Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Dec 2017 Tristan Brown
olb
what happened to you
who hurt you
who made you feel so down on yourself
that you took me down with you

what happened to you
to the boy I was best friends with
and trusted my life with
where did you go

what happened to you
why do you think
it is okay
to make my happiness feel so **** wrong

what happened to the boy
who was always excited to hear about my day
and the things that made me happy
that made me smile and laugh

what happened to you
and our bond
where did it go
why did it go
how did it go
when did it go

I'm sorry for breaking your heart
for finding someone
who makes me overly happy
and who makes me laugh
and smile
and keeps me up at night with thoughts of them

I'm sorry for not loving you
for being there for you always
comforting you
keeping you here
alive
and well

but I lied, I am not sorry for being happy
I will never be sorry for being happy
I just wish that you
could find it in you
to get over me
and find your happy
The things that we learn as children
never really leave us
kindness, love, innocence.
So i've been trying to live a better life
no matter the odds and at the same
time i need to reconcile with the fact
that i felt darkness, that i had vengeance
in my head and craved for some sort of
vindication so much.
But what's the point?
Would that make me a better person?
Think not!
So i'll continue trying for something better
and at the same time
i'll heal
i'll tame
i'll conquer
my unwillingly commands.
 Dec 2017 Tristan Brown
meanwhile
This is it.
My ending.
My epitaph.
I am exhausted.
I have explored every idea I wanted to explore.
I have told the stories I have wanted to tell.
My imagination has been stretched to its very limits.
It's time to call it a day.

For now.

Perhaps, someday, I may return.
To write a second chapter.
A new beginning.
Perhaps.

Until then, farewell.
your soul is a
citadel of the forgotten
a treasury of needs
and wants
a secret of which you have no reck
anymore

shall I find it
for you?
shall I open it
using the key in my heart?

or the lost one in yours?


c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
 Dec 2017 Tristan Brown
mr t
I wait
I contemplate
What could be
What matters to me
Then you go
And I didn’t know
I was just a muse
being used
That’s when I fell
Cause you introduced me to hell
The fear in my eyes
Could not disguise
What I felt in my heart
Cause it had been ripped apart
And thrown down a hole
That’s what you stole
You took it away
Then the Love began to decay
But my heart is still yours
Through all of these wars
I have never truly been in love, but this poem flowed out
I was born on a Sunday.
My eyes change colors
depending on the weather.
I am 5' 2'' but feel like I am 5' 6".
I don't know how to do Calculus.
I am okay with that.

My first name means "one who listens".
I wish my middle name meant "one who speaks"
because my God, I am a wishing well
and people have the tendency to toss
their secrets into me. And their loss, their pain,
their anger, their sadness, their regret
it fills up a part of me that I thought was infinite.
I am on the constant verge of spilling over and
when I walk I feel like a garbage bag, dragged
against cement, one sidewalk scrape away
from coming undone. I am expected to keep
everyone's mess inside.

My friends tend give me **** for the amount of
time I can spend staring in the mirror.
The secret here isn't that I'm vain,
it's that approaching my reflection is like
ripping off a band-aid because looking
myself in the eye still makes my stomach flip.
60 pounds of weight lost does not
silence the echoes of words that
convinced me that life as a size zero
was the only life worth living and
I had been alive nine sizes too long.
I can't always remember that I am beautiful.

And I have this collection
of words that I should
have said. When I am alone,
I bring them out from
my closet and introduce
them to the ghosts of
people I have lost,
of the people I could not fix,
of the people I should forget
but can't forget because I
don't want to forget because
there's something about keeping
wounds open that feels better
than letting them heal—
I have always been one to pick at scabs.

This is my declaration of honesty—

My name is Sam.
I can't ride a bike
but I can write you a poem.
I am afraid of perpetually falling
in love with people who won't  love me back.
There is a man in a cell I live to forget.
I am convinced Heaven looks like Ireland
and that soul mates come in multiples.
My voice shakes when I say what I think.
and for once,
this poem isn't for you.

This is a poem for me.
you are not an inconvenience to the world.
my dear, this world is an inconvenience to you.
My snakes
My jewels
My Heart
How cruel
-
My litany
My deeds
My Heart
Actions prove.

My snakes
Circle in spirals
Circle incessantly
I wonder if they tangle.

My jewels gleam in the dark
Like a shocking white spark
But cold rocks warm
Cold hearts.

My Heart bleeds
I need gauze
To pack the wound
So the blood can pause.

Words mean nothing
It's what we do in the
Morning.
It what we do with warning
And how we hold when
In mourning.

How we hold up the deeds
And work when
Work makes us bleed.
It's about the Heart
Behind the action.

The smile on a pained face,
It's the Heart.
 Nov 2017 Tristan Brown
Alexander
I haven’t a gun.
I’ve hit no one.
A failure of great proportions,
Emotional extortions,
And mental abortions.

This world is more cold than not.
How is my heart not to willow and rot?
Every word I hear
Each one that passes through my ear,
I can’t help but not to feel fear.

Fear for all of that which I do not have.
The only option is to halve
My soul into two.
Even then it would have been too few.
Oh God, what do I do?

I must find the answer!
And relieve myself of this growing cancer.
“Who are you?” you may ask,
I’ll say nothing, all the talking will be done by my mask.
Next page