Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
You make my heart fly like it's still whole,
like the bones in my wings aren't brittle and broken
and these palpatations actually follow some sort of a beat.

Like maybe my feathers are still beautiful,
even though I've made a habit out of flying too close to the sun.
Suddenly, it's heat just warms my skin,
and now I'm glowing.
Instead of bursting into flames.

You burn me from the inside out,
but it's a comfortable energy.
You play my strings so delicately,
I feed off the vibrations.

You make me feel like a song,
that missed a beat, but found it just in time for the crescendo.
And now I'm playing on
like nothing bad has ever happened in my life.

Just like a Dali painting --
Beautiful and ugly and brilliant
and no one's sure exactly what it means...
But you're the artist,
and in your eyes, every stroke makes sense and I'm perfection.
© February 7th, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant, It's just how you make me feel.
And for # 2 on the 100 themes challenge, which is love.
 Feb 2011
Nicholas Laurent
Carried by the noxious scent of unbridled wretchedness,
The thoughts of the masses corrode, upon impact, the ill-prepared,
Summoning the martyrdom of a thousand misguided sheep.

Inside that womb of madness, the absolutes rule,
And the governing law is Us vs Them.

Enlightenment unravels ... piece by ethereal piece,
And the true victims emerge as civility and patience.
In a moment of revelation, laws become clear,
As we meek and meager exchange freedom for protection.

A hive-mind of revolutionaries under the influence, perhaps.
And I can only wonder ...
Where is the queen amid these hapless drones?
© Nicholas Laurent 2/6/2011
 Feb 2011
Nicholas Laurent
Convoluted expressions before the witching hour,
The bewildered and forlorn search for answers.
Nevertheless, the final solution remains at a loss.

Amid the thinning of veils and an orchestra of misty hands,
True objectivity may be witnessed, if only for a moment.

And when questions still go unanswered ...
The bloodied and the broken find their relief
Under the darkened waves of an ethereal ocean.

Not all is lost ....
© Nicholas Laurent 2/5/2011
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
They say "the devil is a liar."
For spouting out hurtful things that we don't want to hear.
But if,
the-truth-hurts and most-people-want-the-lie.
Then maybe,
He's just being honest.
Instead of whispering sweet nothings in your ear.
© February 3rd, 2011 Moriah Jean

Please,
stop living in a bubble and take responsibility for yourself.
You make me want to slap you.
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
I get this feeling about you --
One that stretches beyond explination.
Almost like the feeling of home,
but different.
Like being around you would make things okay
that aren't okay.

You make me feel safe...
Like the breeze on a summer day,
Comfortable and warm.
I want to lounge around with you
                                                             ­     forever.
© February 1st, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant.
And also, the first stanza is credited to him completely. His words with my poetic flair. =)
We make quite the team.
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
Love is a role;
Life is a game.

Or is it the other way around?

All I know is that when I'm with you,
I can't get into character and,
I forget all my lines.
And suddenly,
I forfeit.

But I still win awards.
You're a shiny little statue with my name on it.

And you make me *shine.
© January 31st, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant.
(What have I gotten myself into this time?)
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
I want the best of you but,
I want your worst.

I'll take all of your flaws and,
tie them into chains and call them beautiful.
I'll wear them in my hair and around my neck,
Until they begin to wilt, and then
I'll press them between the pages
of my favorite books.
So I'll always remember them fondly.

I'll take your imperfections and,
paint them into pictures for my walls.
I'll decorate the places that I dwell
with each and every one, and call it home.
Until the colors fade, and then
I'll press them into photo albums
that we can show our friends,
While we tell them all of our stories.

I want all of your strengths but,
I want your weaknesses too.
Because that is just how much I love you.
© January 26th, 2011 Moriah Jean

For the romantics and lovers, hopeless and jaded or not.
 Feb 2011
Moriah Jean
i.
Heaven
is for people with beautiful imaginations;
Hell
is for the ones with twisted minds.

Life is for those who have both,
and can't tell the difference.

ii.
Living
is for people with their hearts on their sleeves;
Dying
is for the ones who've been hurt.

