Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
  Jun 2018 Mirlotta
Isabelle
you are my rainbow,
the beauty after the rain
the peace after the storm
you are my rainbow
turning black and white
into colorful hues
you are my rainbow
my glimpse of paradise
but you won’t even last
rainbows don’t even last
Mirlotta Jun 2018
Let me write you a sonnet from the mind-
Like sky and sea, I've broken from the soul.
I want to be with you, unbroken bind:
I want to be with you before time's toll.
And when sun sets and night unfurls her gown
We'll count the stars that linger til the morn
And know they'll never, dying, sink full down
We'll sink into embrace as day is formed.
Whilst time is slow and life is painful short,
We must, emboldened, stop time on its way,
And let this lover's summer be as ought
My wild eyes, your lips, we graceful fae.
Thus when you slip half-gone into my bed
Let us not sleep but make soft love instead.
my first attempt at a Shakespearean sonnet lol
Mirlotta Feb 2018
I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.

You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.
the story behind this one is the fact I can recognise my ex just from her hands. how can HANDS inspire so much emotion???? wow
Mirlotta Feb 2018
What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g  m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.

No wonder Felice had her doubts.
Mirlotta Feb 2018
We're standing in the middle of the forest
and there's no one around.
Your hand is in mine but your

skin is as cold as your eyes.
A bird flies aimless above us-
who is more trapped? you ask.

I don't reply, but my heart shakes.
I feel dead as the snow, curling down
like kinks in an old man's hair.

Everything is white, as though God
took his paintbrush and white-washed
all the emotion away.

I'm scared, though I don't show it.
I stumble. We move through it.
Your hand is in mine.
Mirlotta May 2016
Once upon a time
there was, of course,
the universe
and all the thousands of stars that scraped against its sky like knives
and there were the planets that brooded under the canopy of oblivion
as if they'd each realised the pointlessness
to dancing with only their own animosity

and one of these planets was green and blue,
like acne against the hate-blackened expanse of forever.
And this planet, it called itself the world.

And in that world, once upon a time, there was a girl.

And this girl?
She thought in explosions.

Her eyes would close
and the grey coloured streets of her life
and her future would merge into one-
into her own personal nirvana,
the same colour futility as her flesh
and the girl would kneel down at dignity's bare feet
and she would name herself the champion of determination
as she fought for all of those who could not fight
and listened to the taste of foreign words on British tongues
and didn't quite collect the delicacy.

Her lashes would beat back the barbed-wire smiles of reality
and the inevitable exile of her past,
and against the white-washed, mandatory straight-line walls she'd willingly built her brain up to mimic,
the girl would sit and stop
and stop
and stop
and stop forcing herself into place
like a jigsaw puzzle piece that didn't quite fit-
and instead, she thought.

And her thoughts were explosions.

Her heart would empty itself
into her head
in the backseat of infinity's own 4 wheel drive,
and the boot would be filled with books that she'd read long ago,
(and then forgotten)
and the steering wheel would be turned only by metaphor,
or by the sort of similes that lose themselves
in a darkened room
to the words that grin
with shark-toothed ferocity into kisses.

When the girl's eyes were closed,
and her breathing was heavy
and locked away inside her ribs of glass
and her cage of self-inflicted agony,

the tears scrawled their way across her face
like blood that’s past it’s sell-by date-

and it was only when her eyes were closed that she understood that even when her eyes were open, they were not.

Even when she was awake, she was not awake.

The honeyed sunrise yawned its way across the horizon
like dreams, or maybe marker pen,
as if the sun was tired of telling the same bedtime stories to the moonlight that it always has-
and the girl was tired of
painting her personality the florid colours
that faded to a monochrome ice that burned,
and tired of hiding behind
some great façade of deprivation
that she did not feel
but yet the world still sent her the score to sing along to.

The girl was tired of this,
but still
she did not speak the explosions in her head

because out loud,
for real,
everyone knows that it doesn’t do to speak in explosions.

And the girl wished

that she could bombard the world
with all her hatred
and all her hope,
and she wished that she did not have to strip
the strafes of passion for the smallest things
away from her soul
like badly chosen wallpaper.

In this girl’s head, at least, her thoughts were explosions.

And yet,

she wanted to speak to raze the world
and shatter the stars

back into the oblivion that they came from.
  May 2016 Mirlotta
Autumn Stott
So you want to be a poet?
You want to make beauty out of **** words,
want to make people feel something,
you want the grandeur and glamour,
the clapping audience after your appearance on stage?
Well, kid, here's the thing,
A poet is not something you can just "be".
It is an illness passed down at birth,
it is the doctor handing you to your mother
and saying
"I'm so sorry, she was born with poetry in her veins".
It is your father begging for forgiveness
the first time he finds you
scribbling metaphors on your bedroom wall- just like him.
It is your first bicycle accident,
and the apologetic look
on your neighbors face when she
sees the ink pouring out of your wounds.
It is drinking too much,
not sleeping enough,
loving too deeply,
yet never loving at all,
It is walking up to every stranger you meet and saying
"here is my heart, would you like to break it?"
So you want to be a poet?
Good luck.
I've been really angry about this writer's curse lately.
Next page