Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 May 2018
Gidgette
Time,
refuses to be forgotten
Whether in still frames on tintypes,
from a century long since past,
or on paper photographs from this "modern age",
To digitalysed scenes
from the 21st century
Memories
stamped upon eternity
Unforgotten memories,
Upon
The Forgetfulness of Time
But may I implore,
being the time seeker that I am,
Did I make the mistake,
of measuring love by time,
or my time by love?
Should it,
that I measure time by heartbeats,
or heartbeats by time?
Either, Or
All lies within  
The Forgetfulness of Time~A
 May 2018
Alice Lovey
The wicks have disappeared under the wax.
The strings only groan untuned noise.
The color has drained to desaturated blacks.
What is a flower with rotted petals if not a ****?
Nothing grows here, not a single seed.
Leave the wasted garden, place the candles in the drawer.
The piano's more desirable when it's not touched anymore.
The deepest pits of despair.
 May 2018
Alice Lovey
As I wake in my sheets,
Aggravated anxiety.
Blue light peeks, reminding me of my impropriety
Of the night before.
Like the melted ice throne in the last layer of fire,
My thoughts agonize.
I became the prosecutor when I was the prosecuted liar.
These ordinary overcast mornings
Are my favorite to step in to.
The city smells ripe,
And I think of it with you.
But I will go to trace my patterns
Worn into my body.
Another weekday in which I tread.
Reading messages unread,
Apprehending what’s next.
Life doesn’t need explanation,
Only bread.
But I will stop to worry those worries
Worn into my body
And only hope there may come a palm to press into my spine
With a touch so fine to entwine
A belonging, a needing, into my mind.
It’s always hardest to wake up alone and remember.
My clock never told the time
and looked silently glum

lost its ticking rhyme
with the pendulum
uprooted to be muted
hands dismantled
so you can guess
it made no progress
sitting pretty still
as I went about on my will
set my own pace
not bothering about the dial's arc
but scheduled my work
according to my when
till declared insane
and sent to asylum.

Since I've been sitting pretty glum
like the dead pendulum.
 Apr 2018
Alice Lovey
Every day I give up a little bit more.
I see the end so certainly.
There's nothing else to really live for.
It becomes easier to let go,
As I sit here alone
Writing about what I've wanted
And being worn of wanting more.
                                                           ­           Every day it gets a little easier
                                                          ­             To take another step forward.
                                                  Whethe­r or not I fall apart the later night,
                                                          ­           I still got through another day.
                                                            ­        I walk into a direction in which
                                                           ­                                 I can be proud of.
                                                             ­                 I have so much to live for.
                                                                   I've to keep opening new doors.
But I can't go without;
I can't lose it all again.
The pain is too much and it feels as if
I'd rather have nothing at all,
But the silence of death.
I would die where no one could see;
No one could know.
                                                  Every day I find love for the littler things.
                                            I appreciate so much more than I had before.
                                                         ­              I find brilliance in your smile.
                                                          ­   And I find motivation in your fight.
                                                          ­                 And inspiration in my soul,
                                                           ­                      So I keep taking control
                                                                ­            Of what I know I could be.
The world grows blacker every day.
People feel further and further away.
I used to belong--
I thought I did, anyway.
I never did though, and I know this the most.
I just wish I had chosen a better path so, so long ago.
Because people will not choose for you,
And it's okay if I go it alone.
                                                          ­       The sunrise still wakes me gently
                                                         And the small sound of your tugging.
                                                        ­                   I raise to a voice calling me.
                                                             ­                   When I go to it, I belong.
                                                         ­ Then I see the people around me too.
                                                         They've been waving this whole time.
                                                           ­         I didn't think it'd be so easy for
                                                                ­ The sleep to break from my eyes.
But the nights are the blackest of all.
I hear nothing but my thoughts.
They shake my shoulders violently.
They tell me, "Nothing is true
Nothing is sacred
Nothing is here for you."
And I am not here for anything.
The nightmares follow just the same.
                                                           ­              The morning still follows;
                                                        ­                      The sun will still come.
There is no love in those mornings,
But I am still here.
                                                           ­              The morning still follows.
But it does not matter anymore.
I can't be anything than what I am.
I cannot try anymore.
                                                        ­             But the morning still follows...
                                                      ­                                  And I am still here.
I might come back to edit this to make it more rhythmic and poetic, but I can't find the motivation right now.
 Apr 2018
saige
we met
tiptoeing down our hallway
the one wallpapered with photographs of
faces we never knew
but would rather not forget
i smiled at you, you nodded at me
pick guards shone through
the quiet house
i let you lead
the way out

