Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
people are always changing walls
                   new paint
                            wall paper
                            filling holes
                            knocking them down
walls would be so self conscious
    no one likes them
    the way they are
random thoughts
Can't write tonight
Stare at the words
Turn up the light
I can see
But I can't write tonight
There's words on a page
Blue lines and liquid rage
How come I see these words
But I can't write tonight?

I wanna scream and shout
Because I just can't spell it out
I can scream
But I can't write tonight
How come I scream
Because I can't write tonight?

My chest feels sunken in and heavy
Right where I keep my thoughts when they're not ready
It makes me nervous
That I can't write tonight
Why don't I think
That I can write tonight?

It's either depression or suppression
They give me pills without a question
I'm telling you,
I just need to write tonight
I'll be ok
If I can just write tonight
 Aug 2013 Danielle K
fragile
Love is the way I always come back
even though I shouldn't
and the way
you keep doing things
that will hurt me
just because you'll know
i'll always stay.

Love is the way I always try
to make you happy
and a better person
and the way
you try to make it work,
even if it is just for a little while.

You see,
you are the burning flame
destroying everything in your way.

And I am the ice
trying to heal all wounds.

but I am also the sun,
shining bright.

and you are the moon,
using my light
to shine all through the night.
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
Next page