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Jenna Johnston Dec 2011
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.*

There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.

But what about the skinny girls?

The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.

The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?

All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.

But ******, so am I.
This is an original by Jenna Johnston. If you like it, by all means write it down, but give credit where credit is due, please
Rockie  Apr 2015
Watch
Rockie Apr 2015
I'm here
Watching you fix your tie
With the grace of a clumsy seal
Who got drunk
On the verge of tomorrow
And the brink of today

I'm here
Watching you stride out
With the hopefulness of a child at Christmas
Who won't go to sleep
For Santa will arrive
At midnight

I'm here
Watching you speak to the crowd
With the confidence of a frightened duckling
Who were recently hatched
Out of an egg
And into the light
Madisen Kuhn  Apr 2014
fall
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2014
i wasn’t feeling okay

so i put on my overalls and went
outside 

to wander around my backyard,

trekking around in clunky rain boots

as i hummed and tried not to think
i like to write
 little notes

on the leaves that are now 

changing colors
and when i’m done

i let them
fall

so i can flatten them

beneath my heel

till the small words

are crinkled and no longer legible
amongst the dirt and grass
and so desperately,
i wish i could

let the thoughts in my head

fall
to the ground

so i could flatten
these
 pitiful feelings

beneath my heel

until they were no longer legible

amongst the hurt and hopefulness 

in my heart
written on 11/4/14
Every time I hear of you--
I wonder what went wrong
that you would choose
another over me.

The cogwheels of my brain
would constantly rewind
to the very day we meet;
the nerves I had prior
and the brief good memories.

This bitter nostalgia
reminded me of
my foolish sense of hope
that I was the special one
among many others--

Only when I was told
that I was rejected
did I realise...
I was only a pitiful jester;
dancing and joking
for your fancy
on that very day.

I could not help thinking,
being rejected on a Christmas eve
is a terrible Christmas present,
and also the only Christmas present I had.

They say that it was not His will--
But they also did not know...
Perhaps it was His will
that I spend the dead morning of Christmas
soaking my pillow in tears
while nursing a overactive mind.

And yes, I saw you again on New Years Eve--
from afar, where everyone was celebrating
of their successful association with you
with delirious hopefulness and motivation...
Meanwhile, I was made to
welcome the New Year all alone
with tears in memory of your rejection.
People rejoicing and being congratulated getting the job you want while you are spending the new year alone is probably one of the worst feeling one can get. Some people are destined for greater heights while others will always be eating off the feet of others.

Happy belated New Year.
So yes, I will not have stupid expectations and resolutions for 2019. I will be realistic.
Lunar Vacancy Oct 2017
i have written numerous times in many ways,
hopefulness is my gift,
just as it is my worst curse.
i can hope for several things,
hope i pass this semester
hope i lose that extra weight
hope my broken heart will heal
hope the winter comes quickly.
i can hope for a lot of things
but that hopefulness will sink into my pockets
and drag me down if i'm not careful.
hope is dangerous, just like fear.
i can hope that one day, you'll love me again.
i can hope for my appetite to leave me and never come back
i can hope for some physical pain to lesson the emotional pain.
but it will always be hope that carries me throughout today.
i dont know what will happen.
i could see the love of my life tomorrow
or ultimately get hit by a bus.
i dont know what the future holds.
or if i even have one at all. all i can hope for -
is that it gets better somehow
that i dont become who i love so dearly,
-van gogh
-sylvia plath
- ernest hemingway
because this sadness - could last forever.
Red Sep 2016
Anxiety is like the movie "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids",
except it's the sequel "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves",
because you have no one else to blame for how big and scary the world seems around you.
To anyone else, a stair is just a stair,
but this stair in life is towering over me and I have no clue how to overcome.
This stair might be getting out of bed,
being around other people,
or shopping at a store alone.

Fairly easy tasks,
but I feel I have to ******* my oxygen tank and climb Mt. Everest.

Anxiety is like when you are sick,
and the bathroom is a mere 10 steps away,
but like in the cartoons,
the bathroom stretches to miles away before my eyes.
10 steps is now 10,000,
in those 10,000 steps to school, or work, so many things could go wrong.

