Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
19.7k · Jun 2014
Video games
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
Enter the world of color
Of competition
And danger.
Where all things seem possible and
Nothing is unexpected
Where enemies
Are tricky
Cunning and  just plain stupid
Fat and lazy.
Where an Italian man
With a moustache
And wearing red

Yes that is the world I
Am speaking of.
The world of the wishful,
Dreaming they could live in it forever
6.4k · Aug 2014
Iris Rebry Aug 2014
We both have felt like charred trees,
Tearing out each other's roots and
Setting each other's roots on fire.
We've fought
Tooth and nail
Clawing out each other's eyes,
So we can't see.
But today you smiled.
And for once I felt bad.
You were alone friend.
And yet I left you.
I meant to be nice.
But what to say?
We need to replant our
Scorched roots
And hope that the seedlings
Sprout in the wake of our
Beautiful disasters.
4.4k · Sep 2014
Math vs English
Iris Rebry Sep 2014
I am a writer,
And artist if you will.
I dig my claws into my emotion.
I grab it with white knuckles like
The ghost of my visions.
I make beautiful things out of trash.
Tell me if you can,
Can you show me hatred and fear
In the cold hard brittle equations
You use?
Where is love at first sight in the quadratic equation?
Or the happiness I feel,
Is that in the Pythagorean theorem?
Tell me if you know.
I'm curious
3.9k · Oct 2014
Iris Rebry Oct 2014
Long and thin,
Claw like,
Like spider's legs
They run
Faster and faster,
The talon-like nails tapping
The table,
Mimicking Beethoven's fifth symphony
We grasp
We clench
With white knuckles
a cold white
A hard white
An icy white
Holding onto the last life we have.
Without fingers,
We cannot hold each other's hands,
We cannot play music,
We cannot write our thoughts.
We are not human,
Without our
3.5k · Jul 2014
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
Yeah they're my family,
Sometimes I'm embarrassed
Sometimes I'm proud.
I'm stuck for five days straight
With the lot of them.
And part of me
Wants out.
Free yourself
Run away.
And part of me says
Yeah they're my family.
Stick with 'em.
And I stay in the car,
Sitting and thinking.
About myself.
My life without my family.
After college, after getting a real job
And starting my own family,
So my own daughter will think
Yeah they're my family.
2.7k · Jul 2014
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
Considered the staple of life
Is nothing more than ground up
Grain from
The ground.
What so many peasants fought for in
France and Russia
Is nothing more than
Carbohydrates smushed together
What everyone eats today,
Is nothing more than gluten free,
Wheat or multigrain.

But could some thing so simple
Be so important?
2.3k · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
And there's been a funeral,
I've cried,
Shed a tear,
Hugged my grandma
And put a smile on my face.
It's Sunday
And it's Father's Day.
And I've cried
Hugged my father figure
And prayed for my grandma
It's Sunday.
Church choir sang
And I've cried.
Because it's Sunday.
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
I sit, fingers dancing,
while the trumpets' notes are a'prancing,
it seems like music is romancing,
and Beethoven is laughing.

Da da da da, da da da da, the motif continues,
and I am deep within the throes,
of some of the deepest woes,
and Beethoven is laughing.

Don't you see the smile,
the rapid bowing of the bases all the while?
why do you seem to be beguiled?
And Beethoven is laughing.

