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 Dec 2016 Nikolina
Ramin Ara
Dance
 Dec 2016 Nikolina
Ramin Ara
Poetry is
An echo
Asking a shadow
To  dance
 Jun 2016 Nikolina
coyote
 Jun 2016 Nikolina
coyote
i have watched the tectonic plates of your
personality shake and shift under the shadows
of your eyes for seven years now.

you are the child in a perpetual state of rebirth,
and i am the mother who weeps and mourns
and breaks dishes like a poltergeist.
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
rattletaptap
I am black & white,
You are color.

I will never feel your touch.
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
Ely Averill
Lonely
With nobody
Is such a sad living
And yet there is beauty in it
Alone
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
Allyson Walsh
I knew she planned on staying.
When she unpacked her belongings.
Mia told me she wasn't playing.
This time, she would cause the falling.

She woke me up the first night,
After he ran away.
Mia's chapped lips whispered our old times,
She reminded me of tooth decay.

For the next few days, Mia was my shadow.
Her doe-eyes trailed my every course.
Waiting patiently for me to plateau,
Before attacking without remorse.

Mia told me she was mending my cuts,
My battered heart, and my sliced legs.
She was making me whole with every hiccup.
He may have left, but she was here to stay.

We held hands throughout the store.
She helped me buy my favorite treats.
Binging together before locking the door.
Purging never tasted so sweet.

Mia held my hair and my pink tongue.
Her fingernails made my throat bleed.
Convinced me secrecy made this fun.
Our kneeling prayers were a mystery.

She wiped my tears with her acidic hands,
And whispered how much she missed me.
Mia uttered how only she would understand
My longing and misery.
I don't want this to be for me, but it is.

If you come back, she might leave.
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
September
If you've cheated on every lover you've ever had,
It's probably you.

Actually, on second thought,
It's probably me
petty poems for petty pasts.
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
Mel Little
The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.
 Dec 2015 Nikolina
rattletaptap
Parallel lines tell the story of how you and I never met.

— The End —