a guitar a piece
a dozen strings between us
except, nothing was between us
not then, not when
we wailed our darkest hours
away
like alley cats at first
slinking past the back door,
how it swelled through the seasons
how you pried it with that chisel
while i kept watch
because it was late
and mama loved to
tap her foot along, but she never did
understand the needs of musicians,
how
every blue moon or so,
the starless skies called us home
to serenade them
and how homemade melodies
were maps to our
hedonisms

how we couldn't sleep until we
clung to those mahogany curves and
lullabied ourselves into dreams and beyond
and how sometimes,
playing solo in our lamplit rooms
was like scratching an inch from the itch
for, we were weaved in the same womb
raised to unravel without eachother
surely mothers understand this

so we
swung our barefeet
off the concrete stoop
as cashmere moonlight
rode on wisps of fog
spread and swept across the yard
that seemed endless barely yesterday
where the treehouse crumbled
a decade prior
where the shingles on the barn
caved in for the final time
where our beloved dog
returned to dust
where our childhoods died
the songs don't
songs played before we breathed
in the atmosphere
songs that will play once we leave it,
as well
they must

til morning,
my fingers followed yours
reverse order of our
younger days
your harmonies ellicited chills
made my voice quiver through the indigo around us
and my subconscious
time capsule of lyrics
made for no fretting, nothing but serenity

sincerity
soared beneath the pines on the
back porch
one more whispered tune
too deep for two fools like us, but
i strummed like dad, you sang like him
then, it was time to sneak in
before the dew warped
the cheap wood of our old
instruments

and,
before dawn broke
mama was awake
ear pressed against the back door
took us by surprise
those stars dripping from
her hazel eyes
that lady loved to listen
there was a particular rhythm
which blossomed all along
a trinity of heartbeats
synchronised a moment
and that, will always be my favorite
song
 Apr 2018
saige
"We're not going far,"
Daddy promised
As he backed out from under the truck
Brushed off his jeans but not his shirt and
"Just seeing how the new brake pads work"
Well, I reckon we'll go far
If it turns out we can't stop
I plop down, don't buckle up
Just tuck my knees to my chest and
"I don't hear anything squeaking"
Forget the road and relish in the
"That's a good sign"
Scent of pine needles in his dark hair
And breeze in mine
And bugs in my eyes
"Are you cold?"
But let's keep the windows low
And my face to the sky
Because the moon looks lovely
On this midnight ride
 Apr 2018
Mary-Eliz
Don’t stare,
but
don’t look away

as if we don’t exist or
will disappear.

Don’t judge.
“So glad that’s not me”

It could be.

Don’t assume
“drugs”…”lazy”
“offer a dollar
it’ll go for *****”

You don’t know

Don’t presume to grasp
the reasons,
the whys the wherefores
don’t write us off
as useless,
worthless,

less…

If you can’t help,
don’t want to help,
are afraid to help,
don’t trust,

then

Just offer a smile,
A good wish or prayer

But acknowledge we exist,
we, too, are human.
We breathe, we feel,
We need…
trust and love,

Not disdain,
not even pity
if that is all you have
to give…

don’t…
Was reminded of this as I read Gregory Monroe's "Strange Angels" which says so much in so few words! (And has a much more creative title!)
 Apr 2018
Alice Lovey
I want to write of nature.
I want to write of mountains.
I want the white waters of the rivers
To engulf me,
Coldly calming my swollen heart.
But I am only in an office park devoid of green.
These towers are like trees,
But lifeless and alone am I
Even in the crowd around me.
I want the smell of the soil.
I want the fractals of sun through the leaves.
Take my hand tightly and guide me
'Cross the slippery stones along this path.
My favorite things are those photogenic flowers...
The ones here don't grow quite the same,
Trapped in a small patch of dying dirt.
I look at that concrete cage and think of me.
I want to write of nature, but there are only mirrors
Of the glass miles high that show me exactly where I was never meant to be.
The city slowly becomes less of my favorite thing... I wish I had a travel partner.
Next page