Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Aug 2016
Melissa
it's not that special

what i do

because all i do

is put down

words

that sound cool:

nacreous

adulation

effervescence

narcissistic

imbrogli­o

divine

haphazard



there's no rhythm

in what i say

all i'm doing

is breaking

lines

and adding

s p a c e s



sometimes

(yes, sometimes)

i put my words

(in these)

in things we call parentheses

and sometimes

(yes, sometimes)

i repeat myself

and call it

emphasis

(emphasis)



on occasion

I might rhyme

but that takes thought

and that takes time

cat, hat, bat

late, hate, date

fat, gnat, mat

mate, fate, eight



sometimes syllables

can help your flow sound better

much like a haiku



if i talk about angst

death, love, and self-hate

(cliche topics)

it's deep

but my favorite

poem i ever

wrote

was about bacon



and god forbid

i capitalize

because that would mean

it didn't look artsy

THIS IS NOT OKAY

Neither is this.

no punctuation

at all



people say my poetry

is beautiful

that I follow all the rules

but I didn't know there

were rules

to follow

really all I do

is put random words

random phrases

in random patterns

and call it art
 Aug 2016
Claire Marie
I spied you in the library
Laying on the glossy wooden floor
Surrounded by a sea of dusty old books.
Your rough hands gently leafed through the delicate pages
Of her most admired novel.

Worn down edges and dog-eared pages
Betrayed the love she and the little book shared.
Laying there, a tender smile crept up and the sorrow in your eyes disappeared as you discovered the blotchy black stain on the back corner,
Remembering your clumsiness in years past
And her quick temper and dismay
At seeing her little, loved book in such disarray.

Your eager eyes somberly read her little discoveries, her quiet conversations with Wisdom
That she penned down in the margins.
Here, in this moment, she seemed close.
The truth seemed to fade away
And here in this moment
Little Lottie was curled up in the library nook,
Quietly reading her most admired novel.

— The End —