Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Nov 2015 Rosaline Moray
Megan H
Reminded me of the beautiful china
In my grandmother's house
Strong, shiny, beautiful
Worth a lot
But even the best observer
Couldn't see the chips in the glassware
The many times the china had been dropped
No one could actually tell that it was broken
But I could tell.
Because even though sometimes I looked
Strong, shiny, and beautiful,
I was broken as well.
The meaning of leaves in
a refreshing cool wind
He chose to live
for friendship
Not for that
other thing
Refreshing cool wind on a cross and died. He chose to live for friendship, live for survival, not for that thing any more. This is the meaning of it clung to her old leaves new myriads? Of lingering leaves
[coco, 11 nov 2011]
 Jan 2015 Rosaline Moray
JR Falk
Between the icy roads January brings and
how cold I am in this lonely bed,
I worry that if you crash the car,
I won't be able to tell whether it's
missing you that numbs me
or the breeze I feel when
I find myself standing over your grave.
Love comes in different ways to everyone.
Your presence warms my heart more than
anything ever has before,
and I fear that once you disappear,
so will the warmth that keeps me from freezing.
The chills I get when your fingers graze my back
are not shivers from the cold.
They're simply bliss
enveloping me in the moment
where I am certain I am only yours,
and nothing else matters.
Not the ice.
Not the snow.
Not the clouds overhead.
You're summer in my endless winter,
Eyes as green as pines,
Hair kissed by the sun,
Freckles dotting your face like bees to roses,
You're as warm as the breeze.
The ice is melting.
The snow has turned to a late spring drizzle
as a form of proof that you are not going to dissipate
or follow the weather patterns that have existed so long
here in the terrain that is my mind.
Instead, you lit a match.
The fire grew, warming the lands,
bringing life to the world I never thought I'd see again-
You made me fall.
I am not breaking ice
and I am not succumbing to the cold,
Because you are easing me into the sea
And helping me swim.

For once,
I would not mind if the water swallowed me.
The ocean's warmer than I ever imagined,
And I wouldn't mind drowning in you.
"Daddy! Daddy listen to me count!"

One. I am the one. Your youngest descendant. I had no claim to your throne. I didn't want your crown.
Two. You had two other women besides my mother. Your beloved Queen, her closest lady in waiting, and my Mother, a peasant barely of age.
Three. In case you ever wonder a single mother has to work 3 jobs to afford an apartment, that smells like cigarettes and depression, and a diet of Ramen Noodles and freezer meals.
Four. "Mommy cries alot. I can't seem to figure out why. She told me I'm gonna be a big sister. I hope it's a boy."
Five. "Mommy never leaves my bed side at the hospital. We lost our house because Mommy had to quit her jobs. I don't like it here though. They poke me with needles and I'm losing my hair."
Five. "Mommy tells me it's okay that I can let go."
Five. "Grandma said an angel came in the night to make me better.
Five. I got called a boy in the bathroom today.

Five. I forget how to count when I'm emotional.

Five. I don't want to be bald.
Five... I mean...
Six. Your peasant found comfort in the arms of your best friend. His names Jim. He introduces her to Mary Jane, Molly and Aunt Hazel. When they're with her she forgets her two baby girls exist.
Seven. After 7 foster homes we ended up back with Mommy. She's more tired looking but they say she's clean. She still smells like our first apartment.
Eight. My innocent voice would carry the same heart breaking question to my worn out Mother's ears. "Why don't I have a Daddy like every body else."
Eight. The first time I was called a *******.
Eight. At 8 the bullying began.
Eight. Maybe I'd be better of dead.
Eight. He wasn't suppose to do that.
Eight. Mommy said it's wrong for a man to touch me like that.
Eight. Daddy why didn't you save me. You were suppose to protect me from all this.

Eight. Because you loved the feeling of the bottle pressed firm to your lips and the scorching of your throat, burning away any truth that could crawl it's way out your mouth more the 8 children you claimed and your ***** little secret.

Nine. I've seen you 9 times in my life. And each time you look worse. No teeth. Little hair. You've had 9 strokes in just a few short years.They say you spent to much time with Jack, Jim, and Jose. They don't know how you're alive.
Ten. I used to think you were a king. I used to tell myself you were busy running a country, fighting a war, doing anything noble. Instead of just leaving me.

10. I'm an adult now.
9. They say you accept the love you think you deserve.
8. Maybe that's why I fall for the jerks.
7. There's a boy. He likes your friends too.
6. I don't think I'm very happy anymore.
5. Sometimes I like to hang with Uncle Jim and Uncle Jack.
4. I can never have just one.
3. Each time it get's harder to say no to Mommy's girl friends.
2. I'm the daughter if two addicts.
1. "See Daddy I told you I could. I can count from 1 up to 10 and back down 1 again!"
"Sweetheart, that's a teddy bear not your.. your.. your..."
"I know Mommy I'm just pretending."
This is the first time I've written about my Father. It's a release of so many emotions. This was the hardest poem I've ever written. This is my most vulnerable poem.
I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.
This was the first rhyming poem I've written in two years. I thoroughly enjoy tearing into the people whose "poetry" trends just because it's about a boy not loving them back. *******.
Next page