Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Sep 2013 Kate
Morgan Barclay
Hope
 Sep 2013 Kate
Morgan Barclay
Why- I’ve been thinking a lot lately
a surprising notion for someone as vapid as I am, I know
but the sentiment still remains
thought- it has been happening
and I’ve come to the grand conclusion
I make a horrible poet
no teenage angst, no head over heel love
a surprising lack of passion for a girl my age
sixteen is supposed to be my prime emotional state
so why do I feel so empty
Imagine your excitement- Easter Morning- 2006
basket brimming with gelatinous ooze and future cavities
when you see it there
cradled in between the silky green plastic strings
Mega Jumbo Chocolate Easter Bunny
your little heart beats faster, faster, faster
until you take a bite
and dread is the only thing that takes place
of that once so familiar savory sweetness
hollow- the bunny is hollow
It’s nothing more than a disappointment really
to look up at the stars and just see stars
to smell the crisp turning of autumn in the air
to watch the inch worm dance despite the distance
to wonder upon the cute boy across the room
and feel nothing
Maybe I’m thinking too much
Maybe I’m just repressing that deep down hatred of myself
that society seems so keen on me having
Maybe I don’t want to be a poet
Maybe I want to be a poem
Yes, I want to be a poem
dripping in catharsis
melting to the very point of emotional vulnerability
tearing away the mask you hide behind
yes, I want to be that metaphorical nonsense you call art
I want to be the words you bravely hide behind
to tell your story like no other medium can
I want to feel the daggers in my sides
and I want to fly to the moon
I want to be emotion
I want to be real
I want to be a poem
but that’s just a little too nonsensical, isn’t it?
dream big, stay small, hope’s how you grow them all
but hope isn’t happiness, is it?
hope isn’t real, is it?
hope is a vapid emotion
perfect for a girl like me
 Sep 2013 Kate
R
astronomy and art?
 Sep 2013 Kate
R
people ask me what i
believe in all the time.
maybe god or buddhism or
maybe even poems that
rhyme.
but i believe in
the universe and
the art that surrounds me
so,
there is a black hole in the
middle
that not many people
do know.
i believe in art
and the smiles on
her face,
i also fall for her
and her un denying
grace.
i believe in books
wether fiction or
not,
i believe in the facts that
tell me the sun is
hot.
I've heard that there isn't
any room for God in
science,
but maybe there is if
you show some
appliance.
and the stars that shine
above,
are hydrogen gases that push and
shove.

the middle of our galaxy is
a massive black hole,
not even light can escape,
nothing ever whole.
you see the parts of me,
and you think, "oh shes so fine!"
but deep inside of me is
that black hole heart  of
mine.
 Sep 2013 Kate
berry
i am a terrible liar

when i was six, and my father
asked me if i had brushed my teeth,
i hadn't, but to avoid a scolding,
i told him yes

the popcorn kernel stuck in my teeth
and my blushing cheeks gave me away,
he marched me to the bathroom

when i was ten, my mother asked me
if i'd snuck a cookie before dinner,
i hid my chocolate-covered fingers behind my back
and told her no

i forgot about the evidence right below my lip,
she laughed and shook her head,
i was given extra broccoli

when i was fourteen and my crush rejected me,
he asked me if our friendship would be awkward,
i didn't want him to feel guilty,
so i told him no

we stopped talking altogether
and for a little while it kind of hurt,
but he wasn't very cute anyway

when i was eighteen and the boy i loved broke my heart
then proceeded to ask me if i was okay,
i choked back my tears,
and i told him yes

he knew it wasn't true,
but he was all out of "i'm sorry's"
and two-hundred miles was too far for him

when you first told me that you loved me
you asked if i could ever think of you as more than a friend,
i was flooded with fear and memories of hurt,
and my first impulse was to tell you no

but then i remembered
i am a terrible liar

m.f.
 Sep 2013 Kate
Olga Valerevna
My mother was right but how did she know
How did she speak of the places I'd go
With intricate detail she'd planted her words
Carried like shadows by taciturn birds
In them and their silence I quieted mine
Rested my head on the backs of their spines
Sleepy and silent I took up my wings
I flew to the outskirts of everything
Biting my tongue to the people I saw
The ones in the middle, the warmest of all
The message I harbored was meant to be shown
But only to those who are not on their own
Verbally challenged and mentally worn
Remembered my mother, of whom I was born
*Follow the patterns you see on the wind
Feather the weather to end and begin
Yudenko
 Sep 2013 Kate
fragile
You make me sad
and that's why
I like talking to her
more than you.

But talking to her
makes me sad
because she makes me
happy

and the only person
who should make me
happy
should be you
She draws a narrow black line
On the outside of her eye.
"It keeps me awake", she said
But that was merely a lie.

Eyelashes covered thick,
Defined and long
To even-out the contrast
Of that black line she put on.

The day rolls by slowly,
That black line starts to fade.
Her eyelashes erode,
Yet no notice has she made.

She spies her reflection,
Screams for a bathroom - or a booth?
It isn't that long before
She discovers the truth.

There was no narrow black line
On the outside of her eye,
Though she still looked beautiful
And it eased her troubled mind.
Wrote this a few years back, it's hardly a literary work of genius but special to me none the less.
 Sep 2013 Kate
Phoenix93
How I Lie
 Sep 2013 Kate
Phoenix93
How many times will I lie and say I'm fine?
Put a smile on my face and pretend I'm alright.

No one knows the difference. I'm too good to fail.
Who will see through the mask? See that I am frail.

I'm so afraid to ask for help. Too proud to tell the truth.
Yet I want so badly to try. But I'm far too hesitant to move.

Every lie just piles up with the others. Always bringing me down.
I feel like the king of sorrow. The scars inside are my crown.

I wish someone would find me here and pull me from this hell.
I wish I wasn't so proud and afraid. All I want to do is yell.

I'm not sure where to turn anymore, and I honestly don't care.
I hate my own apathy. I'm so tired of the fact that I'm scared.

But oh, how I lie. I pretend that I'm still fine.
As if no pain surrounds me. Truth is, I wish I could die.
Next page