Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Nov 2022 unnamed
Rupert Pip
gore
 Nov 2022 unnamed
Rupert Pip
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
 Dec 2020 unnamed
ali
moon talking
 Dec 2020 unnamed
ali
perhaps I talk too much to the moon
and don’t listen enough to the universe

for I long for a love
too extraterrestrial
to ever find on this planet

perhaps a poet’s true fate
lies in solitude

for we yearn for connection
too shakespearean
to ever survive this modern day
I turn 21 on Saturday but feel around 70 if i’m honest.
 Dec 2020 unnamed
misha
drunk on you
 Dec 2020 unnamed
misha
your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you
if only i could chase you with pizza but shots don't work like that
i love you,
and to prove it,
i need to end myself?
it's not  that I'm scared,
but i would die,
not knowing,
if you smiled,
when you knew,
i loved you more than myself
a lot of people **** themselves to show someone how they love them, but if you did you will never be able to know if your love for them, made them smile
 May 2018 unnamed
harlon rivers
“You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.”


From: Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover
... by Nat Lipstadt

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


in memoriam to memories:
for Miriam and Nat


reading each thought numerous ticks of days,
imbibe the silent of the silence
hanging from the rafters this wilderness roof;
grayed heartwood walls that separate
fractals of inseparable distances ― celebrations
the roads taken ― memories of those left behind
at the side of the mile untrodden


Congregated love and sorrow’s spoken words
scribed on paper bark touchstones ―
etched watermarks of perpetual tides
patina the afterglow of life's ebb and flow,
traces of everything and naught can ever fill


Experiencing intimate moments immemorial;
the whispers of living pulse still murmurs
in the gentle breeze between the gathered words of heart
breathing deeply ― a rush of systemic truth
born in the wholly sacred blood bequeathed


A soul outside the lines ponders ―
the sum whole of a life well lived;
coming to understand, although
all might not see the same light shine:


there’s a place one day we’ll return
we found along the way
because one day will come by here …



harlon rivers ... Memorial Day weekend ... May, 2018

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for,
if at all?”
... Nat Lipstadt

seven poems (+ 1) for my mother (July 2013)
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2509850/seven-poems-1-for-my-mother-july-2013/

thank you for sharing the love, friend...
 May 2018 unnamed
LS
when a poet falls in love with you
you can never die
they will notice the way
you rub your palms and look down
when someone is angry at you
and the way you smirk
as you pull away from a kiss

they will notice how you can't sleep
without your body touching someone else's
how you never crease any pages of books
and how you close your eyes when you dance in your kitchen
with your record player on

they will find all of the words
that they see you as
and turn them into something beautiful

people say you die twice
once when you stop breathing
and when someone says your name
for the last time

if you fall in love with a poet
they will never stop
mentioning your name
you will be alive
for eternity
 May 2018 unnamed
abbey
flicker...
 May 2018 unnamed
abbey
lights everywhere...
flicker.
up and down my street;
all across the world.

the bathroom light flickers as the delicate body that once was mine is burned.
burned by the disgustingness that uprises from my throat.
burned by the water from the too long showers i take
no matter how hard i try to throw up and flush the pain,
or how hard i try to scrub it off my skin with scorching hot water,
it never leaves.
the suffering never ends.

my kitchen light flickers.
as i eat my feelings.
or as i attempt to starve myself.
the fridge light flickers while i stare out at my backyard as if i was trapped in my house, and couldn’t go outside no mater how hard i tried.

the hall light flickers.
as i walk from room to room.
i relate to you, hallway.
you feel like you’re always being used,
for closets,
and to get from place to place.
no one cares much about you,
yet if you weren’t there they’d need you, want you back.
only then do they care.

the downstairs light doesn’t flicker.
only if i’m down there.
she thinks “what have i done wrong?”
oh mother. if only you knew what ran through my head.
the downstairs light doesn’t need to flicker,
it has long been off.

my bedroom light flickers.
when i frown. or laugh. or cry. or smile.
when i’m feeling down and when i’m high.
it flickers while i sit on my floor, head up against my dresser, hands running through my hair and across my eyes, wiping away tears.
i feel nothing except everything.

do the lights ever just simply turn on?
or will they just dim more and more until they give up?
oh, how those lights love to flicker
i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.
 Jan 2018 unnamed
katie
-
 Jan 2018 unnamed
katie
-
i have
locked myself
into a cocoon.
a shell, a
crescent moon.
wind
is battering
against the
walls, shelling
seeds into husks.
the day feels
long and this
song will
have to wait
until the sun
comes. till it
enters the
cracks
in wood
and skin and
allows me
to imagine
again how it feels
to be human.
Next page