Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
mikah Jan 2020
my mind moves so quickly
i can't seemtorest
FOCUS!
but what about that thing?
the big quizworktest
FOCUS!
i know i know just let me get settled
where's my phonepencilnotebook
FOCUS!
now i go upstairs and wait
what's that sound ihavetogolook
FOCUS!
i sit at my desk, pick up my pencil and
drop it damnwherediditgo
FOCUS!
found it there by my foot
maybe i can getitwithmytoe
FOCUS!
okay. i'm ready now.
all i have to do is sitdownand
FOCUS!

but wait.
when did it get so late?
based on a true story!
mikah May 2018
Amelia wore a yellow slicker raincoat,
rain or shine, Every day without fail
And her smile was almost as bright as that
But not quite.

Amelia took off the raincoat in the seventh grade, when
a boy said she looked like a duckling,
"the ugly duckling". They laughed, but her?
Not quite.

Tenth grade rolls around. The raincoat is
collecting dust in the very back of a closet filled to the brim
with clothes no one could say were an ugly duckling's feathers.
First day of school, and it begins to rain. Pour, even.
But not quite.

Amelia is in a rush. She grabs the first raincoat she sees,
the ugly duckling yellow slicker. She
begins to cry, and her tears are almost
blending in with the rain.
But not quite.

with no other choice, she wears her feathers.
she expects laughter, and pointed fingers
but she is met with the same smiles as
she always was.
"Cute raincoat, Amelia!"
And she begins to smile, almost as wide as she did
when she was an innocent duckling.
But not quite.

For Amelia, who found her wings
in an old yellow slicker raincoat,
smiled wider.
mikah Jun 2018
a  poet
because i don't know if worded feelings
count as art.

a  friend
because i am unsure if i am teasing
or insulting.

(a  good
person
child
partner)

worthy
because so far it seems like
i am a dead weight to this planet.

(a waste of
air
space
time
money)

all of these am i's
and not a single i am.
mikah May 2018
i like free verse poetry
if you couldn't tell
cause writing rhyming poems, for me,
never turns out well

it feels like i am in a cage
when i try to rhyme my lines
i have to write to a certain beat
so my verses are such confined

free verse poetry is seen as fake
in so many writers' eyes
but it frees my mind to release its thoughts
that might have been my demise

and with that in mind,
i don't think i want to rhyme anymore.
  i don't know if this is real poetry,
   i don't know if i'm a real writer,
    i don't know if i'm doing this right,
     i don't know if this writing is right,
but i know that i like free verse, and for me,
that's enough.
i know this poem isn't entirely true because i don't think really any writer sees free verse as fake, but in my mind, it feels like that, so i put it in this piece. remember that any poem, free verse or rhyming, long or short, ballad or sonnet, limerick or haiku, they're all poetry, and they're all art. thanks so much for reading!
mikah Jul 2018
you become aware of your own mortality
staring out a window at 8 in the evening
like the dog does
when he's tired

seeing the trees bathed in sunset hues
and the man mowing across the street
the road, weather-beaten
with some rickety car rattling along it
and the realization that this will one day be
   completely
       gone.

you become aware of your life
and the ending of it
washing the dishes
and thinking
of friends
of television shows
of what you're going to eat for dinner

heart speeds up, sponge slows down
and the knowledge that
all of this pass and fades creeps
into your brain.
the knowledge itself is,
of course,
passing and fading;
such is life.

you become aware of dying
when you smile
when you laugh
surrounded by friends
family
making memories that will be lost to
the dirt surrounding your bones
sooner or later.
mikah Jun 2018
where are the words that
used to fill my head?
        tumbling
           churning
              disturbing
thoughts that wouldn't leave me
alone until i opened a laptop and
smashed the keys to calm my
word-filled mind?

now i can't find anything
i look and search and try to find
something
just a snippet
of something
to write
but the feelings i had
the feelings that put words
in my head
just
aren't there
anymore.
mikah Mar 2020
which will it be first?
my patience or my heart?

you couldn’t break just one, could you?
mikah May 2020
you don’t know how much you need to
until
you
can’t.
panic attack.
mikah Jun 2018
there is something about
card games
that bring out the monster in people
scratching, growling,
insults thinly veiled by the scathing
shriek
"it's just a game!"
it is.
but for the love of god
stop being so cruel
just because you won.
mikah May 2018
one of these
days i hope to find
the yellow paint
that van gogh used.

i could use that
kind of happiness
right about now
even if it is artificial.
mikah May 2018
i occasionally wonder
why i am here if
all i'm going to do
is die.

