Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jul 2012
SweetCindy
So often
I write love poems
but
never find love.

© 2012
 Jun 2012
Brianna Sutterfield
Today you told me you want something real
And when I’m with you that’s just how I feel.
I feel real, and loved, and a great sense of pride!
When I’m with you I get all these butterflies.
I look at you and my head starts spinning
And I can’t tell who is really winning.
We agreed that it was all just pretend
But now I don’t know if I want this to end.
It’s 5am and my thoughts you still taunt
But every day it’s my heart that you haunt.
I search in my dreams but you cannot be found.
I try to scream that I love you without making a sound!
I have all of these others to occupy my time
But when I’m with you I can really unwind.
You talk like you’re ready to soon dissappear
But all I really want is for you to stay here.
My problem is, can I stay committed?
I don’t even know how you can really admitt it…
You say you still love her, but you want another?
I thought that was why we were here for eachother.
You can see us together, you’ve told me before.
Now I wish you would tell me that it’s time for more…
I think I lied and I fear that I’m losing,
Or maybe I’m just greedy, it’s all so confusing.
I don’t think I’m ready to stop all my fun,
But sometimes I wish you were my only one.
Well *******. It's been like 2 years since I've written anything and posted it on here. This is mine, please don't steal it <3.
It's quiet in my house,
except for m o  v   i   n   g air.
Soft snoring from    distant rooms,
and bedspring creaking under
s i t n  weight.
  h f i g

My mouth is bruised and swollen,
from teeth ripped from gums.
But pain meds drift me far away,
from everything I know.

Though sleep does e-v-a-d-e me,
I am bothered not with that.
For some of the best WoNdErInGs
happen when you're ******.
 Jun 2012
Krissy Schiller
As Captain Jack kisses of the last roach
Lavender's in the boathouse window shouting that she's grown wings that she's gonna fly
over Old Casey's boat above the painted lake past where the music surrounds
permeates with the pulse of noise
Green Hat pulls me over says my name is Corey
or Kelsey
Kelly's a **** name I tell him back home people call me Blow
Enter Tennessee the cinnamon sipping reds smoking sonofagun
Are you Kevin?
I ask the fingers that familiar flight of touch leading me
down and
down and
down towards our game
"Never have I ever" howls the young Indian chief, scarf draped in madness
the fearless warrior Peepeeohpee
Someone has trapped the moon behind the window the house on the hill someone has fed the fire with its secret light
This stranger this enigma this Laura I am her cousin
and everyone I touch is Kevin
Then with the sun Tittas steps off the boat as Jesus
sacred palms slashed from last night's ritual
Bums a cig from Drew or Not Drew with the thousands out west and the lotus flower arms
Floats on her back French exhales
As I look at our feet stained red with ink all slow spirals soft wind ***** flowers
then to the shore the fireflies still dancing through the dawn
Flying high
Secretly praying to each outshine the fade
Strong and sturdy,
like a well-believed lie.
Your arms stretch out
grasping for some kind
of truth. What has
your face seen? So
weathered and creased.
I wish I could fall
into you. Put my feet in
the earth. Grow as strong
in my convictions as you
do to withstand time.

Is it crazy to want your
strength? Can I put
my hands on your
roughness and myself
become rough? I want
my limbs to bear the
weight that yours do.
I want them to stay
strong through never
ending change.

Is it crazy to
want your strength?
A strength so rawly
beautiful and intense that
nothing short of
death could diminish
it?

I want to learn
your unspoken
lessons. I want to sit
and listen to the wind
whisper your secrets.
I want to hold a lifetime
of experience under one
stern mask. I want to
be strong and sturdy.
Like a well-believed
lie.
I wrote this while I was sitting in an empty chapel-like room at my highschool. There is this very impressive tree right out the window I had been staring at, and this just came to me.
 Jun 2012
Sacrelicious
Oh Baby, you've done.

Captured my essence
and made me think
that
I
exist.

For a
slit-wrist second
in "time".

Until them sparks
make fire.
& take you up in his flames.

