug 2014 · 843
nichole r Aug 2014
I'm going to rip my insides open
and bleed out drugs and cigarette ash.
watch my face contort in to pain
without my ink and guts.
Jul 2014 · 1.2k
how you changed me
nichole r Jul 2014
color me the hue of your cigarette ash;

slam broken beer bottles in to my palm

and wipe the blood on an old t-shirt. 

paint me pretty with ***** red lipstick
(stolen from my mother)

and stuff me in to china doll shells. 

you say “this change will be good for you”

i say “this is too fun to stop”

my father says “oh good god, what have you done?”

but darling, let’s not listen to anyone else,

and continue tattooing memories on our skin.”
Jul 2014 · 2.8k
i am a balloon, i fear
nichole r Jul 2014
my feet are not touching the floor
I am not gripping this pen
I am not me
I am not here

I float above my-body and everybody
I am loosely tethered to the girl
with the terribly dead eyes

do you have a scissor?
Jul 2014 · 303
nichole r Jul 2014
he wasn’t in love with me.
he just wanted a broken toy to fix.
— the truth
Jul 2014 · 312
nichole r Jul 2014
he crumbled me
in his callused palms
and just
— he made it seem so easy
Jul 2014 · 519
nichole r Jul 2014
she paints the sunrise
at 2 a.m.
when all is dark.
the colors
will forever remain
blazing in her memory.
— dreamer
Jul 2014 · 292
what i did to you.
nichole r Jul 2014
I placed a piece of broken glass

on your ******, scabbed tongue

and made you swallow it.
Jun 2014 · 276
nichole r Jun 2014
broken pieces
shattered limbs
crushed glass heart
                                                                  frayed with cracks
                                                              and misunderstandings
                                                                  and the empty space
                                                             between my hollow ribs.
Jun 2014 · 629
nichole r Jun 2014
my words are a way to scrape my insides
and bleach them clean
without the foul odors.
Jun 2014 · 3.0k
chaotic mind.
nichole r Jun 2014
so many thoughts
ricocheting off the sides of
my hard white skill

I let them out
not by speaking
(words stumble awkwardly and
all at once)

but by
w r i t i n g
(words finally flow and make sense)
Jun 2014 · 514
hidden in the screen.
nichole r Jun 2014
the empty static
on the old boxy television
show the sorrow
of a million lost souls.
nichole r Jun 2014
we keep them in cardboard boxes
old and frayed
with holes poked in the sides
so the gut wrenching wisps of
a flashback
can sneak out
and attack us
in the middle of the night
Jun 2014 · 527
cries for help.
nichole r Jun 2014
someone  c u t
off my crisp white wings
with a pair of
rust covered

they ignored my desperate  p l e a s
and cries for help
and shouts of
"you are destined for hell!"

they left me  b l o o d y
with stinging tears dripping from swollen corneas
and scratch marks littering my and
and sunsets blooming on my thighs

I am
n o t h i n g
but the body
s t u m p s
on my back
Jun 2014 · 570
nichole r Jun 2014
my bones slowly rot
as if the second hand smoke
inhaled through my nostrils
stained my insides brown
and made them crumble.
Jun 2014 · 503
I am nothing.
nichole r Jun 2014
I am nothing but a bag of unnecessary rocks slung over your shoulder. I am nothing but the wisps of smoke drifting from a cigarette, slowly fading as I travel in to the night. I am nothing but the cracks on a stranger's windshield after their hit and run- a flashback that will bring pain and guilt in to your shell. I am nothing but a hindrance, a fleeting thought, a horrid memory.
Jun 2014 · 364
how he spoke.
nichole r Jun 2014
he pointed to my ribs
more importantly the space between them
and put his lips up to my ear
"you are n o t h i n g."
Jun 2014 · 683
the work.
nichole r Jun 2014
ink smudges stain
my callused
Jun 2014 · 21.7k
nichole r Jun 2014
the reason why
I still open my eyes
is for the shock of the
               c o l o r s .
Jun 2014 · 475
a poem.
nichole r Jun 2014
beautiful words weaved with the ****
to form a
p o e m .
Jun 2014 · 2.2k
nichole r Jun 2014
drowns everyone out
but I start breathing.
Jun 2014 · 572
pencil to paper for you.
nichole r Jun 2014
I think I finally found a person
worthy of my metaphors.

