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 Sep 2017 Emma
The one
Home
 Sep 2017 Emma
The one
I could write about returning to the country of my birth, I could write about a place. I could write about the chilly air, i could write about the tiny house. I could...


...instead, write about returning home. 

My home doesn't consist of rooms, no floor, no beds. No, my home had two blinking hazel eyes. My home had the purest heart. My home cannot be returned to. Dad, my home, please return to me. 

"The world is not a wish granting factory" -TFIOS

If I could return home, father would welcome me in with his warm embrace. his glinting eyes would smile.

I sit here crying, wishing, hoping that one day I, like the rest of you, could return home. 

They say in heaven, one blink to them is our lifetime. Dear father, please, blink.
Blink, blink
 Sep 2017 Emma
abi evans
8:03 pm
 Sep 2017 Emma
abi evans
you used to park outside my house
and just wait there
because you knew i'd come out to get you
and bring you inside with me

i used to always keep my curtains open
so i could see when you'd come
and park
but never tell me when
so i was always unaware of when you'd be here
or why

why you were ever here never comes to mind
if you insist to everyone i wasted your time
believe me darling,
i wish i could say that you wasted mine.

i still keep my curtains open
but i should know better by now.

you won't be back.
 Sep 2017 Emma
Nathan
Beautiful
 Sep 2017 Emma
Nathan
You're a dream
That crawled into my bed
And never came true

You're a laugh
          About to burst into tears

What you are
          Is vague
                And beautiful
 Sep 2017 Emma
Donall Dempsey
LOVE REMEMBERED

all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling

her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door

from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss

a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch

the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass

rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat

a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road

the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is

I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."
 Sep 2017 Emma
oliver g wilikers
don't waste your breath
telling me to get better, talk ***** to me
don't hold your breath
hoping i try to help myself.
if you're going to hold my neck
hold it a lot tighter than that,
don't forget to push down
on my windpipe with your palm,
we're wrapped up in these bedsheets
because i want you to hurt me.
i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten
where it's begun to tear away at my flesh
and i like to feel real tangible knots
when i'm ******* in self loathing.
i struggle to find the line between
lovesick and depressed or
being a *******. what's the big difference.
either way i wake up with bruised
blue lips and oxygen deprivation,
and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids,
and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means
i'm still breathing slightly.
i wanted you to **** me.
 Sep 2017 Emma
Miya
Pain
 Sep 2017 Emma
Miya
Pain ...highly unpleasant physical sensation caused by illness or injury.
"She's in great pain". Yes, yes she is in pain the sensation of tallying the days till her recovery covered her body because she never did. Her fingertips spent more time down her throat because she never learned anything but destruction. She mimicked the world in her head treating her body as if it has inflicted the most Haines crimes but she was the only one with the blade. The only one with a distorted mind she would crave the feeling as if she was hooked like we are to our tv shows the show was in her mind the silver pen she would use only came out in red a colour she know oh so well the red stained her bathroom floors as she lay there as the only thing that made her feel better now made her feel worst. She walked around with sleeves hiding her wounds from the world because they laughed at her they would yell her name as if it was the only chant they know she would cut through her skin for her temporary escape. Tears where now are apart of her face.the mirror was her worst enemy just after her mind the cracked glass lay on the floor as if they were phases of the heart that she once had now lain in the hands of all the men that shattered it. The empty hole in her heart would bleed like a gun shot but she wished it was each night praying to the gods above hoping for tomorrow to be a new day but **** him it was just like the last. As she got down on her knees and said amen I mean AMEN to the man the world cherished she prayed like the holy books taught her but he stayed as if she didn't. Now she wasn't only worthless to herself but now to him. Useless just in the background only ever used as a playground
 Sep 2017 Emma
S C Netha
When we sat at our desks
heads hung low over papers
and computers, furiously
pouring out our wildest dreams
and deepest feelings into words.
For others to read
For the universe to fulfill.
We were poets

                             But when we stood up
                      and joined our loved ones
                      in daily conversations and
                          laughter, at dinners and.  
                          picnics and concerts
                    and enjoyed the adventures
                   of shared experiences
            and similarities and differences,
                      We became the poetry.

When we left the safe cocoon of
solitude to meet people and
make friends and fall in love
with souls with eyes we'd
never forget and bodies
we never knew we craved.
Pieces of us we didn't know
were missing but now couldn't
live without. We became poetry.

When we shakily dotted that final "I"
with wrinkled hands and laboured
up the stairs to lie down next
to our soul mates. Heads filled
with experiences and memories
of adventures, weddings, birthdays
lessons learnt and loved ones lost
passions fulfilled and legacies built

When we laid down in the arms
of our loves and watched the moments
play in our eyes one last time
and waited for the show to stop
and for the curtains to close
To take the final bow and close
our eyes for the last time
while our breaths
left our bodies and our loves wept
while looking down at the shell of what
we used to be.
Holding it in their arms.
There in that moment, my friend
We became the poetry.
Art imitates life imitates art
 Sep 2017 Emma
mei
she
 Sep 2017 Emma
mei
she
her lips are like honey
but she is sweeter
than nectar and
thicker than molasses

they taste her with
the tips of their tongues
yet they do not swallow
anything

her hair is black
but she is darker than
the night when the sky
is still and the stars have
gone to sleep

they search for
something they cannot find
lost in the fragile
strands of her tresses

her eyes are like bronze
medallions glimmering
in the sunlight shown
to many to say: 'i did it.
please remember me.'

when she smiles they
curve like the crescent
moon when it is eight
in the evening and the
sun bids goodbye

she is the mystery and
she is the detective
hired to solve all the problems
everyone else encounters
around her

she is the question and
she is the answer

she is
for the person i aim to become
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