Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jun 2014 Parker Smith
Jessie
cliche
 Jun 2014 Parker Smith
Jessie
It is a growing issue
that the amount of metaphors
never used before by the hand of man
is decreasing significantly
and needs to be addressed soon
because the number of poets appearing
out of nowhere
is increasing exponentially
because we all want to
compare our love to the wind
forever competing
for self entitled originality
and instant gratification
until all we have left in this world
is cliche
after cliche
after cliche.
Where will we find ourselves
when we find out
all the words are taken?
 Jun 2014 Parker Smith
Anonymous
I can't date you. Not now, not ever. I thought it was because I enjoy what I have right now but over the course of this past week I've come to a conclusion. Its because I can't find feelings for you. They were once there but you scared them away and I don't believe there is any going back to what we used to have. I'm sorry that maybe I got your hopes up or lead you on but you can get over it. Everyone eventually does. I don't doubt you once had feelings for me but I also don't doubt that you're very confused right now. You don't want me. You want someone new, and I'm only used a different way. You haven't broken me in yet, I'm like a new pair of shoes, everything is uncomfortable right now but you're making an effort to wear me in. Then I won't be new anymore, I'll give you blisters and hurt you. Then you'll go back to your old pair because that's what you're comfortable with. I'm sorry. Goodbye.
Confused and trying to decide if I should send this to him. Maybe one day when my blood is more alcohol then anything else.
 Jun 2014 Parker Smith
Anonymous
Your eyes are the shimmers of gold within an ocean of brown,
The sun rays dancing along bark after a beautiful storm
You could hold my gaze forever with your eyes alone
I lose myself in your blank stare
Just trying to chase after the thoughts you keep silently in your mind

Your lips are the color of pastel painted across a canvas
The collision of colors until it forces a soft magenta
Mild and gentle but ever so captivating

Your smile washes me in serenity
As if my veins become a steady stream
With flowers blooming in the pit of my stomach
You wash over me like sunrises wash over mountains
You slowly rise above the walls I've built
Until finally you begin to drip on pieces of my soul
Like the sun drenches the sky
As it's yolk cracks over the horizon
 Apr 2014 Parker Smith
Thia Jones
Again time passes
and after a while
you escape my waking thoughts
only to haunt my dreams

Your birthday comes around
as birthdays inevitably do
on their ever accelerating cycle
I send my greetings
because I can't resist
we agree how much we've missed
being in touch
that without each other
something's lacking

We go back to regular texts
about our respective lives
I want to say that if we try again
I want your consent to take control
flexibly and without high protocol
to work toward some switching
but that there are things on which I'd insist

Like regular voice contact
because lack of that
was something that dented my trust

Like a commitment to meet
with a date in mind
or at least a date
by when a date must be arranged

Like being able to hold you to things
to answers you don't avoid
and questions you don't evade

Like being able to hold you

But it becomes clear that
none of these will be on offer
you're not returning to your castle
because you say
your Second Life is over

I wonder why in that case
you still pay to keep it there
empty save for an abandoned dog
whose pitiful barking
brings me to tears

Yet once again I bite my tongue
because even this friendship
this new phase
is fragile and on your terms alone
I hold back and accept what you grant
because anything however small
is better than nothing at all

You offer advice with my fitness
and we make a good start
but your promise of more advice
fails to materialise
often you're too busy to talk at all
you're even busier than before

I'm pleased your career has progressed
though puzzled how this happened
in a job you said wasn't you
that more responsibility
wasn't something you'd consider

I'm pleased you're fitting in
charity work too
that working on your fitness
brings you satisfaction

Yet I'm aware that these things
leave you no time for me
or for the desires
that I know still burn within

I wonder if this commitment
of time and consciousness
isn't perhaps a distraction
just another avoidance strategy

Then the crunch comes
I'm upset, shaken
tell you of my pain
any friend would show sympathy
give hugs, even though virtual

But not you
there are worse things you say
as though their existence
invalidates my feelings

I call you on this
and that's it for you
you "can't say the right thing"
but it was never about saying
what I wanted to hear
(was it that for you?)
I'd prefer you said
what you truly feel
and that your actions
followed from that
but now that's easier said
because we're over