Love is for those who have both,
and can't tell the difference.
© January 26th, 2011 Moriah Jean

Life is for the living.
 Feb 2011
Louis Brown
I looked around me                                              

For a noble man

Someone who could lead

A man a child could trust

Some man who never cheated

A man not owned by money

Some man who wouldn't lie

A man a child would trust

Some man that loves his God

Well he was hard to find

I looked at all the presidents

In the past United States

I evaluated judges and lawyers

I checked out sailors, doctors and  farmers

Just for one honest man

But none of them met the criteria

Until I remembered

Perhaps there is one

Just maybe…just maybe…

Barrack Obama


--------------------------------------------------------
­I believe time will bear that out.
That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
Copyright Louis Brown
 Feb 2011
Victor Thorn
last time we spoke in person
you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.

the day was cold and gray and wet.
we were cold and gray and wet.
the bus had a blowout, there was smoke everywhere,
we pulled over.
everyone freaked out,
but we just sat there.
you were in front of me,
i was behind you,
texting each other, because we couldn't talk in person,
ever.
i had decided i was mad at you.
why was i mad, and not sad?
you had decided to make my mistake
of wanting something you just can't have.
why were you sad, and not mad?

the bus pressed onward on three wheels and a doughnut-
a wheel you want to think is there, but isn't.
and when we made it to the restaurant,
i sat alone,
and you sat alone
with friends you kept from inviting me over,
and you left
and they left
and i left.

the bus doughnutted it's way to some ****** play,
i sat on the far left,
you sat on the far right,
and they left,
and you left,
and i left.

we were waiting on something,
so you typed "hey"
and i typed "what"
and you asked me what i thought
and i said there was only one way it could have been worse.
and you asked what
but i didn't answer.

the bus doughtnutted it's way down the twisting, turning, hateful road that leads to my hometown where i can hardly pass a crack in the pavement without a painful memory, like a ****, sprouting up.

it was cold and gray and wet that day;
the bus window was foggy.
you drew a heart and scribbled initials inside.

T.M.
+
A.F.

you kissed a fogged up bus window
because you were sad.

i drew a heart and scribbled initials inside,
of course you couldn't see me
(i was behind you)

V.T.
+
A.F.

i kissed a fogged up bus window
because i was sad
and wished you would turn around.
Copyright February 2011 by Victor Thorn
 Feb 2011
jeremy wyatt
Why
Why did you wait to tell me                    that you knew all along
until you were dying                                  and did nothing
time to cleanse your conscience?        you didn't even clean me
you should have washed me                   just cold dry emptiness
I always  wondered                                     why were you quiet?
and never dared to ask                             Why did you let me hide
were you somewhere crying for me    alone under the stairs
or lying to yourself and  denying          on the day my childhood ended
 Feb 2011
jeremy wyatt
The Queen of the Tundra stands her ground
mounted on caribou formorians all around
glacier cool she watches with crystal eyes
as her snowflakes answer her call to the skies
Adventurers or fools what brought them here
insidious and evil an empire they would rear
The Queen of the Tundra stood her ground
sword stained  enemies cold on the ground
if you go to her realm hide from  her gaze
Queen of the Tundra till the end of days.
Inspired by the burials of Urumchi and the warrior women laid to rest on the steppes
 Jan 2011
jeremy wyatt
He was parked up a hundred yards from her house
imagining Louisa
not too picky, judging from the run-down old houses
several were boarded up.
He was becoming quite absorbed with one of those.
A bad place. Soon to be notorious, a good house for a woman to be afraid in......
He had dug through all the Metal tapes in the vw.
Found Pride and Glory. Played Harvester of Pain over.
Till he was ready.
I'll show her hearts and love, god he was mad.
Hope Daisy gets to watch, wow that excited him.
The light came on early.
He waited until dusk, then walked around the back of her house.
Then in.
****.
****, she had a cat.
Old as well, would it starve?
Then he saw her in the chair.
Jesus! Older than the cat.
And smiling at him.
He drove away an hour later.
Felt like hell inside. Forgetful old ***** thought he was her home help.
So he made her a coffee, fed the cat.
Sanctimonious cow gave him money.
Her husbands photograph was on the wall faded brown like she was.
Died in the war, drowned practising for D-Day.
So he spared her, for that and for the sake of the cat.
He stole an old bottle of whisky on his way out.
No sobriety test on the road to hell.
Six hours later he kicked a teenage ******* to death.
Dressed like that, you can't have a mother or a mirror.
Left the old ladies money on her corpse,this one's for Her.
Next page