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A world confined to only black and white
is wasted of all the diverse, flowing shades of gray in between---
the areas that aren't so easily or willingly acknowledged;
the variety of tangled truths and in between slips of moments that paint life on an individual level---
all hidden by an outer layer of generic black and white,

whatever the color people decide to assign me---
the way I live my life;
everything that encompasses it---

it will never do me justice in representing
the entity of the person of who I am.
In response to those who tell you things like:
"You can either be this, or that; there's no in between."
"You can either be happy or depressed; there's no in between."
"You can either be grateful or unfulfilled, always needing more; there's no in between."
"You can either be successful or a total failure, embarrassment, and a waste of time and investment; there's no in between."
"You can either live or die; there's no in between."
Daniel K Apr 8
After the two, I underestimated you.
Time was wasted till four days left to finish.
Piece of cake drove me insane.
All the more did I rip my hairs out
When you gave me that smirk
Daring me to complete you if I could...
Ever.
The more I tried the more I knew,
Petrified before the reality
As I scrutinized at my reflection in the mirror
With saggy eyes that lost its light
And back at you; unfinished masterpiece of Frankenstein.
Chained down by the inscriptions of nightmare
I give up all hopes to be free.

The last 2 days I perceive to be
Long yet way too short.
Truly the hands are moving forth without mercy
As I am writing this poem instead of
My 3rd ten page paper.
Greg Jones Jun 2018
Her exotic gaze caught my jet lagged eyes.
The bar was filled with drunken banter
But I heard her loud and clear.
She approached me like a lion approaches its prey,
And the trap was set.

We didn’t speak each other’s language
But our bodies did the talking.
“Come hither” it said as I followed.
Her hips led the way as my hands followed.
She smelled of Juniper and lust.

She can’t take her hands off me,
And I can’t take my lips off her neck.
Her body says “Let’s get out of here”
So I obliged.
She’s taking off my tie in the taxi,
And my hand heads further up her dress.
We left a trail of clothes from the taxi
To her condo.

Ecstacy and cigarette smoke filled the room
As we caught our breaths.
The midnight moon crept in through the curtains.
“Come back to bed” her eyes said.
Her dreamlike state quickly faded
As her eyes locked onto the barrell
Of my gun.
Her eyes said “Have mercy.”
My lips said “You’re just an assignment.”
We couldn’t understand each other,
But a bullet sounds the same in any language.

A single shot echoed into the night
And gently disappeared into the wind.
Her once vivrant body was now
Lifeless and cold.

I’ll collect my check in the morning.
Luke May 2018
"You're wasting your time."
Familiar line, I'm sure;
Leisure, time you take pleasure
In wasting, fighting off chores

With scores of swords forged in
Words, nouns and verbs, you argue
"I've nought to do, work's been,
I've earned it!" The frayed border between

Toil and sleep, 'spare time',
Your crime is laziness, sloth;
The clock – time's warden – watching
As your lies thicken like simmering broth;

The monitor melts your eyes into half-smiles,
"Wasted time, your pastime,"
A degree in procrastination, hesitation
To face – "the clock, the time!"

The moon hides behind the horizon,
Your fingers flurry, too late to hurry
Out the piece you left so late.
"Wasted time" stinks like left-over curry,

Let it permeate your nostrils; exhale blame
As you **** in the shame that you've failed.
Cradle the melted clock, warm butter,
Spread it onto toast, yellow trails

Crying "why?" Place it between guilty lips
And chew; the taste's bitter.
"It's raining today."
Pitter patter, patter pitter.
A poem about procrastination.
SoZaka Apr 2018
A stationary set for my 21st birthday
going the right way since I turned wrong
one other lover than the one I've got
my head and my heart have fought
like this before

a mistake to hit the gas off the cliff with a
soul made of glass
I fell out of my mind and right back in
no way to stop from going your direction
fly butterfly on a railroad cloud
through a one way sky
my train is on to your station
in just a moments time
addiction,  self love following your intuition and guidance self development growth transformation
SoZaka Apr 2018
you, a western film
with the lights down low
beautiful to look at
while moving slow

come listen in,
and lean back
a pillow for the soul
in a campfire story

it was all I could do but to ride to town with no place to be
hoping this street would lead
through a long winter night

seasons changed,
but love remained long within
to tell a story
time and again
of an eternal flame

so hold me close,
and your skin won't feel the snow
no matter how much skin might show
that's how the best
campfire stories go
true love passion warmth trials and tribulations and lasting memories
Jikai Zheng Nov 2017
I blame you for making me write all these sonnets
I tried to make the best of it, but five?
How in the ******* world am I supposed to write five?
Doesn’t each sonnet take the course of a week?
And it definitely seems that we don’t have five weeks
To write five pristine perfect sonnets
I’d rather read fifty poems than write five of these stupid things
I’d like the meet the man who decided these poems
Had to be fourteen lines, stylized rhymes
I’d say, go to hell with you and this torturous format
Instead of making me write these many poems
All in the same style, all droaning on in my mind
Like an endless treadmill of poem-writing
I say I’ll do better on the next assignment, but truthfully
I’m improvising
Asunna Aug 2017
Her eyes to me, they glisten sweet
Like 800 metres below.
In caverns deep, sapphire clean
Highlights of wave and shore.

