Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Miko Oct 2012
Rivinia,
It's a pretty cool name.
I had a key to a house
and threw it in his face.
Color me mine
and topple me yours,
it's off the cuff
like pogo stick chores.
Throw your knives sideways
on table tops.
Now isn't that attractive
to you, to you?
Now, what do I do?
With people coming here
and stand bys rushing there
of the female persuasion
and bunnies up the foot.
All in a confidential sweep
of rice ball rubies
and a dented cup.
Oh, manual window,
it's chilly outside,
so please be a doll
and help me make it fine.
Because where have you been, all of life?
Completely unaware
of an existence of your kind,
with a new screwball
and a lamp for kicks.
Drum stick models
so you can eat and cook
and take down the spark notes
via nightlight.
The roughest of the drafts; true story
LN  May 2014
Drafts
LN May 2014
How will I ever edit my drafts
of oceans of thoughts
encompassed my breezes whispering your name
and fathom them into poems
or mere glimpses of words
so that you may finally understand.
idk whatever
alienobserver Jul 2014
last night I had a dream,
not exactly a dream,
but more of a memory

I could feel the soft sand between my toes
And the salty wind colliding with my face

The way Cecilia talked to me
Was like waves against the rocks
Or like rain in a summer day
The sun setting upon us caused me chills
I will always be floating with her in the sea

Only the gods know
How well I used to write
How well I would describe
The way she looked at me:
The same way stars shine the brightest
Before they collapse
Styles May 2014
By accepting average; you encourage it.

Be better than that. Just one more draft. Tear it up, after that. Start over; start from scratch. Rather you stress, than but settle by accepting less.  

Competing against the best of the best; means your best, at best, never the less.
Emma  Sep 2015
Dear Brother
Emma Sep 2015
Dear brother
Your heart has been torn
By yet another
Whose arms like spiderwebs
Brought your heart into her mouth
And let her teeth clash into it

Dear brother
I know the feeling
Like you will find no other
But I promise you
That every final paper
Results from many rough drafts

Dear brother
I see the love oozing out of you
Waiting to be shared with another
But learn to use it on yourself first
Please

Dear brother
You are not
someone else's "Other"
You are your own
You are enough

Dear brother
I know you have given up on
Finding another
But for now now we have
Each other

And dear brother
May we both learn
To love again yet another
A letter to my brother: may we both learn to love again someday.
Samantha  Sep 2013
...
Samantha Sep 2013
...
Today I have adopted
a new Dream Occupation:

No longer a Buddhist Monk
On a Mountain Peak in Nepal
but Henry Miller, I will Be
And shall dance the
Worlds Circumference
With no brain in skull but a pen in
between crooked-only-on-the-right teeth
Mark my words today in
pencil please
So tomorrow I will have a
reminder and in a fortnight I will have
an eraser;
Henry Miller never
Wrote drafts in ink
⭐️

Step I -⭐️
As you can see I have used a ⭐️above
(we can use any character/number /alphabet)

Step 2- use return key

Step 3- The poem in asterisk , which remains the same
for
italics
bold
bold-italics

Step 4- use return key

Step 5- again the character(⭐️) it could be anything

And there you get the poem in desired fonts .
I tried this in my drafts on Hp and yes it works .

Happy posting


⭐️
Step1 ~

Step2  return key

Step 3 *poem*

Step4 return key

Step5 ~

Thanks Kim for giving the sun here .
I just so hope whatever I tried , should be of help to all my friends on HP.
It would bring me immense happiness if it works for you all.

My abilities in explaining is limited, I have tried putting the steps in notes too


We could use any of these signs ~ !  # .
I just hope it works for you my friends .
The devices that I have been using  are my iPad iPhone MacBook.
annmarie  Oct 2013
First Drafts
annmarie Oct 2013
Sometimes I try
to write about you
and I want to add
a line, something like
"and this is the last poem
I'll ever write for you."

But I know I can't ever do that.
You and I both know
I'd never be able
to truthfully say that.
Because if I'm being honest,
I'll always be writing about you.
I'll always be writing to you.
Your first love is the poem
you never ever stop writing.
I'll always be revising that poem,
always adding verses;
and of course it can never be perfect,
but in a way that's why it's beautiful.

