WJ Thompson Mar 18

She smiles like a Cheshire Cat,
And it makes me laugh to think of how she sways her hips, walking away while looking back, like a professional acrobat.

"Live with me! I'll cook for you!"

The cologne
      of her ex
             on her skin,
as she coos
          into my ear,
                              dropped my phone."

She bends her neck to let me see her breasts
(which jiggle as she giggles at a joke I never said)

I don't trust her. Not at all.

But I'm flattered by her clear attempt to sell me in the mall.
Maybe it's Maybelline,
Maybe it's methamphetamine
(Or the bruises on her arm)
Or her pupils stretched with a line,
Of black paint past her felonies,
Past the "no trespassing" sign.
Past her oceanic iris,
Curving to her brow,
Like a coy, reserved, egyptian lynx,
Poised while on the prowl.
Maybe it's her melancholy glance,
Sent off towards some memory,
Of a redwood where she kissed-
How she looks away when she sits,
To my left,
her eyes, motioning
to some tempting offscreen thing...

I don't know what drug she worships,
But it's got her shivering.

"I love you like I love rock music
           (But keep your clothes on)
I love you like I love the Steinhart aquarium,
           (But keep your clothes on),
I love you like I love the cinema,
           (But thanks for the compliment)"

Alison Latres Jan 20

This ache, it seems
To drip through my mouth
To fall from my tongue
To hang from my voice

It speaks louder than I would
And hisses violently
Whilst I tuck it back inside
So I can "smile" for the peoples' eyes

And they do not mind,
They do not take note
As this fear that crept out
Is tucked away in the back of my mind

In the tightest crevice,
in the smallest hole
It fits snuggly until it breaks loose
And cuts through flesh again

Until I cannot compose myself
And until I'm dying again
I "smile" for the peoples' eyes
And assure them it's alright

But inside, it's breaking
I'm breaking
It hurts too much
Yet I cannot ease it, so I hide it.


Atul Kaushal Jan 18

He licked the sole of your feet,

And you were holding his fleet,

While he did that,

How he then sat,

You will know your dog's fleet!

My first attempt at a limerick poem.

A limerick is a humorous poem consisting of five lines. The first, second, and fifth lines must have seven to ten syllables while rhyming and having the same verbal rhythm. The third and fourth lines only have to have five to seven syllables and have to rhyme with each other and have the same rhythm.

Fleet means naughtiness as well.

My HP Poem #1382
©Atul Kaushal

It wasn't insomnia,
Nor the nightmares;
It was practice and edits,
That kept us awake

                  "I love you."
                                    "Go get some sleep."
                   "Yeah. I guess so."

I tried and failed,
Another attempt;
Just to hear the words,
And my name instead.

010817  19:50

Sadly and thankfully this is fictional.

Ernie Wong Dec 2016

Laying on the bed of sparkling stars,
Underneath the brilliant glow of the moon.
Matching each dots in the sky,
Coming together to form an image of you.

Alone, still alone,
Without your touch,
Without your tone.
Oh, convince me, please,
That this is only a dream.

Do you sense the breeze?
Listen to its cries.
Is the hello just a disguised goodbye?
Is the truth a fraction of a lie?

Drops of water fell from nowhere,
Maybe it's the rain, maybe it's just me.
I just know that, no matter the choice,
This song is within your key.

In time, the winds shall whisper your name.
Until then, what once was, will be, again.

A poem on life after the separation of love. The boy still hears her name everywhere he goes. He misses her so much that his imagination confused his reality with visions of her. Truly s sad case of broken hearts.
Nelize Jul 2016

I was on the edge of jumping
to my fate
but there You were sitting
in the sunrise, so late…

between the rays of grace
sitting and staring upon Your face
You saved me
You saved once again

the false and broken strings of this melody
I can no longer ignore
my heart it felt so dizzy
broken between the waves
of what would seem
like a fast approaching door
a fast approaching floor…
but then I felt
a feather dusting at my heart
lighter than my body weight
would feel in mid air…
it was Your Love, your neverendin’ love,
Bridging my way back
to life
jumping my way back to life.

Most of us have reached a point where we thought of suicide - much fewer have actually gone to attempt it, and fewer that pull through with it. When I was in high school, I was sitting on a bridge one day, staring down at the oncoming traffic on the high way, thinking how quick my death will be here. When I looked up, the sunrise was in front of me. The Lord felt very present within it. He lifted my brow, my heart, and I felt very relieved.
Ana S Jun 2016

Once attentive and focused.
Now thoughts scrambled and strewn.
Impossible to figure out.
I am impossible.
Living on the edge.
Yet scared of everything.
Panic attacks flush over me too much.
Emotions take over me.
Only a few people help when the emotions hold tight.
The ones who have talked me out of suicide late at night.
The ones who have tried to sell my sister drugs.
The ones who  help me breath when breath is gone.
The ones who find words when I'm stuck in the wrong.
Floating around here I stay.
Until a stronger day.

One night I can't sleep
I kept scrolling on my feed.
Then someone shared "Happy Move On Day"
Does that thing exist?
But I realized it really could be a sign.
Move on and be happy.
Happy Move On Day. Yay.

James Gable Jun 2016

The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies

Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built

A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions

Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death

The audience, silent, took a breath in unison

Next page