mollie Mar 12
for most, the closer to someone you get, the more they open up;
the more words slip past their lips, unfiltered,
more unrestrained laughter,
more indulgent smiles.

but for me,
it's a little bit different.

because, you see,
the closer we get, the quieter i become,
because i know that if you are truly special,
you won't mind the quiet very much.
my level of presence goes from uncomfortable + quiet around strangers, to loud around acquaintances, to very loud around friends, to contented quiet again around best friends. i guess i don't feel the need to assert + prove myself around the people i love. :)
mollie Feb 23
the other night, a girl came to me.
she was sitting beneath a twisting willow, with white lilies sprouting outward from its branches.

she was not sad, not exactly, but she was quiet
she tucked back her thick, curly white hair with pale fingers,
and she told me,

                    "you shouldn't sit under this tree."

"it eats memories," and she began to stroke its trunk, and she said,
"i know because it ate mine."

but i sat under the tree with her, because it truly was lovely,
and eventually began to fade
as i slowly forgot

i remembered her, though.
she held my hand all the way through, and
                                                             ­       if i could just recall her face
i know that she would have been sad,
but i know she would have still smiled softly.

with lilies scattered in the wind, white as her hair but never touching her,
where i slowly faded in her lap,
i remembered her whispering,

        "you'll be okay."
this dream i had a few months ago is still on my mind all the time. i think about her a lot
mollie Feb 22
sitting underneath the stairs, i realized suddenly:
i could die here.

i could die here,
and would anyone know?
i could die here, under the dirty staircase,
and nothing would change.

a friend of mine came for me eventually;

someone i don't know too well,
but well enough.

and she squeezed my hand and told me,
"you're not alone."

as my breathing grew ragged and my chest constricted and my eyes ached, i belatedly realized that was the most terrifying prospect of all.
only thing worse than feeling alone is knowing that so many others feel alone... hope everyone out there is feeling loved.
mollie Feb 10
he wakes, and there is no romantic moment of hesitation;

no soft light streaming through shutters, fluttering on his face,
no subtle smell of something cooking,
no person to nudge him, smile at him, tell him,
"good morning, sleepyhead."

instead, it is dark and empty and silent.

he gets up anyways,
for he is only alive so long as he keeps moving.
mollie Dec 2017
Here is a man
Draped in the land, reflected in sand
He’s standing over me
By unsettled waters, crawling to sea
He’s staring at me
Controlling my brain, whispering what I ought to be

So, what’s the point of singing if no one will ever hear it?
What’s the point of screaming out loud?
I’m trapped inside this small transparent box with no exit
And nobody is coming around

You regret it, I wondered if you said it,
But our world, we only fed it
Feels so good to be blissfully alone

Remember that night we shared our remorse? In a dream, of course.
I knew you would stay. There was never any question.

That doesn’t mean I can’t be bitter.
im not sure abt this either lol but. here
mollie Dec 2017
When asked how I am feeling, I often point
To the duck, who is, in my opinion,
One of the most tragic creatures the Earth has to offer.

A duck, which never fails to look effortless,
Which treads the stream it occupies
As if it barely even thinks to float.

As though the willful, ambivalent direction it takes
Is the most natural thing in the world for it,
As if it stays peacefully afloat, and moves its own direction,
With precision, with ease, with barely a thought.

But beneath the white water surface,
The duck is kicking.
Every moment is a scramble
    a struggle
        a desperate battle.

And with one wrong move,
It will be caught in the rushing stream,
White water choking and suffocating and dragging it down.
And it will have gone beyond the point of return.

For a duck does not float.
It fights.
And the curse of a duck is to look effortless.
mollie Dec 2017
her name is 3 am, and i love her
her lips taste of unwashed sweetness and fruit,
so close but yet untouchable.

she is false, a sensation, a vestige
of what is or was or will be
she sounds like softness and static,
and it must be the most beautiful thing i’ve ever heard.

it’s not every night i meet her.
the moon tempts me as well,
drawing me into her web of silence
and, if only for a moment, i forget 3 am.

but sleepless nights always bring me back,
as she sits patiently on the foot of my bed,
greeting me, ghosting softly over my eyes,
her embrace of emptiness promising to never leave.
first-timer poet, constructive criticism is always appreciated ^^ please be gentle on me lol! (i know this is kinda a pretentious poem but i like it so oh well)

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