Tell me, do you not hear the first movement in the third?
Is not the motif to be heard?
do you not get the seemingly absurd
Beethoven is laughing.
2.2k · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
I lie on the bed,
But then the screech of the two metal
Arms wakes me up
And I feel the hot wax just above
My eyelid.
And I feel the heat on the sensitive skin
And I harden what muscles I can
When she tears off my hair.
That I will never get back
2.0k · Dec 2014
Iris Rebry Dec 2014
"Time is but a stream I goa-fishing in"
"Who could bear the whips and scorns of time?"
"I wasted time, and now time doth waste me."
"Yesterday's the past, tomorrow's the future, but today's a gift. That's why it's called the present."
"Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana."
"Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted."
"Time heals all wounds."
And tell me, are you ready for the clocks to stop?
For your life to be poured out like sand, into a pyramid made of the sands of time?
Are you ready
Or not?
1.8k · Aug 2014
Writers are liars
Iris Rebry Aug 2014
We twist words,
So they look like beautiful
Cylindrical knots
Than the lines they really are.
Art is never really made out of
Straight lines,
It comes with curves, tangles,
And mystery.
Writers are liars.
We embellish, we polish,
We try to put as much spice in your
Cup of coffee just so you can hear us
We lie. Hard. Yeah there's no such place as "hobbiton"
And Sherlock Holmes was never a real person.
And there's no district 12 where Romeo met Juliet.
All lies.
But yet, we love them.
We scream feed us more.
Writers are liars, but we also ******
Mirder out characters
When we get bored with them.
You think Moriarty was bad,
See the man penning his words,
His soul is darker than death.
We are liars. And thats why we are good writers. Because we
Don't need the truth to support ourselves.
1.6k · Jul 2014
Aquarium museum 2
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
I see their eyes,
Wide open
Months as open as tea trays.
Fish, lots and lots of fish.
Sharks, rays, tuna, jellyfish, octopus.
All in different tanks,
Sleeping, eating, swimming.
But what if we are nothing but just
Another school of fish,
More advanced
Sleeping, eating, swimming.
Different types of people:
Tall, short, thin, fat, extrovert, introvert,
So really fish are watching fish.
Where is the sense in that?
1.6k · May 2014
Iris Rebry May 2014
I have big hair
Hair that looks like medusa
Using loreal.
I have hair that is a
Short version of Merida
But isn't as firey as the mad hatter's
Hair but is
Big enough to be called that type
No I didn't stick my finger
In a light socket today
It's just my hair
That seems untamable at the very least
An accomplishment for anyone
I will never control it
And yet it is almost a super power
To have untamable
1.6k · Apr 2014
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
I am dying
Because I am running out of yarn
But I don't mean this literally
Of course not
Laugh near me
But don't laugh with me.
What if all of our lives
Are woven into a tapestry
Called fate?
And I'm dying because I'm running out of yarn.
No knitting for the knitter
The artist is out of supplies
Full of ideas
But where are the practicalities
In ideas without the supplies?
No one knows
So here's me
Wanting yarn
More scarves, more hats
More happy faces
That I can give them smiles
And I am dying
Without happiness
1.6k · Mar 2015
Iris Rebry Mar 2015
Dear vanity,
I don't mean to sound offensive,
But I really don't have time for you.
I struggle to make time for all the whims and worries you wear down upon my weary body,
The lies you tell, the lies you sing,
Oh this will only take a second,
Oh you have a curl out of place.
I have other things I am enslaved to that I must serve besides you.
Oh vanity, why do you continually haunt me?
You twist me up in your lies, twisting and wrapping and binding and tying me up in your lies so tight I can hardly move.
You say it'll make me have friends,
But we've already been down that bend.
For you oh vanity
Do I squirm and writhe as someone plucks out my hairs one by one like a mediaeval torture device.
For you oh vanity
Do I crinkle my nose as I pinch a blemish on my skin.
For you oh vanity do I trim my hair the way you like it so I can be in style
For you oh vanity do I wear a smile
So dear vanity,
I don't mean to be offensive
But I really don't have time for you.
1.6k · Jul 2014
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
Is electricity
In my tongue.
I can hear the
Zap! Zap! As i
Taste nothing but it's cold
And I remember,
Edison didn't come up with this
Tesla didn't either.
But instead it came up in its