So that's what you are to me—
the poem I'll always be writing,
revising,
rearranging,
living.
It'll always start with and come down to you.
The poem I'll carry around with me
in the little notebook I call my heart,
with scribbles in the margins
and notes to myself between stanzas.
You're the poem I'm going to reference
in every single other thing I write.
You're the crumpled piece of paper
pulled out of the back pocket of my memories
whenever anyone asks about the first time.
You're the ink in my pen
as it hits the paper
and you're every word I write with that ink.

And as far as first drafts go…
I'm really happy with what you gave me to work with.
Liz Mar 2016
The Dancers in Black

Her dress was black and the shape resembled a flower. Satin off-the-shoulder sleeves sat elegantly against her ivory white skin. A plain black bodice and a plain black skirt, not too puffy but not form fitting. It was a simple dress, but she stood out from all the lavishly decorated girls that attended the ball. Her pale skin made her black dress look like a painting on a pure white canvas. A few black curls fell from her crown-like updo and brushed against her neck; giving her beauty an effortless essence.
Soon after she entered the grand doors, a man approached her. He was older, but not too old. Maybe ten years her senior.
“You are breathtaking, it would be an honor to dance with such a beauty.”
A small grin curled her lips as she took the hand he extended to her. They danced wonderfully in the ballroom. They swayed together like a tree in the wind, his branches twisting with hers. Her black dress melted with his black coat and trousers and they became one beautiful black bird, floating and gliding freely.
The rest of the guests froze, watching the couple in a trance. The room fell silent, even the musicians were hypnotized by the dancers’ grace. The couple continued to dance through the silence, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Their gaze was locked, transcending reality as they stared into each other’s eyes. They were somewhere else, transported by their dance. An unfamiliar world was created between their eyes that grew and spread like a halo around their interlocked frames.
The guests were not amazed, not horrified, they were not anything. The feeling of Nothing swept over them like a dusting of light snow. Nothing seeped into their hearts the longer they watched the dancers. This Nothingness would be with them until the end of time.
The King entered the ballroom confused the the silence and the stillness.
“What are you doing? I don’t pay you so my guests can stand around in boredom.”
The musicians resumed playing and the guests went back to dancing. Men looked for the beauty in the black dress and women searched for the man in the black coat. They seemed to have disappeared. No woman or man in black could be found.
The guests danced and carried on their night like they would any other. But they could not forget the dancers and the Nothingness that was left in their hearts.
As the night came to an end, and the guests began to leave, the image of the dancers in black haunted their minds. They left through the grand doors like sand falls through an hourglass, consistent and calm until the room was empty. No one spoke of the event, but there was a sense of understanding among the guests. They all saw the event, they all felt the Nothingness that remained, and they all agreed it was best not to dwell on the matter.
They would think about the dancers in black every day. Every man and woman, and lord and peasant who saw the dancers would carry on life with Nothingness inside them and the curious beauty of the dance in their memory. Each one trying not to think about it because they knew that just the notion of that night would cause them to fall into the same trance they fell to in the ballroom. How odd it is to ignore a memory, all while knowing it will never be forgotten. How strange it must be to lie to yourself and know the truth cannot be denied. They shut away their knowledge of the dance so they could continue living life in the facetious way they had before.  
One of the guests was a poet. He could not carry on like the others. He could not ignore the Nothingness. After the ball, his writing became only repeated attempts to understand the dancers. And to understand why they made him feel so uneasy. His attempts failed over and over again for years, until the poet had nearly given up. After hundreds, maybe thousands of discarded rough drafts, the poet wrote his last sentence. He wrote it and never again felt the need to pick up a pen. It was simple and short, and everything he had been looking for.
“I saw Death, and it was beautiful.”
this is the first piece of fiction that I've written that i actually like
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i don't actually remember writing these words
(ref. to a schematic revision (b)...
all the way through to 5 minute sketch
in a Polish supermarket / edradour distillery)...
am i to find myself being ashamed by them...
i clearly saved them for the draft tenure...
to find myself agitated by their very existence...
getting drunk and writing...
it would be so much easier to simply drink and drive
and cause an accident...
then i'd sober up... there on the spot!
but to have to feed into a responsibility of writing
when under the influence?
and there are no hallucinogenic drugs involved:
to... "expand" on?
every time i see something that i clearly wrote...
i am doubly clear in:
an inability to recognise it... something came over me...
most -esque to a cynddaredd...
rage... to write with a ferocity of a blindman's
sneaking a peek from within behind the prop of blindness...
i don't remember writing these words:
but i do remember that i was drinking...
and if i remember that i was drinking...
i can't expect myself to remember writing these words...
to write poetry sober?
well sure... but what would happen if,
"somehow" a self-censorship impetus overcame me?
what if cages of narrative and the prosaic
took over me? and i could... quiet simply...
find the iron maiden of poetics in a drinking session
to boot?
then i wouldn't be: uninhibited...
with a pairing to the ears catching a drift of:
years of denial - body map e.p. -
i do not recognise myself with or in these drafts...
i see the poems of architecture that
never surprise with a rhyme...
i can see the zoological animal of a man bound
to customs and regulations of a lexicon...
never such roughage... such fibre...
in a spontaneity...
never a letting go... or rather...
hanging onto a razor that's the only "leftover" base
for a ledge...
it's never feeding a quality of fleeting
or of chaotic... esp. that the vicinity shelters...
a made bed... a private library of records and books
that have been dusted...
the house is clean... the dinners are cooked...
i do not remember these berserker outpourings...
it's almost "funny": to have written something...
but at the same time... being unable to recognise...
except for the idiosyncratic punctuation markers...
and a knowledge of diacritical markers...
it's not for my eyes to peer at a second time...
it was already agony the first time round
when i wrote what i wrote as... this most uncertain "i"...
if these drafts are better for those about
to squat... i am not their owner...
these are forbidden children with mother past...
i see no father future worth for them...
they are to be chained and beaten into
an archeological rubric: aye! december the 22nd 2019...
etc.,
come midnight i will want to have forgotten
even having written this!