then, i touch a flower,
i see someone smiling,
i hear music, laughter,
and i remember why.
the confusion of being alive and remembrance of why it's important.
mikah May 2018
i am afraid to die
which is surprising
coming from a girl who
always says she wants to.

because the truth is
i don't want to die
unless i can do it
myself.
a stark contrast to the last diary entry, but such is life.
mikah May 2018
to the beautiful ******* the
other side of the railing,
going down the stairwell
while i was going up,

you complimented my pants
half an hour ago.
i'm still thinking and
smiling about it.
compliment people more often!! you might just make their day.
mikah Jun 2018
to the boy who knows
my name, but whom
i don't have any recollection
of knowing,

i can't be rude to you
because i am afraid
you'll become violent, but please
please stop following me.
i am unable to ask a male to leave me alone because they could very well hurt me.
mikah Jun 2018
why don't you listen ?
it seems like every time
i speak, You Talk Over Me.
i don't want to yell to be heard.

i have to scream to
get your attention, but
then you punish me for it.
so i've learned to just take your beating.
mikah Jun 2018
i wish i was able
to write anything,
anytime, no matter
my feelings. it seems,

however, that words
don't come naturally
to me. neither does
being a poet, i guess.
poetry is tough sometimes :)
mikah Jul 2018
it's been a while
since i've picked up
a pen and written
in my diary.

my pen, of course,
being my fingertips
and the diary being
my broken phone.
pen and paper. finger and phone. not much difference, i'd say.
mikah May 2018
no matter how loud
i turn up
my music,
their musical laughter
still reaches
my ears, and
reminds me
how i am
not a part of
their card game.

i am sitting only
a yard away
three
feet
away
and they can't find
the motivation to
invite me over.

i turn my music
up louder
but nothing
can drown out the
voices that tell me
i deserve to be
sitting a yard away,
excluded.
mikah Feb 2020
you placed one hand on my shoulder, then another
they lingered longer than they needed to
i still feel where they were.
a different sort of lookism.
mikah Feb 2020
you kissed me
over and over and over again
and i understand how people feel fireworks.
mikah Feb 2020
my heart is beating out of my chest, overflowing with emotion
you have no idea how you make me feel
and yet this is the seventh poem i've written about you
mikah Jan 2020
knocknocknock
s t e p s t e p
c     r     e     a     k

hello?

i miss you.

i miss your hands in mine.
i miss the crinkle of your eyes when you smile.
i miss running through hotel halls.
i miss racing and beating you again and again.
i miss what i felt.


i miss the way things were.


blinkblinkblink
d r o p d r o p
b    r    e    a    t    h    e

that's what i would've said
had he opened his front door.
different sorta piece from a yearlong heartbreak. glad to say i don't feel this way anymore, but this piece still holds a lot of emotion for me!
mikah May 2020
i know somewhere inside that i am living in a
future history lesson.
so why does my life feel so mundane?
i wake up and do chores and homework,
argue with my siblings,
call my friends on the phone.
my life hasn’t paused even though the whole rest of the world has.
i hope it isn’t just me that feels like life is a little too regular for them during a global pandemic. don’t worry- i’m staying inside regardless ! i hope you guys are too!
mikah Feb 2020
not movies
not writing
not comedies
and-god forbid-in public.


but with you
i understand the appeal.
mikah Jan 2020
i have discovered who i am
i am not the product of my
          parents beliefs
                trauma
                    tribulations
i am my own person
with my own
           life
             beliefs
                 aspirations
my heart is
        lighter
            fuller
                free
i haven't written poetry because i've had no need for it.
it was an outlet for
               sadness
                    pain
                       desperation
and although i still feel all of that,
i have found
        people
             friends
                  lovers
who help me handle it.
i am happier than i've ever been
and so eternally
          grateful
               proud
                   overjoyed
that i lived. even when it was
             painful
                  useless
                       impossible
i fought to live. i fought to love.
              and
                  i
                  did
thank you.
mikah Jan 2020
everytime i look up
i see your eyes on me
and they're beautiful.
mikah Jan 2020
i read to you six chapters of
my favorite book and i looked at
you at chapter seven to find you
asleep
we’ll continue another day !
mikah Jan 2020
you walked with me in the hallway
because i asked you to and it was the
first time i truly saw your face.