Poking up out f the dirt.
And no one realized it was
I take another sip and I remember
Peppermint is my favorite
And I crinkle my nose
In a good way
And my face breaks out into a smile
1.5k · May 2014
Iris Rebry May 2014
Sitting on the ground
On ear listening to music
Out of my headphones
And talking at the same time
Double take
Double trouble
Double face
Double life
1.5k · May 2014
Expect me
Iris Rebry May 2014
You expect me to like you
After you've asked me to prom
You expect me to say yes and no
And to grin and bear it
And to introduce myself to your friends
Because you won't introduce me
Expect me to be "happy" with the
Stigma you gave me
Because you have made everyone
Silently expect
What you expect of me
You have made me famous
A celebrity and when people
Ask if I'm the girl you went to prom with
I grit my teeth and wonder what I
Did to deserve this stigma
Do me a favor
Expect me
To be alone
Expect me to not love you
But to be an acquaintance not
Even a friend
For that seems to close for me
Expect me to cringe at the sound of
Your name
And try to hide myself from you
And your family
Expect nothing from me
1.4k · Dec 2014
Iris Rebry Dec 2014
One minute I joke and laugh
He says he sees floating lights
Next he's lying on the floor
Twitching violently.
But I keep my calm
I'm in shock.
I can't believe
I breathed.
I survived,
I don't know why,
But I believe in God
1.3k · May 2014
Waiting for my counselor
Iris Rebry May 2014
Who always seems to be busy
When I sit behind two other kids in line
For the person with the beginning of the alphabet
Why does he have so many letters?
1.2k · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
Do I dare try to discover
What I even want?
My fingers
Over clothes
And other useless junk
When I die,
Who'll care what shoes I wore
How many shirts I owned,
What books I read?
The books may outlive me
The shirt outlive the torso
But in legacy,
They will not outlive me.
1.1k · Apr 2014
In the torture chamber
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
They say 4/3 people
Are bad at math,
I guess I am one of them,
Belonging to something finally.
Belonging to a society that hates the
Shape of the number 3
And when asked the
Cosine of pi,the
Best answer
Is the silence of the dead
Welcome to the torture chamber
There's no need for that sign
The sentiments are already
Abandon hope all ye who enter here
There's no need for those famous
Lines they are already
Inside every breathing body
Whose sweat slides down
The sides of their minds
In horror of having to learn the
Pythagorean theorem.
And yet there are some who have
Mastered this death
Some who we call geniuses
Not writers
Not artists
Nor talented speakers
But people who are smart
At what most people are not
Those are the geniuses
Not us
Never us
Never me
1.0k · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
I am angry
Grinding my teeth,
Clenching my fists
I think I will not matter in this world
This world will survive
Without me
I am nothing but a speck of dust
Under your feet.
Why do I matter?
I will become a nobody
I am a nobody
And I cry and cry
But the world offers no comfort.
I am angry
I am mad at myself
I am stupid and fat and ugly
And I matter to no one
1.0k · Jun 2014
Tie dye
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
My hands are dyed.
Dyed as in permanent
Until death do us part.
But I died my hands.
Died as in permanent,
Until death do us part.
921 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
What do I shove in first?
My suitcase an empty canvas
A blank page,
Which I can fill with whatever I want
But also whatever I need.
I have to think about the future.
I have to assume I'll need
This and
This and
And I will make it out alive
To buy my sister
This and
This and
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
The stench is repugnant
The smell of division
And the reeking stench of algebra
The rotting odor of trig
Is stronger than the B.O. Of the kid
Sitting behind me
This is repulsive
I fight to stay awake
But I cannot fight the urge to run
Away far away
To the deepest jungles
To the darkest depths
To that cross in the middle of two
Roads diverged in a yellow wood
Why can't I take the one less traveled by?
But instead the torture is about
To begin
Calling for my blood
Calling for my brain
Calling for my thoughts.
Iris Rebry Mar 2014
Am I not a fool for writing poetry
for the sake of writing poetry?
Am I to be rejected for using words
such as ennui?
Am I to be ****** for figurative language?
Or burned at the stake for
poising a period at the end of
a stream of
And yet my inner critic
yearns to yell
to scream
more words!
more passion!

