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I deleted every line
That said I ever loved you
Regretted every song
That I had ever wrote you
I can't possibly erase them
They're all a part of me
Reminders of a bad decision
Yeah, that sounds like me
My heart just full of stupid
My head just full of dumb
My works just full of love
And now it's all undone.
And I hate myself with each one I find again.

Thank you, everyone, for your kind words, I can't express enough how happy I am that I actually made Daily poem <3
i was once a piece
of beautiful paper,
cut into a heart-shape,
colored with red and
neatly placed at the left
side of my chest.

and then you came
with your heart on fire,
i am enchanted by your warmth
that i let you embrace me.
but i never thought that your fire,
would burn me down.

i was once a piece
of beautiful paper.
but now,
i am no more than
a piece of small gray particles,
ashes,
forgotten ashes
scattered by the wind

never to be found

©IGMS
 Oct 2016 writerReader
okayindigo
My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.
 Oct 2016 writerReader
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
 Oct 2016 writerReader
Illya Oz
When my day is feeling gray
And my mind is in disarray
I look outside
Only to find
A blue butterfly
Fluttering through the sky

When I saw the blue
Of its wings as it flew
It brought a smile to my face
As its wings flap with grace
It brings happiness in its wake
And many friends does it make*
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ
For my friend Kirashma, who is always so kind and friendly and always makes people happy just like the blue butterfly.
You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.
The last line was pilfered from a Victorian grave stone. It was too beautiful to leave there.
Thousands of us were displaced
Started careers late
Not lucky enough to have had great jobs

So we work hard
Put ourselves through night school
While taking care of family

Finally ...
Yes, yeah,  whoopee
Did it !
Once again completed school

Another certificate added to the growing list of achievements.
More bills owed to uncle Sam

Going on numerous job interviews
No one's responding
Instead ...
All this knowledge stored in your head

Current jobs pays minimum wages
Those colleges attended; mounting

When you try to get ahead  -
They hold on to their employments
As if,
It's Rocket science

Looking for younger, greener admits

Once AARP comes a knocking on
Your door
You know they don't want your
Expertise anymore

What's one to do
Still strong, healthy, seasoned
Educated, no strings to boot

Hopelessly stuck in a world of
"We will call you "

So at the tender age of fifty
Thoughts of starting your own business floats in your head

Right
Now, back to school
For another certificate
A chance to use that knowledge
Put bread on the table
Feel useful

Quality of life renewed.

JRap /2016
 Oct 2016 writerReader
Emily B
Sometimes I wonder

if I even survived
my childhood.

Maybe some part of me
is sleeping
up on the hill.

One of those
Nightmares
That I couldn't escape
Carried me off
In its jaws

and so maybe
I am planted.
Looking down
At all the people
I can't remember.

I hope that I am ashes.
I never wanted a stone.
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