Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
riri Jan 4
preparing months for an exam
for a number that supposedly determines your worth
******* up to teachers, people you don't even like
just for them to hopefully write a few commendable words about you

all for the hopes of being deemed "acceptable" to some supposed authority
for a place that will decide what you'll be doing for the rest of your life
making these drastic decisions at the age of 18
when not too long ago you were just picking out your prom dress

listing down any type of hobby or recreation you have
to make yourself seem a little more unique
since the competitiveness between you and your peers is sharper than a knife
who will make the final cut in the end and be deemed worthy?
that's all we do. that's all we've been doing for years as a society.
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2021
~
Holding court at the Zanzibar,
they looked on good nights
like Egyptian Queens, like Ancient Babylonians.

On not so good nights,
they resembled Brassaï's Moma Bijou -
"fugitives from Baudelaire's bad dreams",
and even then they looked magnificent.

Identity wasn't something you nailed
yourself into in late adolescence.
It was a trick of the light,
and if you were to avoid
burning yourself out,
then you simply let the flames
lick over you
and turned the ashes into kohl.

~
Zeynep Çiçek Aug 2021
I follow footsteps I've never treaded
And go where I always wish I'd visited
When my time comes to a close
I sit and watch the water

I listen to whispers that were never for my ears
That live not in reality but in my ears
Phantom touches that leave me breathless
They drown in the water

I remember laughter rolling in the night grass
Whose memory retains it no longer
And as I mourn the friend I wonder
I sit by the water

My heart breaks to pieces
As I sit by the water
I'm leaving to study abroad soon.
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2021
~
Somersaults
In the tall grass
Lutalica girl
In places on the run
Stretched out in her awakening
Removes the dress of her captivity
To introduce herself to those she loves
There's something deeply unknowable
And terrifying in the arrival of her liberty
Sprung forth out of the box
She started from

~
Lutalica: the part of your identity that doesn't fit into categories.
neth jones Jul 2021
the sleeper...

riled in slumber
         her face fevered
     cussed about the terrain
                                     of a floral breeding
  bedding patterns and the print
                                        bunched in struggles
in smudges
                     an amateur trial with sisters makeup
     primal cosmetics
            make a mock
                    daubed
                                ceremony for slumber

dusty and museum are her dollworks
        an amphitheatre audience
                                 overlooming her berth
    flaunting the gallery shelves
                sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
         and they sluice their gull gall
    a sick drizzle
       over the sleepers form

   from the exterior
  wild wails the weather
its being
     drubbing
  peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream

she is fumbled in dreams...

  abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
  a bleed of vandals
     siling her muted childhood
       parading the playground
          berating old
         once loved playthings
       adopting no sympathy
    adapting in favour
      of the wild riding will
        of the direful pre familiar

into the woods...

a ***** charmed breath
       dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
       insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
      of grandmothers doting
           stern teachings
         like fragile pottery
            come to harm
         broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
       this nocturnal forest
     busy in heat
      bonding death
       to refract the hustling moon

a company of wolves
    fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
             jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
      from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
          rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
                  and sexing the other

fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale

...agitation in her sleep
Inspired by the movie version of The Company Of Wolves

Sile = Strain OR filter
Grace Feb 2021
Ride a bike without training wheels in an empty parking lot until found.
Eat lunch without deodorant in a sweaty cafeteria until nauseous.
Go to prom without a date in a one stop-sign town until dawn.

Walk to class without pants at a small liberal arts college until famous.
Play guitar without calluses at an ex-partner’s house until fingers throbbing.
Hike a trail without a stick on a one-day trip until sore.

Write a poem no meaning in a 4 x 4 apartment until lost.
Throw someone else’s toothbrush in the trash in a studio until crying.
Delete numbers without reason in a frenzy until numb.
Walk down the aisle without a father in a rustic barn wedding until the groom is smiling.
n stiles carmona Jan 2021
Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.
written after too much time poring over allen ginsberg. ambivalent about this but the alternative is endless writers' block so this way i've at least got something to show for myself
Alex Kabat Dec 2020
i crack open
like some kind of piñata,
crumbling on the floor
leaking hurt,
dependance;
the desire for her to be
someone she cannot.

dressing myself in streamers
yet naked to the core

a sickly sweet ache
drips down my esophagus
coating my throat until there is no room
for forgiveness;
of her,
but also myself.

the saddest shade of irony:
demolished by the same hands
that once promised healing

this pity party is over.
Man Nov 2020
boyhood hid nothing
the snow only recently, laid to rest
to hang like rhime
but adolescence gave it a new lense
breathed in new breath
and animated the rotten corpse
to be so in shock, sickening awe
as to shriek out
"𝘐𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴!"
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
Equations
in the sand

Laid out
and toweling off

Curvatures to
algebraic form

They define her lines
shape her axis

My island of
expectation

Amid summer's long
subterfuge
For more about this
See the related poem: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3762789/costa-brava/
Next page