Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Jun 2016 Nicole Bataclan
AJ
Please help me iron out the irony.
It can't all be vinyl records, tea shops, and other hipster *******.
What are you even doing.
Tick tock golden boy.
Usually I name my poems after one liners in a song or random chunks of words from a tv show. But SNL ended for the season and I ran out of good TFB quotes.
 Dec 2014 Nicole Bataclan
Natalie
do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.
Why do we feign such rapturous delight,
in pretence to others that all is alright,
what if the soul is quietly suppressed,
cloaked in darkness, hidden and repressed,

Are we ashamed to drape the veil,
to retreat into darkness and embrace the pale,
truth can be found from deep in a frown,
so why wear the clothes and tears of a clown.

© H V Swan
A piece of you
Reflecting back
The bitter words in your mouth
Too raw to speak
A poet is
Someone in pain
And someone in love
Someone who looks at the world
Through a kaleidoscope
Who takes a magnifying glass to each
And every
Word you say
And lets them imprint on their heart
A poet is
A star gazer
A dreamer
A chaser of
The improbable
But hopes anyway
A poet is
Tissue paper skin
A heart of glass
And a soul of titanium

A poet is
A sharp tongue
And a gentle kiss
She is a sob
He is a sigh
A poet is
The sun at midnight
Bright and
Burning
Hot
Alive
But cloaked in a darkness
They cannot shake
The brightest day
And the darkest night
A poet is
The human experience
A paradox
An oxymoron
So complicatedly
Simple

A poet is
A lover
Who refuses
To stop wearing their heart on their sleeve
No matter how much it bleeds
But rolls them up
So you can’t see
The blood stains


A poet
Is Poetry
A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace
Who said that love was fire?
I know that love is ash.
It is the thing which remains
When the fire is spent,
The holy essence of experience.
Firefly dancers,
carvers of night's granite,
causing sparks,
irregular movement -
of liquid quanta of light;
made me stay put,
go beyond
the mundane concerns
of light and darkness.
Inner being becomes
another form of amazement,
letting go all insistence
on meaning in everything.
A moment of realization for seekers of Zen
Next page