I see their faces when
they look at me,
their empty eyes,
like corpses.
They believe morals
are paintings on
are currency in Eastern Europe.
They do not know.
They do not drink
in the moments
that they cannot breathe.
They are silent tombstones.
Sinisterly and silently scorning Shakespeare
They trample over
calling him dull.
And I too am seen as a
for thinking of such
fantastical, whimsical

Was it ethical for Socrates to drink Hemlock?
Did they giggle like a couple of school girls
as he downed it like it was a
shot of whiskey?
And yet we heretics
are given the poison
of judgement everyday
swallowing the bitter cup

How much do I remember about not fitting in?
Is there reason to believe I ever will?
And yet faith has accepted the girl with
the curly hair.


All qualities which
poetry blends into
For is not poetry
the expression of passion?
And yet this can be said of communication
in any way:

And yet you don't
see Romeo whispering
the Pythagorean Theorem
to Juliet on her balcony
No it lacks
the Words are not his own.

No true poetry is the language
of the hidden soul,
the quintessence of life.
Yet another quote I will never be
quoted for is:
"Self education is better than none"
but that has nothing to do with poetry
except for how to write it.

And yes, I do enjoy
writing poetry.
and reading it too.
From Dante's inferno
to Poe's Raven
I have swam in the
channels of print
in everyone,
drowning in the words.

