Wednesday: Favorites

Mar 2014 Wednesday

A

I remember when you walked up to me in a quiet, busy room and proclaimed to me and my friend that we looked like celebrities without makeup on.
I scrubbed my face seven times a day after that, hoping that the ugly would trickle down the sink even though it laughed at me in the mirror.
I remember when I noticed you for the first time and your tongue spoke a different language to the girl, next to me. I remember when I noticed you for the first time, because everyone else did too.
I remember when you breathed butterflies into my soul, because my body and my mind divorced and my actions were an orphaned burden with no guidance.
I remember when you left.
I remember when you started to look at drugs the way you used to look at me. The way you held your cigarette with a tender shaking hand, similar to how you used to hold
me.
I also remember how you said you'd never hurt me.
I guess you,
forgot.

Once again, a bad piece emerges. Sorry if you're still reading - you're a kind person.

Mar 2014 Wednesday

9.12 pm

Mar 2014 Wednesday

ak

9.12 pm

Your tear stained face is etched into my retinas
As if my heart yearns to make everything better
And to rock you to sleep

Or to brush away all of the bad things
And censor all of the bad news
Hypnotize all of the bad days in a long forgotten past

Hold you in my arms until everything was better
Sweep you away and make you happy again
Like you deserve

If only you would let me care
If only
If only

If is my favourite word

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Plutonium, Terbium, Uranium.

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Lappel du vide

Plutonium, Terbium, Uranium.

do you ever start chinking away
breaking, cracking the stone, hard mineral, steel cold
barrier of your heart
so it'd be impossible for someone else
to do it for you?

white wine pungent, soft
clinking glass against an empty chasm
sunlight
hard wood draped in sleeping veneer.

cascading drapes against
violet
dark
stagnant bruised skin left alone and slowly freezing over.
smoke leaking through whispering
dry lips chapped with desert words
lack of moisture creating canyons
hidden inside desperate mouths.

it's breaking like a frozen over
ashy, navy, drowning lake.
my own fault,
i always start breaking my own heart.
my own form of life insurance.

it's fogged over like a magnifying glass,
cracking across the two foot surface because
the strangled fish can't breathe under all
the permafrost and ice.

i'm waiting impatiently for summer;
i hate this cold.

Mar 2014 Wednesday

wet

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Lappel du vide

wet

in the shower,
i pretend that the burning hot
water
raining down on my body
are your soft and callous fingers
warm and wet
july heat;
seep through
my skin.

i arch my back, push my ******* toward the
low hanging ceiling
and i pretend that the water
hitting my throat
are your lips
kissing my neck
carefully.
i pretend that the steam is your breath
escaping,
but then i open my eyes and i am
alone
and it is cold winter not the summer *****
of July.

"let me use the shower!"
someone yells.
i pull the water to a stop, and it trickles
as the feel of your kisses dwindle
in January
chill.

written in January

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Crack

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Ivy Rose

Crack

I wonder what your eyes saw,
When they were glassed over with tears,
Bloodshot and pain filled,
Staring at me with hope and loss.

The eyes that once were lit by starlight in my dark bedroom, illuminating a part of my soul once undiscovered. Were now shattered and filled with sorrow.

You held me, and kissed me with your chapped and broken lips.

You embraced me, your hands dry and your fingertips blistered from the rusted strings you played all night.

I felt you in my arms.

I slid my nails along your spine, an action that always comforted you as a child.

I pet your hair and in each lock, I twirled my fingers in your deepest thoughts.

And I wanted to run away with you.

But as I kissed you for the very last time,

I felt you crack, just like the plaster on my ceiling.

Come back my darling.

(i. r)

#love #lonely #heart #pain #abandonment #break #sorrow #devastation

Mar 2014 Wednesday

With My Orange Pen

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Megan Grace

With My Orange Pen

I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

Mar 2014 Wednesday

god

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Jay

god

I pray to a god I don't believe in
To save me from a world
He supposedly created
But what kind of god
Leaves the people he created
To die and suffer
From the drugs he put here
From the alcohol he brewed
You are not the kind of god I need
The god I worship
Is at the bottom of a bottle
After a few dozen swallows
He comes to save me
I've seen him every night this week
I keep drinking and smoking
Hoping next time
He won't leave me

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Nicholas

Mar 2014 Wednesday

annmarie

Nicholas

I knew a boy once
who inhaled books
like he inhaled the air,
whose blue eyes were always full of laughter
and who was always willing
to give a little bit up
to make someone else smile.

I watched him once
as we were talking
and took note of the way
that his smile brightened
every time I met his eyes
and never seemed
to get bored of what I had to say.

The boy I knew once
put his books on the shelf
as other things filled him up,
and his blue eyes grew a little crueler
because he was always willing
to give a lot of his life up
to make those he wanted to be like approve.

I watched him once
as I was talking
and took note of the way
that his smile wasn't as real
and he wouldn't meet my eyes
and sort of seemed
to be pulling away.

I saw that boy once
walking with a new crowd
with a different rhythm now,
his blue eyes darting around cautiously
and never willing
to give any of himself away
in case they'd hurt him too.

I watched him then
as he was talking
and took note of the fact
that his smile had gone
and he hadn't seen me watching
because he had always been
centered around getting to here.

Mar 2014 Wednesday

To be loved by a poet

Mar 2014 Wednesday

Ady

To be loved by a poet

It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

So, who or what is your inspiration?