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Amanda Feb 9
I wish you felt same as I do
Wish you were hurting like me
Can't even look at other guys
You make moving on look so easy

I wish you cried yourself to sleep each night
Wish you were haunted by dreams
You're too busy to think about me
At least that's the way it seems

You make time for everyone else
Not the girl you used to love
I will never be enough for you
No longer who you're daydreaming of

I hate that after four months
Still haunted by what used to be
Want to let go but it's so hard
Accepting that you don't want me
This was written 2/25/13 after I got my first serious dumping
Excuses are perfect
Purging behind innocents
Leaving relentless, the shame of forgiveness
For what rewards can be reaped
From holy deeds ?
When sins form more roads to see
And youth sways bravely,  
The painful words of hatred.
And only age knows of Nor’s
Of whether time was spent with love
In the darkest hour of his darkest night,
A man sat hunched with his dwindling light,
A sliver of hope behind all his fright,
Memories keeping him from giving up the fight,
For he just needed to make it through alright.

In the deepest crevice in his hollow heart,
Like an ancient piece of forgotten art,
Lay his very soul that keeps falling apart,
Every second stung like a poison dart,
His very being crumbles part by part.

In his sickened body runs so many a mark,
In his bloodless skin looks so very stark,
In his hollow head the eyes became dark,
Lifeless and empty as an abandoned park,
His parched throat struggling to bark.

He just needed to pass through tonight,
Keeping all the monsters at bay with all his might,
Making most of the warmth from his dying light,
And yet after all this senseless flee and flight,
His very old friend found him and said 'Goodnight'.
Iz Dec 2018
Snot drips from your nose
Tears trickle down your face
Like crystals in this light
And I know
I know I am no longer enough
I know it is me
Who’s brough you this pain you’ve been feeling
I know it’s me who stole the peace
In your once serene being
Wayward Oct 2018
I look into the mirror, admiring what I see,
Oh the soft curves, there's no one else I'd rather be,
Is she a queen or is she a *****?
Who is the girl that I see in front of me?

Now I see a woman, independent and sweet.
A respected wife and a loving mother of three.
Is she really content or is she just compromised?
Who is the woman I see in front of me?

As time goes by, so does my age,
I hate what I see, we're no longer on the same page,
All these liars praise my non-existent youth,
But oh the mirror shows me the truth.

Mirror mirror on the wall,
Why are you the cruelest of them all?
Show me the day that I once believed,
That I was the prettiest maiden that ever lived.
Beauty and vanity is such an unexplored concept. We spend hours admiring or hating ourselves. It takes a certain level of maturity to love yourself and accept what you are. Much love xoxo
Mary Frances Sep 2018
You are the Sea - peaceful and soothing.
Your big waves are your strengths.
And the small ones, your charms.

I am your Shore - acccepting and silent.
Your weaknesses, I embraced.
Your failures, I welcomed.

Not many will understand and agree
But that's how a Shore loves her Sea.
Zeyea Jul 2018
The first time I bloomed
was under the threadbare covers
on my silk mattress.

It was odd.
I mean, the utter controversy
of the two cloths clashed teeth to bone,
gums to tendons.
Made by the same mother,
abandoned by both.
(I guess in some way they were meant to be)

I grew out of childish fantasies
years ago, shredding it
like satin snakeskin,
but I can't help but wonder
if lukewarm serendipity
and blushing luck
were controlled by not a higher power
but our own heartstrings.

It would be an interesting sight,
to see braided desaturated yarn
entwined in our limbs like a tangled puppet.
Does that mean we are controlled?
Or perhaps the "control"
we see is merely an illusion,
easy to rip through like tissue paper.

I remember that my body burned.
From ever-growing light coiled around
split ends and twisting fingertips.
The light was skintight,
another layer of my skin.
My bones unfurled,
eyes glowing like fairy lights,
weeds creeping out of the fringes of my chest cavity.
Hands turned into bouquets of lilies,
pedals waving farewell,
why, I could not say, but it's metaphorical.
Kissing the wounded parts of my soul,
I grew bundles of baby's breath and chrysanthemums.

The second time,
while my hair grew into flames
and the hinges of my heart
oxidized into green,
my mother found out.
What she thought was a childish misunderstanding
grew into a maze of prejudice and disgust.

I knew, my mother never liked it, from the start.
Perhaps she was stuck,
in the past,
in the mindset,
in the fear,
in the normality,
and this,
this was not normal.

She sneered at me and my father
shook his head in disappointment.

Twang in my chest,
I tried to atone for my sin,
but I stopped halfway
because I realized even if I tried,
the growth would only speed and this time
the flowers would be blackened and dead.

The third, I tried to stop it.
I couldn't survive another heartbreak
so I folded it away,
into twos and threes
until the creases refused to crease
and rice paper cracked
into three million pieces
of jagged bones.

I never knew destruction was beautiful until then.

The fourth, I gave up on my reconciliation.
Why try when it wasn't going to work anyways?
I waited out the furnace in my heart
and for the first time,
wondered why I couldn't be normal.

I was meant for a happy ending,
driving into a sunset with a boy by my side
and it didn't make sense
(but ironically it did).
Girls couldn't like girls.

But I did, I did.
And though my mother screamed obscenities
and my father looked at me in disgust,
I could not throw it out
like bottles of spoiled milk.
I could no less cut out my own being
than stop this.

And through my suffering I surmised
that if this was seen so revolting,
then I should go down for it.
A life for a life,
that's what I thought.

But was it worth it?
I do not know.
But me, me who loves as much as I hate---
I cannot cut this out of me.

And maybe, just maybe---
even as I fade like the waning moon under my parents' hatred,
and this thing inside of me is cherished and kept inside
the hearts of others
---maybe it's alright.

Maybe I will be okay.
Some people will hate on this. This is how I feel as part of the LGBT+ community and if you don't like that, it's fine. Ignore this and go find other poems you like. You live your life. But please don't diminish the fact that I am living as well. And if you think this is trash then don't worry I think so too. It's really not one of my best work.
Regan Jul 2018
I hate reading
My old poetry,
Knowing how blue
I was.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because I knew
I was in a bad place.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because it shows
How lonely I am.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because it hurts

I hate reading
My old poetry,
For the pain
I was feeling.

I deal with
My old poetry,
Because now I’ve
Learned from it.
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