And yes, I do enjoy
being a heretic.
I may never stand in,
so all I can do is
Stand out.
This poem, while some might wonder who the "they" is referring to, that I cannot say, for whoever becomes the they will be greatly angered. This poem also was just a slew of thoughts that came into my brain that I had to write down. I had to breathe.
869 · Sep 2014
Iris Rebry Sep 2014
Where is the silence?
I have music coming into one ear,
Buzzing like an insignificant fly
And the chatter, like harsh dischords of symphony, fill my head like a balloon.
Someday it will pop.
And I must find the silence, to fill
It again.
860 · Oct 2014
Iris Rebry Oct 2014
They think I'm weird for seeming so
But does any one else wonder
Why so many people were rejected
With no type of blunders?
People lost God,
They lost their lives,
Am I the only one that feels like crying?
816 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
I'm writing again
I'm breathing again
After weeks and weeks of holding
My breath
And it feels so good
779 · Aug 2014
Iris Rebry Aug 2014
It rips flesh from bone.
It strips away the the lies,
That surround me like a fog.
I breathe in the thick air of my words,
Like cigarette smoke,
Elementary my dear,
I am not a sleuth.
This isn't a mystery.
I am the mystery
750 · Jan 2015
Iris Rebry Jan 2015
You are fad and fantasy
you are placed on a pedestal by the world around you,
And I'm sorry.
I know you enjoy it.
But I will not worship you.
I will not love you as they love you.
I will not bask in your light as if you were the sun
and I was a rose
No. I refuse.
You are my friend.
I believe that, but some days, I do
not care if you are dead or alive.
You are more fad than friend to me.
You embrace your pedestal.
Should I bow at your feet?
Should I kiss the ground you walk on?
Others do.
Girls squeal in your presence.
They want you to love them.
Teachers believe in your talents,
more than the rest of us.
I flit everywhere, like a shadow.
Seen by few, loved by few.
And that's the way it shall be kept.
Believe me, you do not want me.
I do not wear the latest fads.
People can be like this, if the world lets them to be.
733 · May 2014
Cinco de mayo
Iris Rebry May 2014
Today's the day
When people
Down their streets
Away from their houses
Towards the big outstretched arms of liberty
And equality
Today the
Fifth of May
Hooray hooray
I say
With paper flowers on either wrist
I'm American I don't understand
Your culture
Only the diversity of my own.
Which can include yours
But we shouldn't be alone
720 · Oct 2014
I refuse
Iris Rebry Oct 2014
I refuse to explode into a shower of tiny sparkling embers,
Falling through the air like a snow globe when
The going gets tough.
I refuse to blow up like an atomic bomb
And annihilate anyone in my path,
When the going gets tough.
I refuse to hurt others,
Because I hurt myself.
I refuse to hurt the world,
When the world hurts me.
696 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
It might just be the butterflies
In my stomach
Or the ants
In my pants.
Or the beads of sweat,
Glistening like pearls
On my skin,
Or may just be me.
I'm walking out alone
David facing the Goliath of
My nightmares,
Tall and dark
And I'm nervous.
What if everything goes wrong?
Does anyone ever wonder:
What if everything goes right?
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
Sitting on my bed eating noodles
And thinking of when
People didn't like rap in their poetry
After all, it is not rap
That makes a poem beautiful,
But the passion, emotion
And the creation of the soft, silky
Syllables as they slide out of
Your mind and onto the page.
Where is the rap in that?
Why is my poetry to be squished
My heart trampled on
My pearls before the swine
Because it contains no rap
Nor rhyme
Does a poem need these things
To be beautiful?
According to those who
Judge it so narrowly
They cannot see the beauty
To them words coming
Out of my mouth
Must be in order
A straight line
But where is the beauty in that?
Art is not made from straight
Lines but from curved ones.
Poetry is not made
From rap and rhyme scheme
But from the strings and emotions
Of the heart,
When plucked,
Made a mellifluous melody.
There is beauty in that.
694 · Jul 2014
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
Cut this
Keep that.
This is clutter.
This so good.
reword this.
I felt you here.
This is awkward
This is powerful.
I'm being pulled in a tug of war between good and bad.
And sometimes I want to give up.
But I can't.
My piece must be as beautiful
As blown glass.
And even if I die getting there.
It will work.
688 · Sep 2014
Bleedin ink
Iris Rebry Sep 2014
Once I start writing I can never stop.
It's like birth, once you start breathing,
You can never stop.
It's like drugs, once you start using,
You can never stop.
It's like love, once you start loving,
You can never stop.
It's like dying, once you start dying, you can never stop.
Writing is like birth, a new beginning, a blank page a fresh start.
Writing is like a drug, addticting, making me see alternate universes and strange creatures,
Writing is like love, there once was a Romeo and a Juliet. And they lived happily ever after.
Writing is like dying, with each  page that's bleeding ink, you seal a little but more of your soul onto the page. A different kind of horcrux,
One that cannot be broken.
It's written in blood, in ink, in thoughts and dreams.
In life and death
684 · May 2014
Iris Rebry May 2014
I'm in a fog and I can't tell
Which way is true north
Not to mention where trees and hills and rocks are
Nor people either.
I'm in a fog and I couldn't tell you
Why there are voices in my head
And where they come from.
I'm in a fog and
I hear thunder and lightning
Edison and Tesla are at war with each other in the sky
And I'm in a fog
Just listening
And groveling like a coward
Hoping not to be hit
673 · Apr 2014
This poem is a failed idea
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
abridge the air above the aria
because basically I'm bent on balancing books
center to the capacity of culpability
derived from the demonic disappointments
entering my ethnicity.
Forget the foul fate
of  so greatly glazed
a high horse
inside an icy inescapable
jail, where juveniles jinx
Kublai Khan, knocking the kimono
lying lazily upon the lamp.
Mortifying my middle man
never negating the negotiations
of an open opinion
perhaps a pernicious
quagmire, quietly and quickly,
ravenously rages,
sickly. Stop spewing
this title to tempt
under the universe
very volatile in
waiting. Wonder why
Xanthippe from   Xian is
yearning for your
zenith and zeros in

on your words.
if this is all for nothing.
coming up asundering.
their voices thundering.