Anxiety is knowing you're thinking irrationally.
Thinking against yourself in your head,
wanting to strangle whatever force is driving you mad.
Like finding an on-off switch,
but no matter how many times you flip it, nothing happens.

Anxiety is laying in bed,
plauged with possibilities of problems,
not moving a muscle,
paralyzed by the endless possible outcomes of failure.
I feel as if I'm in a big gray cloud.
I can see through it, but yet it is so dense I am captive by my own paranoia.

Anxiety is being a walking imperfection.
Where one zit on your forehead acts as a big red, flashing, arrow floating above your head saying IMPERFECT
DISGUSTING
UNLOVEABLE

Anxiety is wanting to love yourself
so so very bad
and fighting every day against a bug infesting your beautiful brain
with negative self talk.

Anxiety is trying to fall asleep at night,
and with every breath,
my body gets smaller and smaller,
my thoughts have weight like a lead balloon,
filling with every breath,
my head is heavy and I feel my chest caving in.

Anxiety is the anti-Cupid who stabs an arrow between anyone I've ever loved.
She is the imaginary mistress I can't help but suspect,
no matter how many times he says he loves me.
What if one day he doesn't?
What if one day everything I hate about myself he hates too?
Anxiety is the mistress he never knows is there,
and yet I push her towards him.

With Anxiety there are options.
There is one switch that does work.
It is a big red button labeled MEDICATION
this button will destroy every anxious though I may have
but often in wars the innocent suffer.

If this button is pressed, I lose everything.
Anger, sadness, paranoia,

I lose happiness.
I lose the feeling of love,
excitement,
hopefulness.

My heart and brain become an empty forgotten shoe box that I don't need anymore.

My body smiles when my brain believes it should,
and fills the air with laughter that isn't mine.

Someone tells a joke and my stomach never hurts from laughing.

I don't have crushes on cute boys.

My deep brown eyes look as if they are made of glass... Emotionless.

Kisses feel like flicks.
Hugs feel like uncomfortable, uncessary squeezes.

I find myself going through the motions, like an extra on a TV set.
Saying words that have no meaning.
Moving my mouth but nothing is truly coming out.

I stop petting my cat.

It is inconvenient when my dog greets me at the door and licks me.

My mother tells me she loves me and I despise it.. I don't know why.

I forget what it is like to feel.

I am a robot in a human's body.

If you tell me to take medication,
I am letting my illness win,
with a white flag in hand.

I refuse to throw away every piece of me for "peace."
for those suffering
don't press the big red button... ever
Umaizah  Sep 2015
End
Umaizah Sep 2015
End
I want to run away so badly.
Just end it with everyone.
I'm burning from my own mistakes.
I hate the person I become when you are around.
The reality is that I've never ment anything to you.
Hopefulness has taking me into the realm of delusion.
What is right I see as left.
Your eternal love is really a three minute panting and moaning fest.
How could I be so blind.
Well in truth I was viewing it all and I just wouldn't let go.
I knew it was wrong but I just didn't care.
I apparently don't love myself at all.
If I did you would have seen nothing and I would have remained as Mother Teresa.
So long it's time to grow up and outgrow you.
Let my new roots be firm and pure.
Ruby Nemo Jul 2018
There comes a time in man's gentle endeavors in which their person flutters through. Not perfect, not even close. When all of the essentials are blatantly missing, but nevertheless you chase. And it's not the chase; it cannot be, because that chase is distinguishable from all else.

Though still, the heavy burden provokes. Why? Well, man may claim the uncertainty of such an underdeveloped string of emotions, yet in some fashion this is utterly obscure. If my opinions not be discerned from a folly fool, let my brain be put to rest!

No, I say, it is much deeper than that. When simple dining becomes strenuous, and the tear ducts loose, another vague instance is to blame. It is not the result of a mere first glance. It is not the result of the wave of a hand. Hell, it is not even that which has evolved from a childish fling. It is something called My Person Condition.

