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Meg B May 2014
It was a Sunday night,
a Sunday night that was
truly a Monday morning,
but the darkness,
coupled with
the heaviness of my body's
desire for rest,
to me it still felt like
nighttime.

The sweetly scented candles
flickered silently,
their aroma
filling my nostrils
as the sounds of
a
cliché romance movie
filled my
eardrums.

The dry red wine
poured smoothly
from
        the bottle to
                             my empty glass
        for the fourth time
   that
night.

Yes, it was a Sunday
night,
the pain and miscomprehension
clouding my mind
more than
another glass or
another hit
ever could.

How heavy
it all
    weighed


down
on
me

that
Sunday night;

That Sunday night,
I knew
I loved you,
but you never
loved me
back, and

That
Sunday night,
in the
darkness,
I sipped slowly,
blinked softly,
and
out
came
the
tears

that
I
had
resisted

for
many
nig­hts
just
like
this.

It was a Sunday night
when I finally
cried.

Again.
Meg B Apr 2014
Invisibility;

it need not mean
to not physically be seen,
for eyes look on,
taking in the
loneliness
I don;

crowds and rooms
bursting loud with tunes,
faces happily grimacing,
I am grimacing back,
revelry I am feigning,
as on spins the DJ track;

professional smile-maker,
the most experienced faker,
regarded by passerbyers,
they know nothing of my
insides                     on fire;

room crowded
and still alone,
optimism shrouded
by apathetic groan;

You
see
"me,"
but
you
don't
see
me;

Invisibility.
Meg B Apr 2014
Sometimes I am so logical when I wish for nothing more than to be illogical.

Sometimes I am so illogical when I wish for nothing more than to be logical.

And so on

And so forth.
Meg B Apr 2014
(Y)our
v - O - ice
so melodio[U]s

.A. s it
whispe _ R _ s
sw (E) etly
in my ear;

[B]ewildering
c...E...ssation
of logicAl
tho U ghts,

\T\oo overwhelmed
to
fa'I n
neutrality;

inhaling F-ascination,
i am
high off yo -- U r
fumes;

/L et me
exhale.
Meg B Apr 2014
Cloud of nothingness
Smoke of emptiness
Haze of hollowness
Fog of desertedness
Smog of blankness
Vapor of vacuousness;

Chronic Apathy.
Meg B Apr 2014
Flick of fire,
take a hit
of desire;
inhaling mystery,
exhaling fears,
coughing on
personal history,
choking on
invisible
tears;
setting a blaze
sentiments,
puffing out
resentment;
breathe in
the questions,
taking a drag of
my confessions;

High
on
Introspection.
Meg B Apr 2014
Poetry
is the
buzz of bumblebees
as they extract
the mellifluous nectar
of the tulips
blooming in my mother's
backyard.

Poetry
is the
taste of a brain freeze
pumping hard against my skull
as strawberry ice cream
melts into my
tongue.

Poetry
is the
way it sounds
when I hear the soft strums
of an impromptu banjo
tune.

Poetry
is the
odor of
freshly lit candles,
as the light swells full
with smells
of relaxation
on a sultry
afternoon
in bed.

Poetry
is the
pang of loneliness
a lover feels
as they are engulfed
by
absence.

Poetry
is the
sting of pain
as I bite my lip
hard
to keep from
screaming.

Poetry
is the
tinge of sensations
of
throbbing,
quivering,
and
detonating
with a forceful
heave of
breath.

Poetry
is the
scent and hum
as the coffee ***
vibrates,
emitting
a sweet aroma
to lift the
early morning
fog.

Poetry
is the
grin that washes
from left to right
across a face
jubilant
with
appreciation
and
admiration.

Poetry
is the
senses jolted,
the
emotions experienced,
the
moments lived.

Poetry
is the
laughter,
the
tears,
the
yelps,
the
moans.

Poetry
is the
harmonizing,
the
intertwining,
the
dreaming.

Poetry
is the
anguish,
the heartbreak,
the failures.

Poetry
is the
catharsis,
the felicity,
the obstacles overcome.

My world,
your world,
our world;
it is the poetry,
flowing rapidly,
lusciously
from my ballpoint pen.
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