I want to feel your lips pressed against mine
as you moan my name
while I surrender a smirk
after you fall to my neck
and form rose petals above my shoulders,

I want to hear you speak
when it’s late and no one’s awake
when it’s you and me
beneath the trees and the towers
as we look from below
captivated by the canvas above us,

I wish to stay by your side
when you tell me you must leave
for your job or your mother
and I wish to linger as well
when you plead for my company
as I ignore my family.

If it weren’t against tradition
I would plant flowers on you
every time I’d think of your lips
and if it weren’t for our religion
I would sleep beside you
in the most innocent of the phrase
and literal in the sense
to stay by your anatomy
as our souls fly to the sky,

I am reluctant to enunciate these words to you
in worry that you’ll see me
the same no longer
because I hide behind a veil
through my speech and my stance,
the swaying and rustling skirt
when I find myself dancing
steps away from you
as we stroll by the beach,

Now I know this may not concern me
but if I were to speak
and unzip my censored language,
I would tell you
that I crave you
and your mind and your body and your soul
and I want you, all
with your scars and your moles
and the crooked smile
which forms above your chin
as you paint your lips
against mine.

Seriously ****** up in the mental
Dreaming to see my grave
These scars on my skin weren't accidental
Sadness comes in waves

Drowning in my own thoughts
Submerged in voices that aren't my own
My mind is tangled in knots
Deeper under the waves I'm thrown

Extremely messed up in the brain
Wishing to lay 6ft underground
All the life in me has been drained
I'm not going to wait and hang around

I'll take a boat, plane, even a car
As long as it takes me far away
A gun, rope or pills in a jar
In my mind I'm not about to stay

Immensely ******* up in my head  
Where did I go so wrong
All I want is to just be dead
You were right all along

I'm beyond the point of relief
For me the world has gone dull
So don't you dare give me grief
I'm caught up in my skull

time is
smiling
at the thought of you
and my eyes only sting
for a moment

and even if I miss you
I've stopped reminiscing
about
hot summer kisses in the dust
while those feelings
plagued me
with too big and too much
I'm sorry you had me
when I wasn't much

time is
your name
still catches in my throat
but now I know
it was never because
I wasn't enough

i know it’s such a cliche thing to say, to tell you your
eyes look like coffee mixed with cream, but your
hair reminds me of pennies sitting at the bottom of
rivers. and your shoulders feel like the mountains i stumbled
through in New Mexico.
i know it doesn’t make much sense to say your tongue contains
unreadable syllables, but your fingers create lightening,
and before you touch me, there’s thunder rumbling through my
sternum.
and i think the solar system is within your cheeks,
and those tears you spill have all the diamonds i could ever
want.
i know it’s such a cliche thing to say, to tell you your eyes
look like coffee mixed with cream, but you taste like
sunshine.

I love reading poetry on this site.

The most common used word is love.
Well, actually ambiguous is used a lot. I guess it makes people feel smart about themselves.

Anyway, everyone uses the word 'love', but has anyone experienced it or are we all deluding ourselves?

Besides the point, I've learned that if you want to succeed in writing on this site, you have to make sure you write about how you 'fell' in love and then follow it with 'heartbreak'.

You can be dark, and probably get some 'acclaim' from the broody broods.
Or you can not be completely pretentious and write something genuine.
Good luck, though. They'll call it cliche or cheesy.
So you deal with that...
But first thing is first: You must get artistic.

                                                    ­                                                       Do this
                                                            ­                                        because
                                                                ­                              it some how
                                                                ­                 makes it look like
                                                                ­              you
                                             ­                                        know
                                                                ­                              what
                                                                ­                                      you're
                                                                ­                                               doing.

Make sure
you seem like you
DO THIS
for a l
          i love you more than i can take
            vicious words cause my heart to break
               in god we trust our love forever
                 never be gone from me, oh no, not ever!
                    good bye my love i'll cherish you... ambiguously


Now let's get wordy.
Let's use some words entirely too much like...
AMBIGUOUS
Then after that, it'll be time to crack open the thesaurus and write words that you're not entirely sure that you're using correctly.

The ambiguous alligator bit with a fervor as the metamorphosis of his analysis changed what he thought (DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE). He was chased by hunters, but was devoid of a cwtch (yeah, that's a word. Maybe he's a welsh alligator. I don't know. Parts of this poem are meant to be...wait for it...ambiguous).

the
     alligator's
                   father
                            died
                                   in
                                       the
                                            great
                                                    alligator wars of 1
                                                               ­               9
                                                ­                              7
                                 ­                                             2012 was an okay year, though.

what a tragedy it is to be abstentious at a buffet...(end it ambiguously)
                                                                ­                                              end

Then we have some depressing stuff on this site. Not that there's anything wrong with writing something depressing, but usually it's kind of stuff that you'd read at a seventh grade poetry slam sponsored by Hot Topic and Van's Warped Tour in partnership with AXE Body Spray and Monster Energy Drink.

