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“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”

The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.
TAKE ONE.
REPLAY.

“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
However!
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.
SLOW THE FILM!...”

The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.

“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”

Ha,
I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
Ticking,
Whirring,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.
When you overhear a conversation that you could join in or spot someone you could get along with, but nervousness stops you from talking to them or joining in. From when I spotted someone from my college at a train station, I knew that like me he was interested in music, but I never spoke to him.
I wasn't into Radiohead like he was, but I would still enjoy talking about them.
(Anyone reading this like Bowie?)
king 3d
You messaged me,
Said you wanted to be friends.

I responded with a "yes",
It was a lie and that's when the anxiety kicked in.

We spoke for long,
My texts were all lies.

But behind a screen,
So easy to be fake.

And then when we met,
It became face-to-face.

I couldn't make eye contact,
The words were faint.

You texted me one last time,
To explain your pain.

An uncontrollable thing,
Made into my fault.

And then you wonder why,
Why I don't have any friends.
Crying so hard you gum up the works
flem and spit that's gotta go down
nowhere else but the throat

Saying the wrong thing
being met with immediate silence
as you sweat and shuffle in your shoes

Hearing the wrong thing
and not knowing if you should speak
so you swallow followed by
'uuu-'ntil someone stops you
Little things
Little things
However small they be
Make all the difference
All the importance
Mean the world to me

The curious glancing
Gentle smiles
These little things
Make up my while

The time conversing
Awkward pause
Little things
Make up life’s laws

The moments spent
Before we leave
Quite plain for all to see
They mean the world to poets
Who love
The little things
Just a little things from a little thing about the little things. One last little thing- don’t take the little things for granted.
han Sep 7
I live in my head
so much sometimes I forget
I am in a room full of people
that I'm not just a spectator to reality
9/6/18~han
how can I be so outgoing, yet so socially awkward?
Daisy Marrow Sep 2013
The first time I saw you it was in math class.
I didn't notice anything about you at first I just memorized the back of how your head was.
After all, I had an hour to kill.
The second time I saw you were in English class.
You sat next to me but not by choice.
But I was happy about it.
It took me about four to five weeks to talk to you,
and I wasn't even the one to speak first.
You introduced yourself and then we worked together on an assignment.
It's been two weeks and I haven't said another word and I probably won't out of random.
My anxiety swallows me whole and I'm sorry I can't even say hello.
But I have had time to notice you.
And let me just say
I'm in love with your taste in music
I'm in love with the way you hold your book
thinking that if you change the sound of your voice when the diagonal changes
or if you struggle reading words you've never seen before and sat there for a few seconds trying to piece together what they mean.
I love how you can play the mandolin, you should show me sometime.
As I think about these things I also pick up how you would never even think of me.
I mean really,
you probably want some girl that's outgoing and can strum a guitar solo at midnight with you.
You probably want someone with long hair you can intertwine your fingers in
or someone you can spend an afternoon together after church with.
I can't move mountains
and I can't even speak without looking like a fool
but even if nothing will ever happen
It would be just as quite exciting being friends with you.
We could trade books and make each other mixtapes.
It hasn't even been a month yet and I'm already writing mediocre poetry about you.
I'm sorry about that by the way.
I'm not asking for a relationship but a friendship with someone like you would feel just the same.
I wrote this in like 20 minutes and I apologize I don't even know
2013
ayumi ebony Aug 7
our love doesn’t exist.
but i can tell you about our love.

our love is like gold dust in a miner’s pan,
soft and glimmering, sparkes lost in the world,
thrown haphazardly across the sky.

our love is warm like a summer evening and gentle like the cool breeze you feel when you
fly on playground swings.

our love is that pent-up feeling before a rainstorm,
charged air and a sense of something to come.

our love is like the rainstorm,
soft and loud and enriching.
it’s in the air i breathe, and i’d breathe it all the time.

our love is like blueberries in a red wagon
-aesthetic, cold and sweet.
i taste every time i encounter you.

our love is the curious look on girl’s face,
awkward and longing to know,
to accept this feeling.

the feeling that doesn’t exist.
Your awkwardness is infectious
These words can never really catch us
Would you say I'm making a fuss

Maybe this is normal
you just can't help but being formal
I know all of this seems quite suboptimal

But you know
I didn't think of this like a great show
Are we still going with the flow

I don't know what to tell you
if we both agree on this how could we be through
My thoughts are always overflowing, your words are few

So is it okay if you maybe
phrase your intentions more clearly
all I want is to talk with you freely

Like we talked when we saw
each other with loving awe
and being open and true was the law
juan lozada Jul 13
i love my dad
you do not see it
but that's the way
it is

three hour van silences
are no longer
awkward

i am the scion of 4
that's never going to greet him

i know a child
scratches his belly from the inside

i'm in the house of mirrors
while everyone is eating
i see through the
teasing, the
shouting
mom shakes her head "no one
can ever talk to you"
i see
through
the
pain

my silence as a message:
67 years no longer let you
rush to climb the stairs
to embrace the plush worm
of colors: i do it for you

i do not greet you
but i dress a shirt
with the caption "DADS"
and a picture of us two.
Dominique R Jun 20
I am sorry that I am unable to speak

with the eloquence that can paint pictures and move mountains 

but instead my words trip over one another or get lost
once they leave my lips 

so I’ve chosen to stay silent 

because it is easier to bear than fumbled words and mumbled apologies.
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