I will say he is sunshine after a long week of rain.
Jun 2014 · 373
for you.
nichole r Jun 2014
my heart tap dances in my chest
almost skipping
out on my tongue
to escape the cavernous cage
that is my ribs.
Jun 2014 · 1.6k
what I will miss.
nichole r Jun 2014
but I will miss
in the afterlife.

it was the only way
I could slice open my veins
and bleed out my words
without making a mess.
Jun 2014 · 1.1k
the reason I live.
nichole r Jun 2014
poetry is the only escape from the nightmare we call living.
Jun 2014 · 366
what it does to you.
nichole r Jun 2014
he crams pills down his throat
two of them
every night
just so "he won't feel the pain"
even though he wants to hurt himself

m o r e  t h a n  e v e r.
Jun 2014 · 452
how much i love you.
nichole r Jun 2014
I wrote so many poems
for him
that impossibly
I was running out of metaphors.
Jun 2014 · 381
before you cry.
nichole r Jun 2014
your throat closes up, making you
c h o k e
on your own words, your own shouts for help
nothing but tight lips and squinted eyes
portray any amount of emotions on your face
you want to screech, to tell someone to
h e l p   m e   I   n e e d   y o u
but no words
no squeaks
no whispers
escape past your hard teeth
all alone
you begin to sOB
Jun 2014 · 396
why poetry is a secret.
nichole r Jun 2014
poetry should be about


not about

the tears that never stop.
Jun 2014 · 425
inside my ribs.
nichole r Jun 2014
I repeat it
like an incantation

"I hate myself I hate myself I hatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatemyself-"

until the words blur
and so does my vision
the world is a smeared pencil mark
covered in a veil of darkness
that matches my mood
and my terrible thoughts.
Jun 2014 · 906
the worst part.
nichole r Jun 2014
the tears
are the worst part
of depression.

the choking
the little sobs that sneak out
making you feel         p a t h e t i c .

you wipe your eyes
rubbing them raw
and wait for them to stop leaking.

Jun 2014 · 775
nichole r Jun 2014
the day you died,
was also the day
that I died.
the only difference is
that you're six feet underground
and I'm a ghost
trapped in an **** shell.
Jun 2014 · 389
to see you again.
nichole r Jun 2014
I put a gun up to my head, if only to be with you.
I'm writing another short story, told in poems. I will be posting some of them on here :)
Jun 2014 · 976
such an artist.
nichole r Jun 2014
he drew constellations on her skin in the finest, darkest wisps of his soul.
nichole r Jun 2014
he found her with a bottle of pills clutched tightly in white knuckled fingers
her eyes were fallen shut and he was so tempted to leave her resting peacefully, she looked so beautiful
but after a moment
(m o m e n t .)
he realized that the girl who ran though his mind, chasing butterflies each day
h a d   c o m m i t t e d   s u i c i d e .
she always spoke about how she wanted to stroke an angel's wings
to see if they were truly as soft as they merely appeared.
her limp body lay, spread out, her hair spilling over her pillow,
anyone else might have believed she was just a sleeping beauty
but he knew.
a wretched, throat-bleeding scream filled his ears, one so full of agony and heartbreak that he fell to his knees
it took him a second of agony to realize the teeth grinding screech was coming from h i s lips.
Jun 2014 · 1.1k
why i stay quiet.
nichole r Jun 2014
the words are so hard, that they chip my teeth
they feel unnatural on my swollen pink tongue
there are too many, that all want to come out at once
so I choke on them, saliva rushing out past my gums
my lips split and blood gushes down my chin
leaving rust marks on the pale milky skin.
Jun 2014 · 1.6k
how she feels about me.
nichole r Jun 2014
she is disgusted by me.
each and every day
her eyes scrutinize me
and my distinct flaws
her bitter words sting me
so very d e e p l y
"*****" "****" "what is wrong with you?"
sometimes tears roll down her gaunt cheeks
and I wonder
if I make everyone as sad
as I make her
she is a broken glass figurine
and to make herself feel whole again
she cut her skin
and created me.
Jun 2014 · 3.5k
nichole r Jun 2014
he said
I was as beautiful
as the scenery
behind me

I glanced
over my shoulder
only to find
a beige wall
Jun 2014 · 483
the story beneath.
nichole r Jun 2014
you see the scars
but not the reasons.
Jun 2014 · 755
such a surprise.
nichole r Jun 2014
my eyebrows raise
at their
abundance of
nichole r Jun 2014
he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)

his body was so very
     a l i v e
his heart beat in
   o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
     d e a d .
Jun 2014 · 526
an artist.
nichole r Jun 2014
she missed the red hot trails
covering her thighs and bones.

they were her  a r t w o r k .
Jun 2014 · 3.3k
the hurt.
nichole r Jun 2014
I drag my nails down my thighs
creating furious jagged lines
surrounded by cloudy milk white.

it stings less than the sadness I feel.
Jun 2014 · 847
the insomniacs.
nichole r Jun 2014
at night the insomniacs come out to play

they grab fistfulls of their hair and howl at the moon.
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