We'll call this one....

'pain, pain, and more pain'

I knew this girl
name was elle
she rang my heart
like a ******* bell

i was fourteen
she was fine
we had assigned seats next to each other
but her seat was inside of my mind

we talked about deep stuff
like really deep
she told me she had nightmares
and i said i had them too
BUT NOT ALL OF THEM ARE IN MY SLEEP

the real nightmare was that
she had a boyfriend
he treated her really well
but he was a ******* FOOTBALL PLAYER
**** **** **** LOVE IS A ******* HELL

why not me
why the tool
i can play six songs on the guitar
and my parents own a pool

i could have given you everything
i could have given you my heart on a string
but you cut it with your knife
and ******* did it sting

my heart is black
my emotions in a whirl
i'll be like this for two weeks
AT LEAST
until i talk to another girl


I just love some of the poetry I read on this site, and I hope you like mine.

Thanks, guys!

it wasn’t me who invented love by my ignorance
the same way the painter doesn’t have the heart
to mix pure colors
it was there
in the times when I used to swot the differences
between useful beautiful and pleasing

first of all there grew a tree with red leaves
like man’s or woman’s lips before the first kiss
leaves were another kind of hands
trembling
preparing to fall
rustle over rustle till the last silence

only by chance I shared the same shadow
with a stranger
for the jealousy of those who did not know me
I waited for centuries close to the old tree trunk
my cheek against the dry ground
I couldn’t refuse him when he asked me
to lend him a leaf
and I didn’t even know
where do young butterflies hide when it rains bitter

people say that
after a day that tree was brought down
today no one kills himself
because of love
they’re simply killed little by little

I put on your old watch. "Like father like son." ( —Not quite.) It is too big. I took a few links out but I'm leaner. All of the windows are open and the quiet fragments of unasked questions linger. I think I lost them in the newly occupied rooms of houses strangers now call home. Like an attic with limited storage space, I arrogantly discarded the opportunity to inherit your more worldly possessions —as though I believed your thoughts and memories weren't even worth it; like they would have been clutter. Unusable. But we are still too much alike. Every year I find more of you in my mirror. In my house. Downtown. At the dock.

Will I love my future children the way you loved me?

Mom still wakes up at 5:30, did you know? She makes me tea, and gives me a look she used to give you. I can see that she is afraid that I am becoming increasingly unreachable; that she is watching history repeat itself. She read it in your cards, and I guess she read it in mine too.

"You are so much like him," she'll fuss. She'll ask me to cut my hair for the hundredth time. "He liked that too," when I breathe in fresh air. Her garden was your favorite place in the world. "You know, your father..."

—She's getting married soon, but I can see that she still misses you. Your name is still on her lips, but she keeps them pursed to take a slow sip of her too-hot drink. She doesn't want to burn herself on the memory of you.

His dead wife used to spit. He tells me this on a hot July day on his porch. “Yeah, a whole fifteen feet,” he boasts. He’ll laugh, but I am noticing his large golden cat with her eyes half closed, dreaming in the summer heat behind the open screened windows of his old house.

He collects newspapers, and they lay in yellowed stacks that I can see beyond his open door within the stillness, still ******* with thick cord. Some of them rustle lightly at the corners, swaying up and down as his electric fan rotates this way and that. I momentarily question how fragile they’ve become with age against the hum of blown summer air, but his slow almost-southern-drawl takes me back in and I shield my eyes from the sun with my arm, keys in my left hand, sweat at the back of my neck.

The roof and trees have offered limited shade, and I’ve leaned against the side of the concrete steps to feel the coolness of the bricks against my knee. I’ve meant to go for an hour now, but he keeps me here with a, “Hey, y’know—” and another story will follow.

About his son sometimes, who he always says is also his best friend. I’ve never met him. He’s like a ghost of someone I think I could know but he remains unnamed and I have never questioned it. He’ll continue on —how he wants a new dog but he doesn’t know how his tired self would keep up with a little pup, and his fat old cat —oh, could I feed her this Friday and Saturday? “I might go out and see my son.”

I say that I will with a small pang of jealousy. She curls around my legs in her eagerness, unaware of her master’s weekend absences, purring at her first few bites of small, orange fish-shaped kibble.

When he is tired and doesn’t feel like driving he’ll take the city bus out for his errands and call me with his “cell-you-lar” to see if I can pick him up. “If it’s no trouble,” he says. It isn’t. I’ve taken him home on several other occasions.

His thank yous are quiet, but I feel them anyway. He is nothing like my father but some part of me hopes that when he looks at me he is seeing his son just as much as I am seeing all the years of neglect and false hope all wrapped up in this lonely man.