And it is more complex, still. It is worthy of noting that a condition is identified in a modified fashion. See that this is no disease, no ailment, no illness. An unfortunate victim has no hopes of returning to their former, less-impaired self, but their opinions are clouded so fully that this, to them, brings upon great advantages. Yet the scars and piercing truths that lurk within MPC prove to be a particularly heavy load for most to carry.

The earliest symptoms may include the following: loss of appetite, perspiration, anxious breathing, spotted vision, hallucinations, reclusiveness, futuristic thoughts, rage, severe bipolar tendencies, self-contradiction, loss of sleep, loss of energy, sorrow, hopefulness, nightmares, and ****** rejection resulting in extractions such as emesis, urination, and excessive bleeding. Patients will also find difficulty in restricting their thoughts to those which do not include their person. The danger that lies within this condition is extensive, but can be overturned with the proper care and medical attention.

Perhaps I have refrained from discussing the most detrimental force assigned to any MPC sufferer, and that is the false sense of progression of mental feelings of stability. As days move on, and nights drag out into the next, new faces are introduced at an increasingly rapid rate. This can be destructive in the sense that the victim will gain a false grip on reality. They will reject further treatment, stand down in a circulation of positive vibrations, and cease to recall the importance of their continuous efforts against their condition.

A day rolls around in several years. They share feelings of gratitude and affection with another being, pretending that their person has left their mind for good. Until the radio threatens to remind them of so long ago, the compulsive nights that were spent in pursuit of an extra pinch of knowledge. Until the box fills the patient's ears with a sweet melodic voice spun from pure gold and coated in the finest finish. MPC revives itself like a flame inside their heart, inside their bloodstream. Renewal flows through their veins at a painless rate - until a grin spreads across their face, their head is turned back around, and there they are.
My Person.
07-06-18
Mark Nelson  Sep 2010
Sibilance
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
Willow herb floating

on silent certainty

ashes of sighs


not fleeting,

unvapoured on the

blossom of the rain,

I am too light to

pull or push

the swing of delight

through this land.




The rain left me for a

while

sun unshielding

-a thousand widows

more unyielding than the depths . .

Once shadowed whisperers

of delight,gossamer

sparkling , descending

their chains

of necromantic hope.





Lilith is no night owl

she is mother, eve

and my becoming:

sweet earth spun

at once ,

exhaling her .





The see saw

bumped gently

on my chin

it is a most gentle

form of awakening.




The silence bore no whispers

till sinking through the quicksand

-or was it quicksilver?

-in any case I could smell little

in my amniotic amnesia.

I made ten thousand friends,till their soap

made this place clean.



Is this a seed or a dying

hopefulness

-is my sallow sowing

beyond all shores of

reproduction;

a reflection of the child

they dared not bear?



Is my last breath like this

a forgotton yielding

will they catch me

as I fall ?

-(sweet earth)-



This moth of my ending,

a shallow recantation,

my fears-

their memories, mere

testubes of

stylish hope .





I breathe the elegant stare

you have forgotten .

Once more free

from such

rememberance






I need not ,

remained not ,

your imploded ,

wakefulness .





A thousand pardons

exhaled like silk

entwining

an unfinished race

spider of a thousand eyes .



One may say

I was

stared

to death

but surrogate air

mocks childish pity.



Taut refelexions

bear salt echoes

in silk convulsions

fresh water

a veneered hope .



Easier in death than life

is a child's sorrowed

partings ,

the illusion of

bouyancy

rippled tides

unfelt.



The oceans have not enough salt

for such shrunken sorrow.

if we could but once

have shared

unbreathed aspersion .



The room has come and gone

the pillow quite undry

unforgotten

unremembered.