i still have butterflies.
mikah Feb 2020
"we can just be in each other's presence." you said
you look so beautiful
just being.
mikah May 2020
it's hard to live in a matrix of your own making
but when everyone you love becomes pixellated
and you're a prisoner in a body that isn't yours
and your eyes and ears are covered in glass
it feels a little more like home than you'd like to admit.
quarantine has taken a toll on me
mikah May 2018
when will you release my heart?
you clench it, squeeze it,
tear it in two different directions.
i can't tell whether you're
caring for or breaking it.

when will you be kind?
you used to take me by the arm
and throw me across the room
and now the only thing that takes a beating
is my mind. i wish the scars you left
were still physical ones.

when will you be steadfast?
it seems like in a matter of seconds,
you've gone from screaming at me
to treating me like someone you do love.
i just wish you weren't a rollercoaster.

when will you tell the truth?
you say you love me, that you care,
that you do everything for me,
but you call me a ****. immature. a failure.
cowardly. weak. invalid. a waste of
time, money, space.

when will you love me?
you say you do. you feed and clothe me.
you pay for school and extracurriculars.
is that love? is you
doing what you're expected to do
as my mother
love?

you ask if i will be happy somewhere else.
you ask why i am so reserved in your house.
you ask why i don't like to talk to you.
i can't respond because i know
the answer i would give
would make you
feel like a
bad

mother.
mikah Nov 2020
i have work for the next three days and
i'm failing two classes and
i cry every hour for no reason and
i haven't had a hug in one year and
i haven't hugged my parents in three and
my siblings are acquaintances and
my name isn't my name and
my gender isn't an option and
my body isn't mine and
my face doesn't belong to me and
my hands are sometimes mine sometimes not and
my mental illnesses remain untreated and
my trauma remains buried and
on top of all of that...
everything is too much
mikah Jul 2018
water surrounds me.
i can feel it on my skin.
it rushes around my body, like
a blanket swaddling a child.

            .i am a child of the water.
my eyes are open wide
i can hear the waves around me
swishing and gurgling like the
river is trying to tell me something

i see daylight through the clouds
it casts a golden light into the water
onto my skin.
                   ,i am a child of the day,

i am suspended beneath the surface
of a golden river
and sometimes it is suffocating
but sometimes it is home
and i think i am happy
       here
below the sun and the waves
with my eyes open and my heart beating just the same. . . .

the river brushes
my eyelids down,
and s l o w s my beating heart.
my skin is blanketed in gold;
the waves rock me to sleep.

          ,.i am a child of
          the daylight waters,
          warmed by the sun
          and blanketed by the
          waves. i am content.,
i wrote this piece while listening to "on the nature of daylight", an instrumental piece by max richter. this is a story inspired by the song, aka what i thought of as i listened to it. you might enjoy it best reading it while listening as well. xoxo, francis
mikah Jun 2018
piano music is playing
thumps outside, small children
running down the stairs
and pretending like the world
isn't falling to pieces.

the innocence of a child
is something so precious
yet so fleeting,
ripped from small hands much too soon,
becoming an adult at ten years.

to this day, i wish that i was
born something different.
something to where my mind isn't plagued
with regret at what i've done
and who i am as a human.

my birthday is tomorrow,
but i'm not happy about it.
i wish that people would stop putting
so much emphasis on when i was born;
it just makes me wish i wasn't.
mind dump because writers block has been kicking my *** these past few days. i've been editing this quite a bit but i still don't think i like it.
mikah Jun 2020
it’s been two years and i still
feel your tongue down my throat.  

were you not as drunk as you let on?
you seemed coherent when you told me it wasn’t cheating to kiss you.

i didn’t kiss you.
you held me to the bed.

i was wine drunk and tired (and helpless)
and in a relationship (which you knew about).

you kissed me and kissed me
and put your tongue in my mouth.

i don’t remember for how long.
maybe minutes. maybe hours.

i tried to say something. to push you off.
but you were a friend.

you were a friend and i was staying at your place.
so it wasn’t assault, right? it was accidental?

it wasn’t accidental when you kissed me
after i told you to stop.

most days i’m okay.
most days except june the second.

most days except when someone kisses me.
it only ever reminds me of you.
a vent piece. anniversaries are always hard.
mikah May 2018
sidewalks are
meant for
two people
no more
if there
are three
one's always
left behind:


me.
rhyming poetry is not exactly my forte, but i wanted to give it a shot. thank you for reading!
mikah Jan 2020
mama, i'm sorry for no grandchildren

papa, i didn't want this either

grandpa, i'm sorry i'm no granddaughter

grandma, i wish you loved Me.

