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bs Feb 1
and in that deafening silence,
i’ve never wished more to be heard,
wracked with endless demurs of regret and remorse –
impure, impure, impure.

ii.
but it’s my choice, isn’t it?
to bear the knot of pearls come undone,
to feel it shift from skin to soul,
to speak of loving, and then let go.
(i see this now as a luxury i could not afford.) iii.
if i don’t rise come blooming spring,
ring the church bells for those left unheard,
wash the red from the bed sheets,
please unhinge my strife from the earth;

and know this:

a man is no longer a man,
after his unbidden pillage,
has left an innocent soul shaken;
unholy.

holy, holy, holy.
  Sep 2018 bs
Jenna
I fell in love with the boy before you slowly,
With the kind words dripping from his mouth like molasses,
Sugar coated compliments that melt on the tongue
To reveal sticky lies and deception,
Sweet remarks surrounding insults.

He would trot out his trustworthiness
And give me the names of other girls he loved in the same second.
He would tell me I was beautiful
And a list of ways to change on the same day.
He would swear our relationship was built on anything but ***
And describe his idealization of **** as revenge in the same month.

He told me the worst thing I ever did to him
Was not say I love you even if I meant it more than enough.
The worst thing he ever did to me
Was say it too much and never mean it once.

I am still learning how to not love a ghost,
How to stop painting in rose streaks
Over his terrible actuality.
I am still learning to hate the reality.

I do not want you to become another poem.
For your sake I wonder,
Is it harder to be the girl stuck on someone cruel
Or to be the boy in love with that girl?
"When I asked her what she loved about him, she says, I know this is bad, but he was so terrible to me that I never ran out of things to write about. I wonder if she wants a lover or a writing prompt. There is a certain high to hating yourself." -The Kindest Thing She Almost Did by Blythe Baird
  Jun 2018 bs
strawberry fields
the sun drips
like
a
yellow yolk

oozes
down
the gold knots
of my spine
breathe the first of Spring days
the radio plays our favorite song

i see you backwards
quickly
all the times we had
vulnerable;
gone.

the sky is blue, the lake is blue
your eyes are blu
and they say i look like your
sister
oh gods. help me
i can’t feel anything
except you
and everything here is you
Edit: Thanks everybody! I didn’t realize this was a daily until later.
  Jun 2018 bs
Meera
You spend your nights tossing and turning on your creaky bed
You hug your demons like a teddy bear
You try to hush your cries for sometime
But still a tear or two escape from your eyes
You attempt to think about the old happy times
But you can't evade the darkness that surrounds you
Sleep has abandoned you like your lost love
And all you do is stare at the ceiling above
You are broken tormented and terrified
In a vicious circle of emptiness and sufferings
You crave for the warmth of your lover's arms
But all you get is the coldness of your bed
For tonight, my friend let the moon be our messenger
Through it lets talk about our broken hearts, lost love and shattered dreams
Let's talk about the pain that clouds our eyes
Let's share the warm hugs of kindness
Amidst this pain, let's not forget that we are warriors
Souls who refuse to give in
We'll fight against our demons like the warriors we are
We'll rise above this world once and for all
Never give up
bs Jun 2018
you called us the perfect match that one birthday, i felt my bag of seeds fall onto the open sidewalk, the twines ravel into discoid around my feet and make me think your words are water to be sipped from your open mouth, your hand snaked my waist as the roots pulled me farther away from the night you told me you don’t want to bend over backwards for my knees anymore, my Puma’s always gave you cold feet but my inner thighs were still Ghadames enough for you to set up a tent, or perhaps, steal one I thought I had saved for someone special.

you called us the perfect match that one day. i saw you leave that sentence in the fridge and sip them five days later, face wedged somewhere in between the biting humour of my psyche like a power station without a generator and the never ending exploitation of the little blonde girl named weakness who found a place in my fingertips so close to your face, in my wallet, in the place I once used to be able to rest, but these shoulders, opened orifices for black holes, like Falstaffian stars that caved in, that were anything but the empty space we occupied on the benches of basketball courts.

Three days after I started writing this and the urge to your clouds hover over me once again glistens like a poison apple I don’t want to confess to biting, because this pain is biting, and there is only space for one. I don’t want to eat the cake at three am and hope no one notices it again, because they will, they will see it from the icing on my lips and the grime on my fingertips. I miss your smell already thought it sells for 10 dollars at the corner shop. But its you, its you, its just you. Your kisses on my cheek after we fight. It is wrong that I consider this a sweet moment. It stems at you pouring my blood into a kettle and leaving it to cook. But this liquid will not evaporate.
But I know these tears will.
Though our sheets remain stained, my cheeks won't.
  Jun 2018 bs
Alissa Rogers
The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure; I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth,
a consequence of boredom.
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons.
I am today, you are only last night.
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