Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Can i mess with your heart a little?
Grant me a permission and
i could live with that guilt forever!
 Oct 2016 polarisspark
Poetic T
silken pleasures grasped
traversing indulgences
satisfaction smiles
Abuser

Simple pleasures
Causing pain
Building up
To strike again
Draw them in
Shut them out
Weaving lies
Creating doubt
Love to take
But never give
Life expected
Not to live
Stealing hope
Stifling breath
Broken promise
Courting death
Cruel intention
Deed is done
Self-inflicted
Sparing none

Cori MacNaughton
8Apr99
This poem was inspired by a number of people in my life, from the abusers to those I saw abused, many of whom seemed complicit in their abuse, if only by their refusal (or inability) to stand up for themselves.  I also knew many people, including myself on occasion, who were their own worst abusers.

Please note that this was emotional abuse, as I would never have stood by without calling the authorities had physical abuse been involved.

I read this poem at the monthly meditation meeting I attended shortly after I wrote the poem.
When you are sick
Helpless
Stuck on bed rest
That blue is what keeps you alive
That liquid blue
The blue that eases all the pain
The blue that goes down so soothingly
Liquid blue
Blue like the ocean you'll never swim in
Blue like the sky you'll never touch
Blue like the tears that roll
If you don't have it
 Oct 2016 polarisspark
Rapunzoll
a hybrid soul,
one to blend like watercolour
paintworks into the social canvas,
boys would stare,
at the star, gone dying, who knew
spotlights illuminate
the pretty parts,
the hips and the mannequin calves.
until the sun dimmers, like gods
dipped lantern burnt out,
and bodies are stripped like birds
of their feathers, plucked to glaring
scars and worn out faces peer
into the mirror - who is the ugliest
of them all.

they called her by names,
prettier than her own,
until she trembled into the
valley of the dolls, a dark and dismal
place with discarded arms and legs,
to build the perfect 'woman' -
a vulnerable creature, made to
be loved, to be wanted.
There's so soo so much pressure to be perfect. I feel like sometimes I should be trying harder but I'm already putting in so much.
Anyway, I haven't posted anything in what? 2 months? So many drafts, yet not enough free time.

© copyright
 Oct 2016 polarisspark
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
Next page