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 Apr 2016 Kelly
Monica
Becoming who you are
Is not an easy feat.

You have to shed the skin
Of many failed versions.
Prototypes are stowed away,
Blueprints shredded.

Which laugh works?
Is this personality too loud?
Will I be a loser if I don’t go to that party?
Or to that event?
Should I modulate my voice?
Am I too much of a nerd?
Am I not enough of a nerd?
Do these glasses work with my face?
Do these clothes work for my body?

Over and over,
The plans change,
And you change,
And you try to find the best
Version of yourself.
And you wonder why
There’s more than one
To begin with.

You wonder what happened,
To the innocent kid
Who thought her elementary school
Friends would always be there,
And who thought she could do anything.

You look back on yourself
As an athlete.
You look back on yourself
As a writer.
And you wonder why
You became this person
Who will just settle
To get by in life.

You wonder why
You’re constantly at
The drawing board,
Why the things you really
Want to do in life
Are impractical,
And why the things
You’re going to do are
Only semi appealing.

How did you get
****** into this society,
And how did you become this

Automaton with no autonomy?

Why can’t you decide
What’s best for you
Without being wracked with
Guilt?

Looks like you need to be
Reprogrammed  
So we’ll scrap this model
And get back to you
With a new one.

Try not to break it.
This girl I used to know
Is stuck to my ceiling
A miracle of chemistry
Never mind gravity
This strange feeling
That got stuck there and
Died on a school Tuesday
And I remember how the final words
That tasted those soft lips
Sounded like the snap-crackle-crunch of
My spine breaking
How every Wednesday since then is
Bring yourself to work
And I go as a better version of myself
But I always get caught
Somehow
And now that I'm lost out here in the world
It happens somewhere inside my head
And I'd dig it out with a spoon
If only I knew how
And I miss this entire world we had
The quirky things that are no longer there
Like the demolished wood and plastic arcade
The sweet smell of Dr. Peppers and sweaty pennies
Everything feels unreal now
A documentary without an audience
Shot from a million miles away
Beauty is locked behind bulletproof glass
And everything is displayed for us to "touch"
But all we ever get to do is "see"
A cold existence
Without texture
A smudge of something that once was
Splinters and cuts if you get too close
And happiness is stuck in detention
Until you divide yourself with infinity
And pre-order the game of life
Twice
And I remember how
When two people launch their kites
And the storm comes
The strings always find a way to tangle
Until one side snaps
And breaks free of the other
I remember how a penny has two sides
And a world without broken hearts
Is a world without hearts at all
But I miss the games we played
And there's this awkward silence
Like when a game we shared ends
And we both say we're out of pennies;
And one of us lies.
Kids playing grownup games.

Childhood series #9
 Apr 2015 Kelly
N
In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.
 Apr 2015 Kelly
aubrey sochacki
i keep telling myself to stop using you to self medicate

but the sound of your name is enough to close my wounds

remember the night I told you that you're my home and that

i wrote my poems on my skin because i wanted to place them somewhere you would notice

i asked you to take me to the mountains so we could fall in love at the highest peak

you said you wanted to reach into the sky and pull down a star for me

i don't even know who i am anymore. i'm stuck between the person i was before you and the person i am with you.

and now you're gone

sincerely, a girl who could never apologize for loving you
each stanza is a sentence from an unfinished poem of mine.
 Apr 2015 Kelly
Zigmaz F
You know poetry is your life
when you initially wake
and you're already in a conditioned mind state
reciting lines in your head

You know poetry is your life
when you go to bed
and rhymes are drifting you
away into a sleeping state

You know poetry is your life
when you are driving along
and you suddenly pull over
just to scribble down some narrative thoughts

You know poetry is your life
when you are at work
and you refrain from doing your job
just so you can jot down some formal expression

You know poetry is your life
when you are reading the mail
and even names and numbers
inspire a distinctive phrase

You know poetry is your life
when thy words of choice
become rapid fluency
and part of the Shakespearean language

You know poetry is your life
when random collections seamlessly take over
and are scattered everywhere
from journals, to loose papers, hard drives, & accumulating memory

You know poetry is your life
when you begin to realize
and everyday you must traditionally release
the spoken word writes to its divine legacy

You know poetry is your life
when you are typing away
and all of a sudden,
you lose your precious work
yet you can still retrieve the files
from one's own mental database

Poetry is your life
Life is your poetry
Whether you live a good one
Whether you live a bad one
Poetry is real
Poetry is fake
What is it really?
What is it not?

Poetry is your life
A therapeutical salvation
Cycle through the emotional manifestation
Peddle away from the soul's padlock
A spiraling staircase that leads you to freedom
The universal process of exhibiting experience
It's a divine intervention
Revelations of truth and discovery
Creating artful expression of one's existence
You know poetry is your life
Life=poetry=life

poetry for life
 Apr 2015 Kelly
Lauramihaela
I wonder
how many words
have sat on the tip
of your tongue,
waiting to take the plunge
into the world outside,
but have held back
in fear of the fall-

and I wonder
how different your life would be
had those words been set free.
 Mar 2015 Kelly
Devon Webb
Tragedy
 Mar 2015 Kelly
Devon Webb
They say to
write what you know
but I'm just so
sick of
tragedies
 Mar 2015 Kelly
SySy
Belonging
 Mar 2015 Kelly
SySy
I was born into a nation,
therefore my nationality is theirs.

But my parents originate from across the world,
And so my origin is theirs.

More importantly though,
All of our souls have the same home,
Till death,
from birth,
We've resided on Earth.
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