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she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.
Try to understand.
Fix Me?
Can
You
Just maybe
But
I'm insane
I think...
Sometimes

Brain
Fill my
Thoughts
Backward

I'm really trying
Just bare with me
Please
So easily
Breaks
My heart

Trust issues
I have
I know...
Confusing
Been so
Has always
You
About
**Everything
I sound like Yoda, Huh?
Try reading it bottom to top (left to right), the way it was originally written. :)
When a poet doesn't know the answer
To the simplest questions
It's because their mind is so filled
With abnormal poetic revisions

When a poet doesn't know
The way to say how they feel
It's because they need to write it out
So they know the feelings are real

When a poet doesn't know
How to say I love you
It's because they haven't found a rhyme
That brings out the best in you

When a poet doesn't know what to say
Or simply how to make you feel better
They just type up some lines and rhymes
Like... "We'll get through this together"

When a poets doesn't know the answer
Or how to say what they feel
Or that they're in love with you
Or how to make you feel better still

And they don't have the words to write it all down....
That poet's world is sure to crumble to the ground
As a known poet among friends, they find it odd that I don't always have the right words to express myself in normal conversations sometimes. Maybe this will shed some light on that.
I keep digging and digging and digging,
     trying to dig myself out of this hole
But it seems everything is collapsing around me
      burying me with my soul.
      This small shovel
  just doesn't seem to be enough,
     No one thought to tell me
         how life could be this rough
Now,
    I'm just getting deeper and deeper
        and deeper
    with my unwanted thoughts
This shall be my grave,
        but don't put any roses on top,
      I prefer **forget-me-nots
The ghosts in the trees,
They're all staring at me.
I'm out here alone and lost,
Can't they just let me be?

The ghosts in the trees,
They seem to be scared.
I just want to go home,
But I don't know my way there.

A ghost of a raven
shrieked from the tree.
You may hide in a ravine
You may jump in the sea
You can run to the mountain
Pray to the craven
But I will find theeee!


That ghost in the tree,
It knows my name!
Turning, I start to run,
I don't like this game!

That ghost in the tree,
That shrieked my name.
It's starting to follow me,
Does it know I'm in pain?

Raven, Raven
Stark and mad
No safe haven
To be had
Yellow beak
Upon your back
For evermore,
Forever more.

Ghostly raven in that tree,
Why do you wish to torture me?
I'm simply lost, I don't want trouble.
Can't you just go to hell already?!

Ghostly raven in that tree,
I didn't really mean that.
I'm already so afraid,
I can't stand your beak upon my back.

Flee, fly, foe, crumb
My claws in your hair
Till your heart grows numb
-Begone or your'e done

Evil black bird I can see,
With your mocking and taunting.
I see a glowing light ahead
Your ghostly image is fading

Evil black bird I can see,
With your hatred and torture.
The glowing light is within reach,
I'll be gone and you have no future.

*Begone, begone
The night is long
I fear your fear
Unbidden here
Forever more
Forbidden.
Thank you to r, his fantastic poetic abilities really brought this collaboration to life.
When did it visit me?
I really don't know when.
It came out of nowhere,
I feel that it's a sin.

Naked in the shower,
washing up clean.
I felt this little lump,
scared and unforeseen.

Feeling all alone,
I looked up to the sky.
Fingers locked together,
I asked the Lord, "Why?"

Now, I lay in silence,
while the tumor grows inside.
Putting up these walls,
all I do is cry.

Months have gone by,
with the chemo and the draws.
The sickness took my *******,
now that's the final straw.

It's been six months now,
I struggled for my life.
I beat the **** cancer.
I AM HAPPY, I WILL SURVIVE!!
My mother is a breast cancer survivor. But I also wrote this for all the survivors and to the ones to whom that lost their battle with this disease!  PLEASE SHARE AND LET THIS TREND!!
 Sep 2014 McKenzie Mae Martin
AJ
im trying to find my wings
do you have them?
i remember lending them to that beautiful girl
her throat burned so badly she couldn't speak up
did she ever give them back?
or did i last give them to that brilliant guy that
used his skin as a carving board?


did my wings finally break?
im so used to helping others yet im struggling to even help myself right now
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