and I am
staring into a world undone,
wondering where the sun
could be.
And seeing,
it's right behind of me
And I wonder how I got
where I ought to be.
my food for thought is free.
it's the words inside of me.
I tried writing this poem for my school's slam poetry contest, both my mother and sister didn't get it. Poetry is not something that should be explained, but should be felt.
616 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
Makes everything sticky,
It leaves trails of the sap
Stolen from the trees,
With no remorse.
Syrup leaves a trail,
Bread crumbs,
Clues to the puzzle.
Did I eat waffles or pancakes?
606 · May 2014
Over dinner
Iris Rebry May 2014
He asks and it's not like I can be rude
Because I'm not that
Type of person
But yet I'll act nice
Pretend to bat my eyes
Perhaps a wink thrown in there
For good measure
But none of the sincerity
Not from me.
The dinner is the dinner
The table the table
And the napkin is a napkin
Laying there by laying there
Only I lack sincerity
Dripping it you'd think i was
Mrs buttersworth
But he grins and believes
I'm the person I'm showing him
Which is really just smoke and screens
And pretty things,
Not the real girl,
The poet the crazy poet
With a heart brain mouth eyes ears
And made of flesh and bone
Not smoke.
I never knew smoke could be so attractive.
576 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
Is a dichotomy.
It's a mix between the literary
And the story.
The ratios of metaphors
To mind blowers.
Where is the balance?
Then a quote
And back to information again
And I am nothing but the writer
The voice telling the story.
I am unimportant
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
You say what I read is
You say I need to get
The best education I should have.
Thank you auntie the great
And terrible.
I hate your efforts,
But I know you're trying to help me
To get farther.
Than I can reach on my own.
Thank you auntie
My great but terrible
557 · Jul 2014
Iris Rebry Jul 2014
Marble. Their eyes empty and gray,
Lacking life,
They're dead.
Chiseled into stone.
One then another
Four in a row
W, J, R, L
Four names in a list.
Yet not in chronological order.
None smile
Yet we smile at them,
Who are they?
550 · Oct 2014
Edgar Allen Poe
Iris Rebry Oct 2014
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets
Of Baltimore at 4 am.
I too walk the streets of my own mind,
Hearing the raven's cries
And walking up at midnight to the sound of a tell-tale heart
Wondering if it is nothing more
Than the bells in my brain
Or the black cat running up the alleyway.
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets
Of Baltimore at 4 am.
I took have whisked into the shadows
An inky cloak upon my back
Wondering whether my heart feels more like a pit or a pendulum
Or whether I will fall like the house of usher,
A gold bug
In the masque of red death.
Dear Edgar,
We've never met,
But I know why you walked the streets of Baltimore at 4 am.
Never more
William Wilson.
And silence- a fable,
Or is it?
547 · Aug 2014
Squished in a dress
Iris Rebry Aug 2014
I'm wearing stripes on top
With a black skirt
And a band of elastic
Across my waist.
I'm squished into this dress.
Not that it's uncomfortable,
It's just...uncomfortable.
I'm sitting in the backseat of a car
Mom wears polka dots on my right
My dad in a black shirt on my left.
We all press each other's elbows into each other,
Leaving indents.
I'm squished into this car.
And it's kind of uncomfortable.
My dad's hairy arms prickle and tickle me.
536 · Jun 2014
Iris Rebry Jun 2014
Only one nostril works
Only one.
If I am lucky.
I can breathe.
My mouth turns dry like the
Dust on a two hundred year old piano,
My teeth, like the keys, are slowly yellowing.
I'm breathing like I'm opening
Only one eye,
I'm lopsided.
And why must I breathe at all?
534 · Oct 2014
Iris Rebry Oct 2014
I stand alone in a field of wheat.
With a camera,
Pretending I'm texting someone
Only so I don't have to admit I am alone
531 · Apr 2014
Iris Rebry Apr 2014
Why do I call myself
when that is not my name?
Why hide behind a mask
I have fashioned for myself?
Perhaps it's for popularity
Something of that certainty.
But in truth, I have more connection
with Irises, than I realized.

Because I am scared of people,
and I know they are too.
Not all their petals are spread out,
revealing their inner thoughts.
But only a few,
and gradually too.
And I am too similar
to explain,
I reveal more petals to
people I know
than to
I clutch them back,
hiding myself
within myself
till I become
nothing more than a
or a mask.
Or a Iris.
Next page