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 Nov 2013 em
blankpoems
Lungs burning with affliction, no prayer can help you realize that you are on fire.
Help me, open my ribcage and read the encryption that is my heart.
This is where my ideas form; this is where the magic happens.
This is where trees become homes when I turn to prose.
This is where love becomes tangible.
Take the helm from my chest cavity and steer me home.
Sew me back up and pretend you didn’t figure out how my mind works from studying my heartbeat.
You can keep my memories there, keep my stanzas there.
But you cannot lock up an idea.

Do you realize that every single time you open your mouth I’m wishing I could have a lobotomy?
I don’t want my brain to miss you when you leave.
I don’t want my heart to miss you when it realizes that it no longer beats in sync with yours.
You can take yourself away from me.
You can make me cry so the salt water stings my face like it’s a burning map.
You can take my poems from my veins and scatter them in the river.
But you cannot lock up an idea.

Oh Captain my captain, I think we are going down.
But everyone is just an arm’s length from drowning.
When life preservers are anchors and every single thing is whispering for you to sink.
The Bermuda triangle is just another place where sailors go to pray and what kind of god ***** you in and tests you with a tempest?
You and I are so much more than child’s play.
Tell me to stay.
Tell me my ideas do not belong on the ocean floor.
Because you cannot lock up an idea.

If the sun shines through your blinds, think of me.
Think of the morning.
But without all your leaving.
Don’t think of the bags packed, of the plane tickets bought.
Of the ferry setting off its horn for you in the middle of the night.
Think of the morning.
Without all your leaving.
With the coffee, with the metaphors that were leaking through the walls as you blinked.
You wanted to keep them for yourself, hold them hostage in your bones.
But you cannot lock up an idea.

So next time you think of leaving, think of taking the ferry across the ocean.
Next time you think of whispering my secrets into the waves that kiss the rocks like they are not hurting anyone, think of me first.
Without the poems.
Before I even started writing.
Remember how I chased butterflies and the sunset.
How I begged you to let me climb up on the roof to watch the sun rise again.
Remember that my ideas are my prayers to a god I have not yet found in the curve of your spine.
Remember that I want nothing more than to not have to miss you.
Remember that every time you dismiss my words, my art, my need to chase the sunset; you are diminishing my creativity.
Remember that you cannot lock up an idea.
this was for my creative writing class.
 Aug 2013 em
Ann Beaver
Hearts
 Aug 2013 em
Ann Beaver
Your fingers are blades
And your kiss is the same
Welcome to the game
follow the rules
No touching
No caring
No shooting the moon.

You sound cute
I sound mute
What you hear isn't me
It's something in here you can't see.

Your fingers are blades
And I am the queen of spades
In this game of hearts.
 Aug 2013 em
Asphyxiophilia
She wore a yellow dress the day that he picked her up in his truck for their very first date. Her hair fell in loose curls and gentle waves upon her shoulders like the low tides of the ocean on a warm summer day when it was just the right temperature for sun-bathing. She had a smile as careless as the high grass swaying in the wind around the telephone poles that they passed on their way to the lake that they were planning on picnicking at. Her hands danced like shadow puppets on the dashboard to the rhythm of the country songs emitting from the radio. She crossed her thin legs and tilted her head towards the sky, allowing the breeze sweeping through the cab to kiss her neck as it passed by. Every now and then, when she wasn't looking, he'd steal a glance in her direction like a heads-up penny that he would slip into his pocket for good luck for later. When he pulled off the dirt road and removed the wicker basket and blanket from the truck bed, she ran ahead of him like a gazelle yearning to quench her thirst, searching for a spot near the lake for them to sit. She fell to her knees on a soft patch of dirt that filled the creases like puzzle pieces, as though she belonged to it. As he made his way to her, he watched as she tangled the grass in her fingers like strands of hair before looking up at him and smiling.  He never knew what love was, but he knew this was as close as he ever needed to be in order to be happy.

She wore a yellow dress the evening that she crawled through his bedroom window to spend the night with him, without his parent's consent. Her hair was tucked behind her ears like every reservation he had until he met her, that now dangled out the window. He removed his guitar from behind his bed and watched as she twirled around in circles in the center of his bedroom, as though the angels were strumming on harps just for her. Every now and then, his fingers would slip from the strings, because he couldn't remove his eyes from her pink lips as they lip-synced their very own love song. When the melody ceased, she fell into the carpet like a cloud that she could float away on top of. He put his guitar back in its rightful place before fitting his body behind hers, holding her and whispering their love song as they both fell asleep.

She wore a yellow dress the afternoon that he pushed her on a tire swing. Her slender fingers gripped the rope the way she held him, as though she never intended to let go. He pressed his hands against her back and pushed her into the heavens, wondering how he was so fortunate to receive an angel when it came back to him. Her hair blew behind her like the physical manifestation of the sound waves of her laugh whenever she went too fast. He couldn't remove the smile from his face, even if he tried, although he never would whenever she was around. She was the high, higher than the tire swing could ever take her, that he never wanted to come down from.

She wore a yellow dress the night that she was riding her bike, alone. Her feet pressed down on the peddles and her hips balanced the frame as she spread her arms out beside her like a bird in flight. Her mind was still racing with thoughts of him, his soft breath against the back of her neck and the feel of his hand against her stomach, when a car sped around the turn too quickly. She felt the headlights illuminate her skin like the sunlight that kissed her the way he did on their first date, but the blow that followed didn't quite resemble that of his kiss.