sister, you accept me, i think

brother, please try to somehow understand

i know i'm a disappointing kid.
some gender dysphoria writes <3
mikah Dec 2020
i bought slippers for my father
they were twelve-dollars
an hour's worth of work
but they weren't moccassins
and that's what he wanted so
i kept them for me, because
i don't care if it's a slipper
or a moccassin.

i am wearing what would have been
my father's size-ten slippers
and i am only a size eight.
they are big shoes,
and i clomp around in them
like a kind of clown, like a fool
who doesn't know the difference
between a slipper and a moccassin.

there are children who love to adorn
their father's clothing, like shoes,
but to me they are no more than
a reminder i am an idiot,
clomping around in the too-big
slippers that i have because i am
too-stupid a child to notice
that my father wears moccassins.
mikah May 2018
i like to write with feeling
i'm not one of the lucky ducks who can pick up a pencil
or open their laptop and
write a whole new world in the blink of an eye
i have to sit
simmer
for a moment and wait for words to come.
i have to have my heart in my fingers as i compose
anything
but even when i'm finished pouring emotion onto paper,

the words
have no
soul.

i guess they take after their author.
mikah May 2018
titles are even more difficult for me to compose.
i could spend ten minutes typing and
deleting and typing and
deleting and typing and
deleting
a good title for a poem that isn't that good to begin with
do i use a line from the poem for the title?
do i tell the story of the poem with the title?
do i help people understand the poem with the title?

i write poems with feeling,
and i write them before i name them,
so by the time i get to writing
the title,
i've used up all the emotion
in the poem's words


       and now there is none left
for the title
mikah May 2018
spectacle on a street corner
          maybe a ******* or two
                            couple looking for directions
            performer, musician, mime, cases for money
                                     the faint, flickering lightpost
                    on the street corner across the intersection
                                                  ca­sting shadows on their faces

spectacle on a street corner
           bustling busy
                           people searching for entertainment from shops
               came at the wrong time for a show
                                     the harsh sun, unrelenting
                    on the street corners of the intersection
                                                    ­daytime isn't nearly as telling of the
spectacle on a street corner
trying a different style.
mikah May 2018
at
  was           a
        11            table
   and           for
  one            10
       left            there
   out.


                                          me.
at a table for ten, there was eleven and one left out.
mikah May 2018
when i was four, i got to be line leader
for my preschool class;
i was so excited that
i went straight outside without
my teacher telling me to, leaving my whole class
behind. my teacher got mad, and i
think that was the first time i cried out of sadness.

in kindergarten, i stole a rock from my teacher.
i didn't know it was stealing, i just
thought it was a pretty rock and i wanted to have it.
i later gave it to my best friend
because she was mad at me and i thought
that rock would appease her.
it didn't.

another time during first grade,
i called my teacher mom. she made fun of me.
***** you, mrs. brandon.

second grade was uneventful.

in third grade, i got scared by my teacher
during open house. i walked
into her classroom but didn't see her
until she popped up 2 inches from my face,
"Hi!" her voice boomed.
she was nice though. she taught us how
to swallow pills because we were curious of how
she took her migraine meds each morning.

i also argued with my third grade math teacher
over the spelling of marshmallow.
she spelled it marshmellow, and i hated her,
so i pointed it out
just to make her mad.

in fourth grade, i moved to another house
and saw my dad punch my brother in the hallway
of our new home.
in fifth grade, i said '****' for the first time.
in sixth grade, i cursed like a sailor
and tried to eat less.
in seventh grade, i wore makeup
and became sick in the head.

eighth grade was boring.
not that i can
remember any of it, of course.
i can very vividly remember
such trivial moments.
mikah May 2018
last night i got angry
        it was a very strange feeling because
i've never really gotten   angry before


i got so angry i went outside and
                ripped 3 branches of leaves from a bush

i stared at them
               a plant's livelihood
sitting in my hand
and suddenly i was a murderer

i began to cry
and cry and cry
i didn't want to get that angry
or go ballistic
but i felt mad
in more ways than one.
this is like a diary entry, a personal anecdote for me. it might be hard to relate to this, but sometimes poems are just meant as a release. this one is. please enjoy all the same!
mikah Feb 2020
laughter embroidered in gold,
smiles embossed in bronze,
tears dripping with diamonds and
amber eyes in emerald faces that see a glittering world;

a gentle silvery touch of hands,
glassy fumbling fingers,
ruby cheeks and marble hearts and
amber glistening in sunlight and darkness;

glittering light on a glass finger,
clasping hands in a burst of silver,
gold and bronze and diamonds all around and
running off into a slippery citrine sunset;

a final touch of silver,,,
tying the knot on golden thread,,
bronze glinting through diamond droplets, and
emerald bodies returned to the waiting earth.