A web untouched
2003. Tribute to Christina Lothian english teacher ,ended her life in the river Ayr ,in the embrace of another woman .They jumped together.I found out 30 years too late.
Summer Nov 2015
born into this:
not into the lights.
not into the fame.
not into the hopefulness.
born into this:
the sewers.
the dark.
the hopelessness.
you found us there one night.
you:
calm and still,
almost understanding,
carrying purity
in your bones.
you weren't just sprinkled with it,
you were drenched with it.
you could tell by the ever changing color of your cheeks
that you:
the purest of them all,
made the water clear
just by your very presence.
were you born into this?
your voice like a hymn,
eyes like the sky
heart like the sea.
born into the sewers?
the dark?
the hopelessness?
you taught us
there was light in the dark
with your gentle hands,
kind mouth,
open heart.
But your purity made us feel
like ****** up
***** angels.
if you
also born into this
could be so so pure
why couldn't we be?
you pulled yourself out of the sewer
and into the lights
the fame
the hopefulness
while we just sat here to rot.
Thinking
We had to be as pure as you
to ever succeed
but
My voice is not a hymn
Eyes not the sky
Heart not the sea
But
My voice is a thunderstorm
my eyes a hurricane
my heart a tornado
i do not carry purity in my bones
not sprinkled with it.
not drenched in it.
i carry a fire.
my hands could ignite the sky
could light all the darkness
Still
when you offered to help
i agreed
although
next to you
I remained looking like
a ****** up ***** angel
it didn't matter
getting out of what i was born into
was not easy
i scraped my knees
got lost
hurt
but you:
pure as ever
kept holding my hand
even when I slipped down onto the pavement
and had to start over
even when I got into the fame
The lights
the hopefulness
i still wasn't pure.
wasnt soft
not always kind
but I used the fire in my bones
things sparked
My voice thundered
and people finally heard
People could tell
I had a fire in my bones
by the way I spoke
the way I looked
the way I felt
they looked at me
the way we used to look at you
never had they seen someone with such spitfire
born into this:
the dark
the sewers
the hopelessness
but
i didn't stay
didnt rot.
pushed myself out of it.
sometimes you guide me past the sewer
where we all lied before
and I remember all of my friends
who are still there
still rotting
still sad
because they did not want
to appear ugly
next to you
Overwhelmed Mar 2011
what
has happened to
the world
we
live in
now?

no man knows the meaning of trust,
of love,
of friendship,
of innocence.

the children are perverted
by other children

the adults made paranoid
by other adults

the idiots turned manic
by other idiots

the wise men turned wiser
by no one

this world we live in now
is tearing at the seams and
threatens to fall apart

but we have been here before.

we,
man,
were here at the dawn
of our existence

fighting against the wild creatures
and the twistings of mother nature

we were at this breaking point
and we survived.

we, man,
were here at the dawn
of the current era

destroying all that we knew
about the past and rebuilding
it in the hands of new men

we, man,
were here in the great war,
in the second great war, in
the war of the capitalists and
the communists, in the war
against the terror that still
goes on today

we were at the breaking point,
the chaos of it all spilling over
into things we didn’t think
could be tainted,

and yet we came back,
greater than
before.

we,
man,
humanity,
people,

have gone to the edge of existence,
even jumped from it,
without thinking of the doom
that awaited us
at the bottom of this
rocky cliff,

and yet we came back.

back from freefall.
back from oblivion.
back from hell.
back from the dark ages.

we came back.

again
and
again
and
again.

and who is to say we won’t come back?

we came back

we, together, fought against the plagues,
at the sickly parasites that drained our
powers and success, at the people that
refused to accept the future and held back
all those that they could,

and we won.

We won and we
won and we won.

won.
won.
won.

together.

and we can do it
again

together,
I know,
we
can.
This is the final edition of a poem I am submitting to Reflections, a national mixed media competition that is asking for work using the theme "together we can...".
In the spring and in the autumn,
in the calm and in the storm.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In my sorrow and in my joy,
in times of bounty and times of uncertainty.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In times of darkness.
In times of sickness.
In times of abundance.
In times of youthful vitality.

In times when I do not understand why.

I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In days of rest; and days of stress.
In days of struggle; and days of hopefulness.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In every season.
In every season.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord,
unto me. (Thomas Chisholm, 1923)
I give thanks.
To Thee.
Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude over all God has given me.

— The End —