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WickedHope Jan 2015
i am seaglass
collect me along the shore
i am once jagged edges
now dulled by time and salt
wounds full of salt
i have forgotten what sweet is
foggy clouded
clarity lost for the sake of beauty
i am discarded
collect me along the shore
i am scattered in pieces
that no longer fit together
curves and waves
i am tough i am smooth
i have lived my life in rough waters
water and rock
have rearranged my shape
i am under your feet
collect me along the shore
will you hold my fragments
and tell me i am beautiful

- - -
Capitalization and punctuation
are completely optional,
no matter what anyone says.
Tam Robbie  Oct 2010
Seaglass
Tam Robbie Oct 2010
I was born
In metal and machines
Taken from my innertia
and used for anothers gain
until I was discarded
floating lifeless
useless

But then I came to rest
Here, among the golden sands
In this salty aired serenity
Away from the torment of man
and I once again found innertia.
and my peace resumed.
SS  Dec 2020
Seaglass
SS Dec 2020
I was a glass bottle
all shattered and cold
a boy in a rage
broke me ******* the cove
but you gathered my pieces
took them in your tides
you softened my edges
made opaque my insides
now dear i’m your seaglass
i’m smooth to the touch
hold me soft in your palm
dear i love you so much
for R, love S :)
Brenna Gracely  Nov 2017
Seaglass
Brenna Gracely Nov 2017
Flecks of greens and blues glisten and glow
Tiny shards scattered
Parting into lulling waves of gritty pebble ashes
Little specks touched by souls who reside beyond the horizon
Or perhaps beyond where flesh can travel.
Who touched this smoothed transparent crumb
Besides the vast blankets of briny deep that swept it from there to here?
My fingers imprint themselves as I toss it back into the water.
Now I too can go beyond the fading horizon, and join those who were similarly touched by the remnants of material being.
anusha Feb 2018
meet her gaze and see
speckled pebbles in a cool brook, which glimmer and radiate
a thousand fleeting stars

I read manuscripts in the creased skin
Of her lips
I ache,

as the waves smooth glass
into soft, clouded,
infinite
Melody Sokol  Apr 2012
Sea Glass
Melody Sokol Apr 2012
She sat by the window, with the rain pelting the foggy glass, breathing hot air into the cold. She took her finger and slowly ran it across the pane, pushing away the gathered dew and then running her fingers up, down, up, down. G O N E sprawled in messy cursive. Her thoughts were as dreary as everything surrounding her. It was as if the rain was complementing her. After all, if it was sunny, depressing thoughts would be banished to the back of her head.

They had all left her, her past lovers. Their words echoed across the wooden floor, false promises stealing pieces of her heart until the outer shell was the only thing that remained. It was beautiful really. Her shell was so delicate, like a bottle tossed into the ocean, broken and grinded against the sand and rocks, until it finally rested on a beach somewhere, all edges smoothed. She was seaglass, a reminder of the past, but beautiful.

the first told her that she was an angel, just one without wings. “But that’s ok” , he said, “sometimes there is no need to fly”. He found a  single mom on concord avenue two weeks later. She got child support. He bought her a ring soon after.

The third she met in the winter, where for months, white was the only variation of color. He liked to push her on her sled, but he laughed with more joy when he pushed her down the stairs. Red was the second color discovered that winter.

The fourth was the last. His love aged like a plum, darker and sweeter each week she was with him. He stroked her knee with his fingers when they sat upright at the doctor’s office, and he stroked her neck with his lips as she cried, laying horizontally on his bed. “Where did you get the scars on your back?”  he would murmur into her skin.

“I fell down the stairs once”,  she would whisper in the direction of his voice, her words floating in the darkness of the bedroom. The tip of his thumb would run down the pale pink scars, but she wouldn’t feel him there, that part of her had become numb long before. He left her two years later, his side of the room empty except for the spare key resting on the mahogany side table. His smell still lingered carelessly on her pillow.

Whenever it rained, she sat at the window, shadows gathering at her feet.
Kelley A Vinal Mar 2016
Nestled in the mountains
Like a tree, birch or pine
Definitely a tall one
But kind of short, too
Medium-sized, I suppose
Two windows, glass
Seaglass, a pretty blue
Kind of green
Teal-colored, I think
Cerulean might be a better
Descriptor
Stone stuck together
The outside is pretty
Cobblestone, not brick
Like it was made in the Middle Ages
Or maybe the Stone Age
Yeah, that makes more sense
It's pretty here
Like a sunny day
Or a rainy evening
One of the two
Or both
I don't know
I just don't
But I want
To be here
abby Apr 2014
i’m sorry your love does not fit into my junk mail
and that i will not become a hoarder for you
you say you’re disgusting
but i think you’ve rubbed yourself raw against my skin
until your bones have become protruding branches from your body
the blood that used to circulate through me
has now turned into sand
you punctured my lungs and i started leaking beaches
there are no sandcastles, just chunks of broken seaglass
just pebbles and bugs and dirt
you can’t shield me from the sun, i’ve already been burnt
so now when people step on me
i burn back

*(a.m.c.)
Bridget Lee May 2010
"It's just one cut,"
said the sharp lady doctor before language
melted off her clipboard and the operating lamps
grew huge and spilled their bright innards into my eyes.

I lay on the cold tiled floor of the museum.
One monstrous cut -- the white shark suspended
above in a last hungry lunge yawns, belly open.
Around me what a wide-eyed fisherman pulled out:
old tires, whale-oil lamps, Damien Hirst, bones upon bones.
Damien sits on a tire, bored as hell. See the jagged edges,
he says, they pulled him into our cold afterlife
and cut while he suffocated, explosive oxygen flooding
his lungs from the wrong direction.

Later, the doctors showed me
what had for so long kicked and screamed to be out.
Liver-colored, swollen, wrapped in catgut, it was not
as expected. Others had promised ground seaglass,
poppyseed freckles, huge lungs like fibrous balloons
for flying or spouting poetry nonstop in day-long stretches.
Where were my eyes?
It was supposed to have my eyes.
lachrymose Jun 2015
There once was a boy with bones of obsidian and onyx eyes.
He held me as if all that was beneath my
thickly woven sweater sleeves was my
hollow crystal skeleton.
He held me up to the light like
seaglass he discovered on the beach
and let the sunset filter through me.
One night the onyx in his eyes was sparkling with glints of ruby
and what he didn't know when he
wrapped his hand around my neck and squeezed too tight,
reached into my chest and stole an artery from my rose quartz heart
and an amethyst knuckle from my ring finger,
was that beneath my rose-gold toenails
were leaden feet.
I kicked him swiftly in the groin and ran.
Then came a boy with sapphire eyes.
When he touched me, I felt polished and clean.
He was the first boy I let
take off my knitted sweater.
He stroked the smooth surface of my bones
and when he shattered them,
he would help me repair them.
Between the cracks of my translucent skeleton
are slivers of the shiniest sapphire
you've ever seen.

— The End —