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If I ever were to describe myself, I would be despondent.
Never happy when alone.
When with others, I would be absorbed into their feelings.
But really, my feelings couldn't be faced.

If I ever could depict my past, The painting would be bland.
A lone grey figure struck against a white wall.
The child without love nor maternal instinct.
Paying for survival with absolute compliance.

If I ever told you what I was thinking right now, I'd be lying.
Surrounded by a thousand paper target in a warehouse.
Suffering through your interrogation.
And you dare call it conversation.

I remember shouting at myself.
Decreeing my own hell.
Whispering in that sullen terrifying voice.
"You are the epitome of nothing, unable to love or be loved."

In truth, I was loved.
I was loved and cared for.
My love, was conditional, it was always paid for.
And for that payment I will never love back.

If I ever wrote you a poem, disregard it.
My words are better off in the sea.
Closing the book on my heart.
You, who loved me.
I, who needed you.
The question on how you treat your peers. Is how you use them. But how you treat you love is more difficult, whether you see them as tools or as people.
 Mar 2016 Martha O'Brien
Autumn
Do not trust boys
who kiss you in your drive way.
If they can't make it to the front door
there must be something wrong.

I have had many first kisses in my driveway
and every boy that has given me one
has turned out sour.
Do not trust boys who kiss you in your drive way.

If they are too lazy to walk the extra ten feet to your front door
then they are most likely too lazy to walk
the extra mile in a relationship.
Effort is key my friend.

I cannot bare to stand in my driveway.
Memories come flooding in
from this boy and that.
Do not trust boys that kiss you in your driveway.
Trust me on that.
When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the *****'s ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
In the midst of sadness, the only solace is anger.
To those who are sad, I understand your anger.
There are a small handful of decent poets on this site
And then there are the manipulators, the cliques, and the trolls
The manipulators will re-post their poems to the same collections over and over and over to get likes and attention

The cliques all re-post and like each other's work just because and they probably never even read a word, they just want the likes in return

And the trolls, well, we all know about them

But I'm extremely tired of this site's "best poetry". Most of it sounds like a five-year-old wrote it while they were drunk. A sentence is not a poem. I don't care what anyone says.

Poetry has no permanent definition. But I will accept a smear of boogers on a page as poetry before I consider one measly sentence an entire poem.

Did your brain get tired? That's all you could bother to write, today?

And it feels like we're all running out of original things to say.

I'm feeling rather cynical and "*******"ish right now.
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