Cynthia Pauline Jones, March 2013
The fourth part of my 'After Midnight Suite'
There's a blood moon in those eyes
by your heart shaped tattoo
and if an eclipse was for wishing,
I think I'd wish for you
I'll walk through your desert
to your river of sorrow
fill my cup with your tears
and drink through tomorrow
No stranger to poison,
no stranger to sin
I'll let you get up
and fall down again
Just please know, my darling,
those thoughts are untrue
this may be your darkness
but I'll walk next to you
 Apr 2014 Parker Smith
Quinn
today i hold
the hand of existence,
of self, of muddled
understanding, and
sight through scratched
and hot-breath-fogged
lenses caught between
sun and tsunami

i will be still through
torrential downpours
of doubt, desire, and
detriment, because i
must learn to be still
and to be soaked to
the bone with what
each storm i've born
washes over me

while skin may prune
and hold moisture, mind
and soul will hold nothing
but the breath which
never ceases to come
and go, whether in
this life or the next

to be alive is not to be
conscious, but to be
conscious is to be
truly alive

i wish to be alive
i will be alive

and all will
begin and end
with a breath
 Feb 2014 Parker Smith
Amelia
I was born in 93
in a town I don't remember.
A place I never see

on the boarder of Luxembourg,
Bitburg Germany.

I was always running away.
ready to explore, always something to say.
Having no fear at 5, throwing tantrums
when things weren't right.

I've hurt, but I know my hurt doesn't compare
I've struggled, but I know my struggle doesn't amount
I've prayed, but I know my prayers are quiet.

I've looked in the mirror, frustrated with what i see
thinking that through a perfect body I would be free

I've lied to myself, trying to climb to somewhere I've never been
hoping to escape the reality of what was and will be

I've given my heart away
looked to the sky looking for refugee
hoping the sky will give me peace.

I've slept through pain
when I felt the heart break and ache.
I've had troubles breathing when
my emotions take control.

I breathe knowing I can breathe out hate
and breathe in peace.

I lost myself in another person,
when i know we aren't right.
I fight and I fight.

I don't know whats wrong with me
why I fight and he spites me.
I've felt my control slip
and my reason come 2nd.

20 still searching and breathing
still fighting for my dreams.
hoping I will live in harmony
in peace..
 Nov 2013 Parker Smith
M
He's forgetful-
He forgets where he put his shoes,
Or where he set down his sunglasses.

He forgets our plans at times,
He forgets what time we were
Supposed to meet, sometimes where.

He forgets that he has a little piece of food
On the corner of his mouth,
And he won't notice until I mention it.

He forgets his shifts at work,
And sometimes even forgets to take
A picture of his schedule in the first place.

He forgets some of the stories I tell him,
Maybe because I tell so many-
Regardless, he's forgotten a few here and there.

His forgetfulness drives me crazy,
Considering I won't forget how
Maddening this tendency is-

Him forgetting plans and times
And dates and places and where
He placed an item is indeed irksome at times.

But he never forgets to tell me goodnight.
He always turns over his shoulder and says
Goodnight earnestly, genuinely.

He never forgot about the time we drove
Around in the back of a truck,
When we drove along a windy road and

We laughed and locked eyes.
It was then that I decided
I didn't want to ever forget who he was.

He didn't forget that I love
Dark chocolate and letters,
That I love the little things.

He won't forget how much I love music,
And how I'd more than willing attend
Just about any concert with him.

He never forgets about the
Particular blanket I like the most
When we hole up at home and watch TV for hours.

Sometimes he doesn't forget my stories,
And is sure to remind me
When I start telling one twice.

He never forgets to grab my hand
When it's idly by my side;
He never forgets to squeeze my hand before letting go.

He never forgets to tell me good night,
He never forgets to tell me he cares,
He never forgets to tell me I'm beautiful.

He never forgets what's really important,
And neither do I,
So I forget about his forgetfulness.

Rather, I remember that his forgetfulness
Is so trivial in the grand scheme of things,
And though he is forgetful,

*He's never once forgotten to say good night.
 Nov 2013 Parker Smith
Julia
I come from a town
where the stop signs are purple,
the children are inquisitive,
and the music is pure.
Melodic lines pursue me
from the places I've come,
with close harmonies, intricate rhythms,
and beautiful women to sing them.
My curls dance with the steel strings
of my favorite guitar as I play
on the corner by the coffee shop,
but I barely notice; for
I finger my favorite
guitar pick necklace,
remember the bow-tied boy
who gave it to me.
The corners of my lips turn up,
remembering
the bow-tied handsome boy
who lives away from
my purple stop sign town,
where the children are inquisitive,
and the music is pure.
Next page