A bad dream.
Filmed right between my
starry-eyes.

Soul Photography,
uhhhh
Flashbacks of missin' you.

Until then,
I will be all black
& nothing more.

Than a wannabe-writer in the
mourning.
And a secret-screamer at night.
 Jun 2012
Rob Urban
Lost in the dim
streets of the
Marunouchi district
I describe
this wounded city in an
  unending internal
monologue as I follow
the signs to Tokyo Station and
descend into the
underground passages
  of the metro,
seeking life and anything bright
in this half-lit, humid midnight.

I find the train finally
to Shibuya, the Piccadilly
and Times Square of Japan,
and even there the lights
are dimmer and the neon
  that does remain
  is all the more garish by
contrast.
I cross the street
near a sign that says
  "Baby Dolls" in English
over a business that turns
out to be a pet
  shop, of all things.

Like
the Japanese, I sometimes feel I live
in reduced circumstances, forced to proceed with caution:
A poorly chosen
adjective, a
mangled metaphor
could so easily trigger the
tsunami that
    sweeps away the containment
             facilities that
                   protect us
                        from ourselves
                                                            and others.
  
The next night at dinner, the sweltering room
     suddenly rocks and
        conversation stops
                  as the building sways and the
candles flicker.

'Felt like a 4, maybe a 5,'
says one of my tablemates,
a friend from years ago
in the States.

'At least a five-and-a-half,'
says another, gesturing
at the still-moving shadows
on the wall. And I think
     of other sweaty, dimly lit rooms,
      bodies in slow, restrained motion,       all
          in a moment that falls
                         between
                                     tremors.

         Then the swaying stops and we return
to our dinner. The shock, or aftershock,
isn't mentioned again,
though we do return, repeatedly, to the
big one,
         and the tidal wave that
                           swept so much away.

En route to the monsoon
I go east to come west,
   clouds gathering slowly
     in the vicinity of my chest.

Next day in Shanghai, the sun's glare reflects
  off skyscrapers,
and the streets teem
with determined shoppers
and sightseers
wielding credit cards and iPhone cameras, clad
in T-shirts with English words and phrases.
I fall
          in step
             beside a young woman on
                 the outdoor escalator whose
shirt, white on black,
reads, 'I am very, very happy.' I smile
and then notice, coming
down the other side,
another woman
wearing
        exactly the same
       message, only
                        in neon pink. So many
                                  very,
                                          very
                                                 happy people!
Yet the ATMs sometimes dispense
counterfeit 100 yuan notes and
elsewhere in the realm
      police fire on
      protestors seeking
                more than consumer goods,
while officials fret
about American credit
and the security of their investments, and
     the government executes mayors for taking
                       bribes from real estate developers.
    
    A drizzle greets me in Hong Kong,
a tablecloth of fog draped over the peaks
   that turns into a rain shower.
I find my way to work after many twists and turns
through shopping malls and building lobbies and endless
turning halls of luxury retail.
               At dinner I have a century egg and think
of Chinese mothers
urging their children,
'Eat! Eat your green, gooey treat.
On the street afterwards, a
near-naked girl grabs my arm,
pulls me toward a doorway marked by a 'Live Girls’
sign. 'No kidding,’ I think as I pull myself carefully
free, and cross the street.

On the flight to Bombay, I doze
   under a sweaty airline blanket, and
       dream that I am already there and the rains
         have come in earnest as I sit with the presumably
           semi-fictional Didier of Shantaram in the real but as-yet-unseen
            Leopold's Café, drinking Kingfishers,
              and he is telling me,  confidentially,
                     exactly where to find what I’ve lost as I wake
with the screech and grip of wheels on runway.
            

     Next day on the street outside the real Leopold's,
bullet holes preserved in the walls from the last terrorist attack,
I am trailed through the Colaba district
by a mother and children,  'Please sir, buy us milk, sir, buy us some rice,
I will show you the store.'
    A man approaches, offering a drum,
                        another a large balloon (What would I do with that?)
A shoeshine guy offers
                                           to shine my sneakers, then shares
the story of his arrival and struggle in Bombay.
     And I buy
             the milk and the rice and some
                      small cakes and in a second
                          the crowd of children swells
                               into the street
               and I sense
                     the danger of the crazy traffic to the crowd
                         that I have created, and I
think, what do I do?
           I flee, get into a taxi and head
                             to the Gateway of India, feeling
                                                                                  that I have failed a test.

