Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Molly Jun 2012
I wrote a hundred poems about heartache
                                                                      in my head
but I could never
                             really write the words

,then it’s permanent
                                                                    ,then it’s real.

So I just wrote this one.
                                only a part of the whole

but then again                                                   that’s all you were
                                 just a part of the whole.

---


your words are met with anger, your eyes full of distrust.
i feel myself cling to you, feeling that i must.
but the we i used to know is slowly turning into dust
our hands no longer fit, you see, they are no longer us.
Molly May 2012
maybe this is a temporary feeling, a momentary high
but i feel this sense of
(she's almost there)
                                        calm has washed over me
and i almost feel at peace,

or maybe i'm just numb.
Molly Nov 2011
My city is a 6 block radius, up one street, down the next, with constant orange hands telling you,
“No, don’t cross.”

Don’t cross, don’t ever cross, don’t ever leave these confines.

Because outside, you exist.
Outside these streets, you are a real person. You do real things.

And you miss the days of riding trains aimlessly. Of finding routes with no destination.
And that was okay.
Those days were simple, those streets were real. Those orange hands told you to go ahead anyway. “Cross into the great beyond; whatever is beyond here, it has to be great.”

But there are things here holding you back,
At each corner, there is a gate, holding you back.
At each corner, there is an inkling, telling you “Tomorrow, next week, next month.”
And by next year, you are still standing on the same corner, waiting.

You are waiting to be that real person again.
You are waiting to cross, waiting for that orange hand to wave you by.
But the light never changes, and the hand stands still;
Just like you.
Still like the calm before the storm that swept you here.

And here you are again, at a crossroads uncrossable.
Trying to wade through an asphalt river to the other side, the other unknown.

You just want to feel whole again, but these city blocks are suffocating you, taking you down,
Bit by bit
You are drowning.

My city is a monarch, my city is a queen, my city is a haven.
This is not my city
For my city has skylines and airwaves and breathing room,
My city has people who live and beautiful pathways to explore and discover.
My city lives, and this city is dead.

This city is killing me
Bit by bit
I am drowning.
Molly Nov 2011
I don’t see the sparkle in his eye
Not the slight of his jaw, the tone of his hair.
But I dream of the tightness felt in my stomach whenever

I was in love.

The heart feels caged within my ribs, beating the walls, aching to get out.

Is it then, a crime to cage the heart? To keep it locked up.

But I feel it change, like seasons. One day I’m in love
(birds are singing, orchestrating my every step.
There is a string section, playing distinctly for me, taking into account
the rapid beating of my heart.)

The next I’m clawing against the door, dying to get out
and nauseous with desire to feel free again.

It’s unhealthy, this obsession for the unknown.
because nothing, then, can be enough and

She can’t stop moving.

How will she ever know?

— The End —