Sarah Writes: Favorites

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Cristin H

They'll pay a penny for my thoughts,
I'd pay a dollar if they'd keep them.
I could sell them by the pound,

I can promise I don't need them.

I'd put each thought in a box,
And each box on a shelf.
And I wouldn't take them down,

Til' they belonged to someone else.

A penny for your thoughts,
Or I'd be glad to trade.
If you had a dream of sunshine,

And you longed for one of shade.

A penny for your thoughts,
How much for memories?
I'll only take the light ones,

The ones that fall like leaves

I would hold each one so softly,
Til' they were stolen by the breeze.
Then I'd sit and stare for hours,

While your thoughts blew through the trees.

I imagine they'd be beautiful,
A thought in every hue,
From a time of love all dressed in red,

To a time more present, blue.

My thoughts aren't worth a penny,
But I would gladly pay for yours.
My thoughts aren't worth a penny,

My thoughts are merely chores.

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

When a Poet Forgets

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Jon Tobias

When a Poet Forgets

Forgive me for forgetting
The purpose of this poetry

I got lost in the prose
And diluted the feeling
Distracted enough
To not kiss you completely

I feel like a man who has eaten
Food with onions in it
Self-conscious syntax between my teeth

My tongue attempting to describe
All the things your lips are like

I forget that I am supposed to feel first
Then write

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Sonnet (Bouts-Rimes)

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Chuck

Sonnet (Bouts-Rimes)

We believe we must be gregarious.
In communal bonds families annoint
One another in a precarious
Need to follow one leader at the point.

Individuals are not relevant.
Momentary solitude makes us run.
In silence we find nothing elegant .
Time to search for innerpeace has begun.

"Oh' Catain, My Captain," cried Walt Whitman.
The captain is dead. There's no one we need.
We don't have to group to stop the hitman.
The single flower's a rose, not a ****.

We, need to be I, hear this confession:
Farewell friends, I am my new obsession.

This is an English Sonnet, but a Bouts-Rimes is a poetry challenge. My 14 rhymed words were a challenge from Rebecca Askew. I also gave her 14 words. It can be any number of rhymed words or written in any form. We decided to heighten the challenge by creating sonnets. It was a challenge but an enjoyable one. How did I do?

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Vilest Worms are no more Vilest

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Md HUDA

Vilest Worms are no more Vilest

When I will embrace your chest by my chest at that time
You will comprehend how mature my love is
How lukewarm it is
When my lips dancing up and down will utter the word “love”
You will realize lips that never lie
How many drops of rainwater can make you soggy?
My one stroke of lip kiss can do more than that…
When you become the subject of my poem
My pen starts to dance like a new born baby does seeing his mother
My page is never touched by the vilest caterpillars
When they come to do the sting they find you are laughing in my poems………

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

On the beaches of Normandy

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

M Clement

On the beaches of Normandy

I’d love to take up the flag for something meaningful
And by ‘love to’ I mean hate
And by ‘something meaningful’ I mean anything

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Unspoken distance

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

M Clement

Unspoken distance

It’s been about seven days since I wrote last
And every time I try and write this,
It ends up much like the last time
Unfinished
Unspoken
Unaccounted for
These words in a space
not physical but non-ethereal
Spiritual?
Unsure
Unknown
Uneventful
Every day is tricky,
This dichotomy of emotion,
And rock solid demeanor
I just wanted to write,
Say, “I’m here”
And walk away again
Here in word,
But with unspoken distance

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

You know I'm right... right?

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Nigel Obiya

You know I'm right... right?

I banged the door against my ‘little’
And felt the pain through to my index…
Finger
I felt the pain surge through, felt it throb… felt it linger
Felt it ache
Felt my whole body quake, way past my pain threshold
**** this finger

I stubbed my little…
Toe
Against the leg of my coffee table, you know the one… that well varnished little devil
That stands just before the door
It felt like liquid fire
I looked down at my toe and asked it, “You mean to tell me that you didn’t bleed?... you LIAR!”
And then turned to the table and whispered, “You little *****.”

I don’t know how it happened, but...
You made me sob my heart out paper-cut
It isn't nice how you just up and slice
I’m a manly man, I declare… I boast
You can tell by my manly strut
But really, that ain’t cool… play nice, for pain is my least favourite vice
It’s the little cuts that hurt the most.

Hell: Definition... stubbing your toe on the railing as you bolt down the stairs, causing you to bump into someone holding a mug of scalding hot coffee, which of course spills all over you... and then you realize that the razor blade you were holding left you with the cleanest deep slice on your finger... and it hasn't began to bleed yet, but you can still tell it's deep... and you're too afraid to find out how deep it is... now that's some ****!

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

Cutters

Feb 2013 Sarah Writes

JM

Cutters

Stop cutting.

I get it, life hurts.

You want to feel, something.

You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.

I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.

Your parents ****. They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.

I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.

You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You like the way your skin splits open. You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.

Life *****.

I get it.

You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.

Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.