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Olivia Greene May 2014
i am ******.
and that is my poem.
I wish I could say beautiful things.
I know it seems like all of my thoughts come out in the middle of the night,
but maybe this is the only time I feel brave enough to say them.
I want to say beautiful things,
I want to see beautiful things.
This world is what we make of it,
it will continue rotating on the same axis,
whether we choose to participate or not.
We all want to find love,
so we write these poems hoping the beautiful words will come,
maybe they won't.
Maybe we write as a cry for help.
Maybe I write for a lot of reasons,
but maybe I just can't tell you.
I can say beautiful things,
I need to remind myself everyday,
that this universe is bigger than me,
bigger than my issues,
but it does not make them any smaller.
They are what they are,
and we are what we are.
That's all there is to it,
and I think that's a beautiful thought.
We can change our worlds,
but we cannot change our realities.
We cannot change the beating in our hearts,
without stopping it altogether,
we cannot stop our hair from growing,
or our eye from blinking,
we cannot.
So I'll continue writing my poems at night,
to release these demons from my fingertips.
Hoping the beautiful words will come,
but praying that someone will.
Olivia Greene Apr 2014
Happy birthday, Dad.
You're …. 54, 55, 56?
I think I'm still jealous that you get to share your birthday with the earth.
I think I'm still a little sad that I never asked you if you enjoyed that.
I don't know why I am talking about you like you're gone; when you're only 17 steps down the stairs in your arm chair with the news on your lap and a glass of indonesian tea on your  left.
I walked by you and you were standing there and I almost hugged you.
Almost.
You were proud that I listened to Etta James.
That made me beam but I didn't let you see it.
So many people take my light from me.
I think the only place that I can go to rekindle that light,
is the notion that maybe one day you won't be disappointed in me.
Or my lack of ability and motivation  in school.
Or my lack participation in this family.
Or the notion that I won't be scared of you, scared of everything anymore.
Scared of loving people and then putting too much of myself into that person because I don't know how to love properly.
I didn't even know how to breath properly.
I had to go to a doctor and they had to tell me to take deeper breaths because I wasn't getting enough air.
Ever.
My breaths were shallow, and guarded, and hesitant.
I have invested hope in the day I won't exercise for an hour and a half every day for a week straight until my body  can no longer function properly.
That I won't take a long shower, with water too hot and knees pulled up to my heaving chest.
Or maybe I won't drink too much and try to feel something with someone.
Or even stop tanning because I am literally burning from the inside out.
Maybe that way people will see how I truly feel on the inside.
Burnt out.
Tired, fatigued. Unworthy.
Olivia Greene Apr 2014
silly string and laughter
4:45 in the morning
we watched the sun yawn and arise from it's slumber,
greeting the earth
surrounded by the smells of the lake and the **** exhalations.
25 degrees.
fog drifted aimlessly but so purposefully across the glassy water
6:50 A.M.
on the way to scrambled eggs, hash browns, and good people.
i'm 18 now.
Olivia Greene Apr 2014
his eyes analyzed her body,
starting from the plateau of her arm to the innocent bend of her elbow.
the memorization process began,
the freckles, the bumps, the curves and grooves.
his world started to unravel before his fingertips.
she was becoming his world.
the concept of time was no longer relevant,
only the knowledge that she loved him as much as he loved her
mattered to the tick on the wall
  Apr 2014 Olivia Greene
witchy woman
the problem with
being a poet in love,
is that you savour
& trust each word your lover has
without  question.

we are simply in love
with bare literature,
spoken from the lips of someone we hold
in higher regard
than ourselves sometimes.

when you love a poet
each word you utter,
should be a piece of artwork

each sentence,
a highly thought out structure of awe and beauty to leave us seeping
in the warmth of your voice
caressing such fine words

so when deciding that you love someone,
who writes or reads
fill their souls with beauty, memories & truth especially,
for a poet's heart breaks at ease.
thoughts.
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