Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Pulse.
bumping, beating, thumping, drumming. Movement. It keeps me going. It keeps me going too much. I am too much. Too much crazy, too much THUMPA THUMPA THUMP.
Flutter.
twisting, shaking, twitching, jumping. Tics. Nervous gestures. All GO GO GO. I can't remember the last time it got me anywhere.
Fear.
anxiety, sadness, anger. I want to be alone. No. I want to be alone with you. No. I want to be nothing. No. Stop making me so angry. I just want STOP STOP STOP. People are too much. I want to be done.
DONE DONE DONE. NO MORE. THUMPA THUMPA THUMP. GO GO GO. STOP STOP STOP. Stop. I'm done. I just need to relax.
You are like a cigarette
I take you in to my lungs and hold you there
And even when you're gone I can still taste you on my lips.
You are like nicotine
Because I know that you are bad for me
But I'll keep going back for more
In the future you will make me sick to my stomach
They'll find me dead
They'll crack open my sternum and find the remnants of you still in my chest.
They'll see my empty lungs from where you've taken my breath away
But like a cigarette, for now, I'll keep smoking.
First month, first seat change. we were on opposite sides, no interaction. I relish this, i am not a
BOLD or EXTROVERTED person
some might say I am shy or introverted
now that the time has come, I am not ready to change seats,
to take the chance of sitting closer, forced interaction,
I am nervous,
but am calmed with the thought that chances are, we'll be seated even farther apart,
I was wrong.
our elbows will brush, our knees will touch, our gazes will meet.
I hear the words coming out of the teachers mouth,
but  am stunned into silence ,
my whole being shaken,
our names are called,
our seats given.
To some, this may seem silly, immature, an overreaction.
For them, this may be true, in this situation calm, collected, thinking: this is no big deal.
But with dread curdling in your stomach as you snap to,
stumbling to your seat,
this is an earthquake shaking the earth, a volcano spitting ashes,
a panic attack waiting to happen.
and it pounces.
seated, trying not to squirm, to shake, to ****;
wondering what he's thinking, trying not to stare.
he thinks you don't see,
the glances he shoots the short foot between you,
thinks your engrossed in the teacher, the clock, the pencil
any thing but him.
But your any thing but engrossed, you see every shake, gaze,
fell every brush of the hand.
Finally, this long hour is over, the mixture of excitement and torture has come to an end.
As is to be expected, on your way still in has gaze, you trip, you stumble, your face cherry red;
embarrassed, but thankful,
that he doesn't have a class with an even more abundant chance of embarrassment.
over the day,
you forget the way he gazes,
his shy way
different from the others,
the way he's taller,
in a way that makes you feel safe, flushed, happy, even if their is no chance of him being yours.
But then lunch comes,
you sit down,
ready to devour food that can only fill your stomach, not your soul as much as you wish it would, or
could;
but looking across,
you spot him, watching you,
his gaze surpassing the walls of people, as much as a shy person wouldn't like,
is it coincidence that he found the one gap with a view of me?
is he staring at me?
what to do?
with all this questing running your mind,
your appetite flee's,
and so do I,
to my safe haven within the books.
tomorrow, the nervousness has subsided, its over, your over, its done.
but then, on the way to first period,
our paths cross,
glances exchanged,
blushes made.
You know that this is not over, not done,
the time has come for class to begin.
I've tried to forget, to overcome this nervousness, but I've been defeated,
ground to a fine powder of nerves by a crush.
our knees bounce in anticipation,
our pencils tap,
our feet twitch.
time to share the book,
the dreaded closeness.
Finally it happens,
the brush of the elbows.
we both feel it,
the sparks that glow blue,
the cheeks that grow red.
we have been given a gift, a chance,
to overcome shyness,
to create something wonderful.
but to take that chance, to accept this gift means time, courage.
and every day until then,
this tension will be relieved
and i will be a nervous wreck.
We started on opposite sides,
but fate pulled us together, forced a chance.
now we sit close, still tense, still wired,
but strangely happy,
exhilarated,
alive.
to this day, he still sits in the gap :)
The years are catching up to her
You can tell
Because she doesn't walk quite as fast
Or have the same smirk on her face
Like she did before she met life.

Although she swears she's just getting older
You can tell she's not just older
She's a little sadder too
Because when she sings
It's not as bright

When she looks at her children
Wishing she could do better
You want to look at them
And wish too
That maybe you could make it better

She loves Christmas
Giving gifts and forgetting stress
Although the dining room table
Is half empty
Leaving only her and her children

Half of a life left to live
You can see that she is scared
But when she looks out the window and smiles,
You just want to tell her
You have life left in you, too.
 Jun 2013 Maria Rodriguez
Mikaila
Oh, listen to that thunder.

My bones crave a sound like that

To fill them with rainwater

And make me glow with lightning.

My heartbeat finds the rhythm of the drops.

The tinny sound as they strike the roof,

The deep twang as they hit the puddles

So hard they churn.

It is a tactile experience, like a well said poem,

It touches.

It touches me, and I want it.

I hunger for the rain on a level I don’t understand.

I need it in a way that there’s no word for

Because the senses so often steal the feeling.

But beyond sense,

I love the rain like it’s a part of my mind, my soul,

Like my veins are the little rivers of water

That run down the pavement

Like my eyes are storm clouds

And my lips tender as new grass buffeted by a downpour.

I want to be the storm,

Not to have it, not to own it,

Not even only to experience it,

But to be the same as it

And feel the kind of freedom

That a humming growl of distant thunder must.
Hiya what can i get you?
fingers tap on the polished wood
of the bar they sit in front of
Their faces sag
like the coats they shrug off
lowering their old bones into chairs

two jamesons please
gentlemen hands fumble for wallets
for money
for the sweetheart
easing an old mans' troubles
with ice and a measure of whiskey
behind the bar

that's nine dollars twenty
thankyou my darling
a crisp new note in a weathered old hand
thats an old hand at weathering life
you're welcome

into the whiskey they sigh
away an old man's aches
I polish the glasses
while they polish
their glasses
and polish off
glasses
of whiskey.
My shoes have covered feet and miles.
Our soles are wearing thin.
When young and new we wore bright smiles,
and dealt with breaking in.
The scuffs and scars from life's abuse,
have weakened even thread.
How loosely we do dangle now,
no strides to get ahead.
With callous over blistered heel,
we plod our beaten path.
And make attempts to look well groomed,
with polish and a bath.
It may be time to start anew,
to stop the stares and whispers.
But what to do? I can't decide,
when life's a bedroom slipper.
Next page