but amber immortalizes every golden thread,
every glint of bronze, every diamond,
everything that has been, everything that will be-
every single piece of the human experience.
precious, valuable, unique. am i describing the human experience or gemstones?
mikah May 2018
i don't think, necessarily, that i wanted to be
the way that i am.
i find it hard to leave my room most days,
spending my time speaking to a keyboard
(about
my
feelings)
rather than a professional.
and i'm sure the big wide world (is)n't all that
scary, (especially) nor the people in it,
but i cannot seem to find the
          courage
to leave my room
  (or
  speak
  to
  anyone.)
and i think people do want to know me (but not the real me),
i think my family isn't as bad as they seem
(when they aren't yelling anyway)
but i can't seem to let them (do i want to let them?) in.

and i know it's my fault
if i could just open my bedroom door,
open my mouth,
open myself up to others,
    ( i
wouldn't be so
     alone. )
mikah May 2018
i hear my dad cough downstairs
he is fifty years old and
     i realize
that we all will die someday

will i die with grace?
   will i die naturally or by my own hand?
     will anyone miss me?
       will i have done anything for the world?

                                         i am but a child
i've lived for only a decade and a few years
      
and yet
            i'm sure
i will not make it to fifty
mikah Nov 2020
The streets scream with unbridled joy.
They are a bird in a cage that has just broken the lock.
They are a stallion in a pen who has spent their
life staring at the mountains,
whose legs have finally found the momentum to
                      Run.
They are a man in the desert,
                      Thirsty and Starving,
who has found himself a banquet in a rainstorm.
They reach their hands into the sky,
praising the sun and the moon and the stars
and God, whoever that may be.
They collapse onto their knees,'
head in their hands,
overwhelmed by a newfound
                    Hope
they haven't felt in four years.

They live again.

The streets are humans united with the knowledge that maybe,
just maybe,
they will be okay.
There is a long way to go still,
but streets are made to get from one place
to another.

We have broken out of that cage.
We are running toward the mountain.
We will soon eat our fill of the banquet laid out
for the hungry, the thirsty, the poor, the sick,
the dying, the naked.

There is a long way to go.
But for now, we sit in traffic on the street and
honk our horns and
raise our hands and
celebrate.

The streets scream with unbridled joy.
the past few days have been the most stressful of my life (I live in the US). there are so many emotions I'm feeling right now, and I felt called to write a poem about it. i hope it resonates with some of you.
mikah May 2018
There is something audible in the silence of a bathroom
when the walls are bland beige washed orange by the artificial light.
A bug sits on the wall and something tells me to get rid of it,
                         good riddance
but I can’t gather the courage to do it.

There is a hole in my chest where my heart should be. I could say my heart is light but I can’t feel its weight in my ribcage and I can't hear the beating and I can’t even feel the blood it should be pumping through my body but I’m still alive and that’s the only confirmation I get that
  my
   heart
    is
     still
      there.

Everything is quiet in this bland orange bathroom, and the bug still sits on the wall.

I climb on a counter.

Face to face with this bug, I see its antennae wiggling back and forth.
There is life inside of it.
I can’t squash it.

                 The light bulbs washing the bathroom orange haven’t
                                 been dusted since we moved in.

I climb off the counter and place the ball of toilet paper down.
The bug is alive and by some miracle,
so
  am
   I.

My heart remains somewhere inside my chest,
numbed.

This room is silent too. Nothing but the white noise of the ceiling fan and the furious tapping of the keys on the keyboard composing my mess of a mind into a mess of a poem.

Maybe now it is as quiet inside my head as it is in these rooms.

Maybe now I can sleep.

The bug remains on the ceiling.
mikah Jun 2018
i woke up at ten o clock
the time i was supposed to
leave my house for an appointment.

i played a video game i
hadn't played in years
with my sister, of all people.
i had barely spoken a word to her
in weeks, but suddenly we
were both sitting on the couch,
yelling at a screen.
bonding, i suppose.

i joked around with my parents.
it was a little strange, them
being nice to me,
but a change i welcomed.

trivial moments of a trivial today.
almost too trivial. boring. unproductive.
but, i suppose there's always a
tomorrow that never comes
to accomplish something.
not too sure what this is. i felt bad about having writers block for so long, so here's.. something, i guess. <3
Next page