She wore a yellow dress the morning that they decorated her casket. Her hair was stiff as it framed her powdered face, and her hands were cold as they were crossed on her chest. Her legs were covered by a silk blanket and daisies were laid upon them. A forced smile was spread across her lips, appearing grotesque, which was the first thing he noticed whenever he entered the funeral home. At the sight of her lifeless body, he fell to his knees and began sobbing. She was now nothing more than a metaphor for the good dying young.

She wore a yellow dress the twilight that she walked into the sunset to greet him. Her hair fell delicately down her back like a waterfall cascading into a heavenly pool. She had a smile as warm as the sunbeams that blinded him whenever he first opened his eyes, after he (what he thought might be) permanently closed them while lying on the cold tile of his bathroom floor. Her hands reached out to hold his, as though she desired to place twinkling stars in his palms. She wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder, holding him like she knew she failed to do the evening that she left him. Then she lifted her head towards the heavens again, allowing the wind to kiss her neck and the sun to sweep her into his arms (along with him) and her yellow dress.
 Jul 2013 em
Emily
I think about my baby
And how she's all alone
The many things I'd do to her
I have to make it known

I'd give her kisses deep and soft
Her tongue will taste so sweet
With my hands on her hips
Our kissing will create a beat

Then clothes will come off
Things will grow in passion
Her body will feel like silk
Her skin better than the highest fashion

She will make me guide her
Right over to our bed
We will lay down and kiss
Make me feel out of my head

I will travel down her belly
Worshipping every inch
She will shiver and she will shake
The sensation making her flinch

As I make my way down
She naturally spreads her legs
I fit right in-between them
This point is when she begs

I kiss the very part of her
That is the most private
Her moans reassure me
That she truly, really loves it

Her **** sounds of pleasure
Make my job so rewarding
I could do this forever
It will never get boring

As I continue my loving
Right on her sweet spot
She moves in sync with me
Giving me all that she's got

I take her to the highest place
I go right along with her
We have a lot of ailments
But we are each other's cure

She explodes and it tastes so good
Her hands are on my head
And she pulls me to her
Heaven is what we have in our
own
little
bed
© Peyton 2013
 Jul 2013 em
Zedler
[fingers]
 Jul 2013 em
Zedler
Fingers continue to whisper.
Fingers linger longer
and these strokes serve as
exercise to make them stronger.  

Practice makes perfect and when
practicing on a perfect canvas leads to
writing beautiful verses in cursive.

Before we fall asleep she kisses every
finger as a beautiful gesture to assure
that, these same fingers reproduce the
familiar and extravagant pleasure.

Fingers speak in a language I can't
comprehend, but only her body can
understand and if these same fingers
that squeeze this pencil tip are guilty of
letting her relish moans and sighs
gasping for air, then accept my
apologies for getting the public involved
in my affairs.

Fingers continue to whisper as they
speak softly to the goosebumps present
on her body. Fingers continue to
whisper, and without my muse these
urges to write I keep I fighting. Fingers
continue to whisper telling me to keep
writing.
 Jul 2013 em
Morgan
The Part
 Jul 2013 em
Morgan
None of this is real
We make it up as we go
But on rare occasions
Two people may find their scripts
Melting into each other's pages...
Different endings of course
But for one moment
Two minds have conjured up
The same situation
That they wish to live in
At this very moment
Three AM on a Saturday night
In the summer after long shifts
At different jobs
We find ourselves reaching
out for a similar cause
But
None of this is real
And that's why the ending never seems to make sense
To both parties
It's as though our director is missing
And the choreography is always
Right off cue
We're just a bunch of amateur actors
And actresses just trying to feel something real
But it doesn't exist
We are not in love
We are bored
And we are all just pretending
Some of us have mastered it so well that we forget it's just a game
But we're the ones who hurt the most when the curtain falls
And we are left with nothing at all
 Jul 2013 em
R Ryumka
Always Around
 Jul 2013 em
R Ryumka
Blonde rain falls around me,
Slipping too quickly over shattered skin;
Too fast for me to recall
The gleaming highlights of your hair.

Blue grey clouds flit past,
Hovering just above broken, outstretched hands;
Too high for me to catch their colour,
And remember how your gaze felt.

Cables **** in syncopated moves,
But even they cannot replicate the way you walked;
Too jerky, too smooth,
For the way you breezed straight past me.

In the stars lies every phase of your smile,
Too scattered to resemble constellations;
Every incandescent light, a ill remembered image
Of the way you saw my soul.

You are nowhere to be found,
Yet you are every place I run to,
Every place I hide;
Seeping unnoticed into my skin,
Until, once again, I am flooded
With flashes of a life
That I will never again touch;

You are always around,
And
I wish I could forget.
 Jul 2013 em
Celeste C
If i had the guts,
A gun would be to my temple.
Or maybe the roof of my mouth.
A bullet could rip through my skull,
Blowing my mind.
Literally.

If i had the guts,
A noose would be tied,
13 coils,
A real hangman's fate.

If i had the guts,
A great big glass of cyanide
Might silence the demons.

If i had the guts,
I'd be falling,
From a high rise skyscraper.
Plunging to my death.

If i had the guts,
I wouldnt be writing this terribly morbid poem
Of ways to commit suicide.
Because i'd already be dead.
 Jul 2013 em
Gioia Rizzo
Je suis dans l’amour avec vos yeux bruns

Είμαι  ερωτευμένος  με  τα  καφετιά  μάτια  σας

Sono nell’amore con i vostri occhi marroni

Estoy en amor con sus ojos marrones

Ich bin in der Liebe mit thren braunen Augen

Eu estou no amor con seus dhos marrons

Your brown eyes transcend all languages
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