Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  Jan 2015 Kate Nagle
Meg Howell
Here I am sitting on a park bench
thinking about you

Yes, I miss you wildly
No, I will not crawl back

Being without you has made me tougher
I no longer rely on you and your quick, witty humor to get me through the day

So, as the sun falls,
and a new day begins,
I don't need you
The world is calling my name
for better things
that you may not be a part of

But, then again,
I wouldn't mind if you came along
Kate Nagle Jan 2015
stop comparing yourself to others, you will never be them, and they will never be you.
2. when you listen to music, really listen. a record can be more comforting than people ever could.
3. if you finally fall asleep at 4:00am and you can't bring yourself to get out of bed that morning, don't. your mental health is more important than school with ever be, baby girl.
4. do not be ashamed of feeling broken, it means you know how to survive.
5. people come and go, some are poems, some are novels. those who are meant to stay, will stay.
6. and when he drinks 6 beers and drives to your house and screams that he loves you and wants you back, you lock your door and close your curtains. train yourself in the art of forgetting.
7. you'll make it through baby, you'll be okay.
  Jan 2015 Kate Nagle
Douglas Scheurn
Breathe in the toxic aroma,
Pills of pnemonia...
the suffocating Lullaby.
Yell into the flashing sky.
Dark affliction,
My addiction.
Shadow hands ascends from the deep seated,
Rows of dirt remain unseeded.
March rolls in as the month of January,
A live child born at the mortuary.

Open your eyes to another color,
Inject within a syringe of thunder. *

Carpe Diem
  Jan 2015 Kate Nagle
Kiernan Norman
I picture them in a balmy hallway,
far-corner huddled; quietly, urgently
comparing their notes on ways I have loved.

They'll laugh at lame jokes and avoid eye contact,
each surprised by their own awkwardness.
One of them will quip the term
'eskimo brother'
and immediately wish he hadn't.
The rest will kindly ignore it.
The moment will pass.

They will slowly shed their discomfort.
They will remove their coats.
Sweat will bloom at collars
and trace knotty bumps of spine before
pooling into the space between
boxers and belt.

They won't openly discuss the
strange comradery
that accompanies the lazy river evenings spent drifting down the same mind-
but the tension pulling across
each of their jaws
will announce loud and clear
how frustrating it has
been to be cropped,
tucked in, paper fortune teller folded
and wrapped up into someone else’s idea of poetry.

then all at once,
they will get started.
Printed pages will uncoil from backpacks,
phones will emerge from pockets
and fingers slightly shaking
will chase the letters
of my name through search engines.

My sticky poems will fan out across floorboards.
They will lower their bodies carefully, not quite kneeling,
(and without mention of the bad knees they happen to share.)
They'll hover above each piece of evidence
and their eyes will crash along titles and memories-
they'll read with raised
eyebrows and pretend as if
they don't already know
each poem, each quick dig, by heart.

When they start claiming
and denying pieces
they will do so lightly
and without judgment.
'This piece is about you and the dry, delicate
tissue-shell of skin
she held out for you after you told
her to shed.
But this piece- this piece is about me
and the messy ointment
that ruined her clothes and
stained her blankets.
A doctor instructed she
apply the ointment to her hands
twice a day to treat
the burns my silence left
across her arms and throat.'

They will share a bit of rage,
A bit of regret.
A bit of shame, perhaps.
They will either miss me intensely
or not at all.
They will either own up
to the poems they begat
or begin refuting.
They don’t want any of
this chilly weight on their soul.
I understand.

They didn’t sign up for this, I know that.
They didn’t set out to rock me,
nor to dig down deep and get to my China.
I was happy to share, to whisper and recite blurry
morning confessions and epiphanies.
I was right behind them running toward the sand dunes,
waving a shovel and pail.
But I can’t feel bad either.
You all must have known:

If you happen to fall for a girl
who writes you must realize
that every smile you put on her face,
every stray hair you’ve pushed back from her eyes,
and quick habit she starts to crave
is fair game.

If a girl who writes happens to fall for you too--
forget it.
You will find echoes of the way your souls fit and fought
together until she has nothing left to feel on the subject;
(and you must be well aware
she's tidal, her feelings are icecaps,
they are melting but will trickle fresh
and renewed for centuries to come.)
  Jan 2015 Kate Nagle
Carsyn Smith
They found me curled up in your old Tshirt
Old notes ripped and crumpled from a strong grip
And trembling from the withdraw

I thought I knew nothing of addiction
Until I tried 24 hours without --
Without craving you in some way.

The sound of your name is like
A sip of alcohol to an AA member

Your cologne is a shot of ******:
Exciting and gone before you know it

Your eyes are like a sniff of coke
Making my whole body shiver

Your touch is like sitting in a haze
Relaxing, familiar, amnesic…

I wish everything you did could go away,
So when I take a draw tonight,
The smoke won't have anything to cover.
I don't understand why I miss you so much, when I know you're no good for me
Next page