Carnation petals in the sand,
Delicate, untouched.
Wind come by and blend them in,
To match her sun kissed skin.

Those beach wave curls that light the sky
Bounced perfectly at the waist.
Of blonde and brown with slight pink flicks
They set her eyes on fire.

Those eyes to me, spread kindness and see
The beauty that life desires.
With those lips that twitch, although flaked and dry
It's her soul that's content with mine.
Alex Hill Mar 2017
My Senior English Research Paper Proposal:
I propose to talk about how society and school can affect the youth of America.
I propose to talk about how much we all don't want to talk about this.
How depression becomes common in teenagers and youth isn’t just an emotional problem- it’s societal one.
How we’re told to bury emotions, not to cry but to move on and play the game. But we only get so long before we realize it doesn’t mean anything.
Useless grades for a useless world.
Words that having no meaning besides the ones that we put behind them.
How we teach kids to be quick to laugh at the expense of others and take nothing serious because nothing matters- and how we do that without hesitation because everything matters.
How we bury everything so deep.
How that begins to hurt and overflow.
How we tell them it's all in their heads.
How they’ll outgrow it.
How we push kids to be older than they are.
How kids are shown limited paths in life when the world itself is limitless. It gives zero ***** about how we live.
How kids out of fear and loneliness turn on each other.
How we are all so desperately looking for a connection in this world but draw closer in because people are dangerous and loneliness is safe.
How we are all selfish and eventually lose the ones we love.
How love is a concept and construct warped so far that we can’t perceive it any more yet we all desparetly are told to seek it out.
How loneliness can ****.
How the depression and suicide rates of kids sky rocket in high school because puberty hits and chemicals go wild and you wake up and see that you don’t have anyone who cares about you for you,
how your heroes are nothing more than **** ups like you,
and how there is no point to anything but work and death.
How the point was supposed to be communication and other people, but we washed that out of system.
Stay quiet in class rooms. No passing notes. Ignore your neighbor. Be afraid of everyone on the buses. Loners look cooler. No one really cares about you.
And how that can **** someone, those three simple words:
“No one cares.”
And how we laugh about things that aren't funny, how apathetic we become and how we try to pretend we’re okay with that because if we don’t we’ll look weak.
How we as a society have turned kindness and caring into weakness.
How ****** up we all are.
Let's talk about that.
I was writing an English proposal which turned into a rant, which sorta turned into poetry. I'm tempted to keep it.
Amanda Sep 2016
Dear,

A lot has changed in the last year and a half
since the day God decided to scoop you up from our ember-warm hometown
and swallow you whole about sixty years earlier than any of us would have ever prayed for.
We would have all given up our one gold-embellished chance to write the center-spread
ecstatically collected our own blood and sweat and knuckles met with writers-cramps
if that meant watching wrinkles sprout permanently across your forehead
roots of trees burying themselves into the grooves of your smile lines.
We would have sacrificed all that hard-earned pain
that stain issues one through four
and that old putrid-beige colored couch
that we hated so much but clandestinely found comfort in leaning our heavy heads on still
in the crook of its homely, familiar shoulder
thinking that we were Shakespeare's apprentices
through fluttering eyelids
creating clusters of words that had to have been New York Times worthy—we were sure
although we knew the furthest we could really go is the furthest your laugh could carry across a room
and that's still pretty far—we could all spit shake and swear—
because I can still hear it sometimes all the way down here
where each tendon in my body is capable of feeling solidity
where I am haunted by uhtceare, wondering if you're too cold
where halos don't exist outside of dreams
not even when the sun is a cracked egg and dripping onto tables, the roofs of cars
not even then is anything brighter than the whites of your lively eyes
and I think you'd like to know that we're still thinking about you
that I can't think about white anymore without thinking about the vulgarity of bathtubs
and your hate for poems that include contractions—I'm sorry I've let you down
but I think you'd like to know that I've finally stopped having nightmares
and even the thinnest-skinned of us all, you know which one,
has been able to convince himself that the embrace of the Earth
just isn't the place for you anymore
that you've already outgrown all of us at fifteen-years-old
and we're sorry for not believing sooner that poetry can save the world.
#death #mourning #you #eulogy #pain #epistolary
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