                                       My last night in Mumbai, the rains come, flooding
     streets and drenching pavement dwellers and washing
the humid filth from the air. When it ends
           after two hours, the air is cool and fresh
                                  and I take a stroll at midnight
          in the street outside my hotel and enter the slum
   from which each morning I have watched
the residents emerge,  perfectly coiffed. I buy
some trinkets at a tiny stand and talk briefly
      with a boy who approaches, curious about a foreigner out for a walk.

A couple of days after that, in
the foothills of the Himalayas,  monks' robes flutter
on a clothesline like scarlet prayer flags behind the
Dalai Lama's temple.
I trek to 11,000 feet along a
narrow rocky path through thick
monsoon mist,
   stopping every 10 steps
to
   catch
        my  breath,
              testing each rock before placing my weight.
Sometimes
    the surface is slick and I nearly fall,
sometimes
    the stones
        themselves shift. I learn slowly, like some
             newborn foal, or just another
                clumsy city boy,
                   that in certain terrains the
       smallest misstep
                            can end with a slide
                                             into the abyss.
                  At the peak there's a chai shop that sells drinks and cigarettes
                                of all things and I order a coffee and noodles for lunch.
While I eat,
      perched on a rock in a silence that is both ex- and
      in-ternal,
the clouds in front of me slowly part to reveal
a glacier that takes up three-quarters of the sky, craggy and white and
beautiful. I snap a few shots,
quickly,
before the cloud curtain closes
again,
obscuring the mountain.
                                                
                                     --Rob Urban: Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Dharamshala
                                        7/13/11-7/30/11
 Jun 2012
Ben
i am selfish, self-pitying, jaded, ever seeking for some new meaning
tell me that you aren't too and i'll call you a liar with my eyes
because my mouth would never speak out against the truth of this world
that we all live for ourselves in the depths of our minds, in the labyrinth
with walls made out of sharp feelings and rusting emotions burning

i am at home in these depths, these dismal depths of self-feeling
of knowing through hours of introspective meditation that i will never be enough
but neither will you, neither will you my darling, it just has yet to reach
catastrophic proportions of this living tragedy to see that this sea of life
will only take, will only wash away
 Jun 2012
Sacrelicious
Buried beneath
a broken home.
Day dreaming
of ****
that's long gone
down,
down,
down
to the darkest ditch.

I miss you.

Hell just isn't any fun, when the Devil's not at home.
 Jun 2012
DeeDeeK
you brought me to this place, breathless
alive
excited
showing me the side of you that
no one gets to see

feeling your enthusiasm, wanting to be
included
knowing
I was swept up in expression
letting you see me

smiling, you backed away, fading
shimmering
opaque
and I saw through you
as you walked away
 Jun 2012
Sacrelicious
The hour hand's on 10.
&
The minute's on 4.

I think,
I know.

Half of me died
with you.

Way back,
when,
October nights weren't
so
******'
lonely.

Until my other half
gives in.
I'll be your;

1/2-ghost,
earth-bound.
Sun.

For the "time" being,
I'll catch you on the
astral plane.
&
I'll see you in my dreams.

</3

When your life line
stops running,
across your body's
support screen.

What time
will your clock
stop at?

Time doesn't exist,
I will
ALWAYS
be here.
<3
 Jun 2012
DeeDeeK
I dare not look too closely inside
where lurking, darkest feelings hide
behind the shards of glass pretending to be mirrors
they threaten to sever all my emotions
Instead I drift with aimless thoughts
kept neat and tidy, as in a box
******* with strings crafted by the years
of endless sorrow
never to see the light of day
where my deepest yearnings lie
too fragile for to give away
and risk losing myself forever
Next page