at least when taking photographs...
there's something you can detach yourself from...
not when making these escapades of wording...
you can allow yourself: most assured...
a pressure to be alien to them...
to be ashamed by them...
there is never a novelty to them:
never a novel binding -
such is the nature of these words...
they are the houses that are to be abandoned...
perhaps stop-over places of cohabiation
by (psychological) squatters...
i gave these rooms, these words,
the original dimensions...
stop-over places between finding (a) ritual
and sacrifice and altar at the feet
of a Dostoyevsky... or some other...

esp. the somehow arrived at:
over-burdening tone of "know it all"...
which none of it is allowed a translation
into a formal use of the tongue...
because it was never about finding a cutie
in a rhyme...
or a psychology to be washed in rose water
without some knee-**** and bulimia reaction
when the sulphur would come out...

these drafts are abandoned poems...
because i am most certainly cruel to myself...
i cannot help not being cruel to myself...
that's how i always mistake kindness...
i have always mistaken kindness...
since whatever kindness i offered i did so
from a lense of selflessness...
the ghost aid... trivial 3rd party seances of
kindness... ghost hands and ghost tongue...
because i am a tyrant unto myself...
i am most cruel: unto myself...
the number of times my "ego" becomes
a tool for self-laceration is... quiet frankly...
hardly the 2nd tier of unit for
a personality and a fathomability of character
that would ever allow a person in...

even if i am right... i cannot allow myself to gloat...
happiness is such a butterfly of time...
such a whimsical affair...
it can be appreciated...
but once it is... a tonne of bricks
must fall onto it for a sense of stability and:
how best to feed capriciousness
with an immovable object?

it's one of those questions that will never allow
itself to arrive at "wisdom"...
a notable statement usually juggled
by certain youthful muslims is:
there's no water in the desert...

i'm pretty sure that's supposed to imply,
something, other than...
of note... i have stopped biting my nails...
the argument was:
i like the taste of keratin...
and i "know" keratin in nails and the keratin
in hair...
how i have succumbed to enjoy
clipping my nails...

like i never smoked a cigarette because
i was nervous...
i needed circa 5 minutes to lag behind me...
or scout ahead of me...
something to scout ahead and lag behind...
something to capture a pensive
evil-brooding of the brows...
or imitate a cat inclined to entertain
itself over some cobweb it would later
ingest...

now these clipped nails...
it's almost as if i found my teeth to be
necessarily itchy...
itching bones...
of note: those bones that itch when
left exposed, signatures to the former
muscle, flab and ghost tenants they were
once landlords to...

how else? there's no more a dissatifying ending
as that in cinema of: the end...
i still don't know why the credits roll...
the old movies...
the old... the passed...
this has to feel like an abandonment
to the very last...
i might as well call it: 15th january 2020...
circa 15 minutes past midnight.

— The End —