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Green walls, purple bed sheets
Symbols of personal peace
A white desk, a bookshelf
Things that define myself
Curling mousse, a ***** hairbrush
Possessions that make me blush
My bedroom is my sanctuary
A place that blocks off the scary
Monsters in my life.
Kailey Jones Apr 4
"Make me!"
she cries
"Make me feel again!"

I can't help with that at all
Her frail ghost has suffered so much

She has traveled the world and seen any and everybody
Every single grave except her own
For she can not bear it.
But yet she can't feel

There's no happiness
There's no envy
She sees people living and loving
But with a poker face, she stares at me

But my emotions are not gone
And the pain she yearns to feel embodies in me
As if life has been taken from her and now resides in me
But I still feel lifeless
(This isn't about me...
It's about my nameless friend.)

I want to reach out to comfort her
and she doesn't even know she needs it
This **** ghost that finds comfort in my room
Haunts me forever
ironically enough
But I can't reach out to her and I can barely hear her
Her voice is a whisper
Even when she yells
(She should be glad she doesn't have a real throat since she yells so much)

"I know!"
she cries.
"I know you hear me!"

I can't answer that anymore.
I need to tune her out to escape my turmoil.
Nothing here :) Oh I forgot lol. This is going to be a series
Carlo C Gomez Feb 20
Ruler of the sheets
Sleep has its own zip code

Dreamland is the nightly
Wait and wonder
We all have membership to

But this has its limits

The boundaries belong
To another kingdom

One of fun and adventure

A place of equilibristic feats
And corporeal claims

It's a fair trade-off

Sometimes we count sheep
In the center

Other times we play games
On the perimeter
Betty Feb 8
That intimate space

Inner sanctum of the discarded sock

That empty coffee cup

You meant to take downstairs

Borderland between light and dark

A place of extremes

Joy and love and sometimes fear

Where we can truly be ourselves

At our most vulnerable

When we close the door

We switch off,

The clock hits pause

We sleep,


Against the monsters under our beds

And the ones inside our heads!
Poetic T Feb 7
I was plugging your woman,
            see she was the socket,

And I was the one that gave
          Her the charge.
She was the amp, I was the watt..
Arching her back,
  like I'd electrocuted the g spot.

You were a one use battery,
         dead on the first use.

I'll recharge her when you at work,
               earning the bread.
But I'm buttering her with my tongue..
                                       spreading it even.

She needs you.

            Wants me.

The reason that you don't
                   have a florescent
             bulb in your bedroom.
It would be like shooting stars
                         across the sky.

I'm the javelin thrower,
   you the tap drip,
dripping in the bedroom.

A Rottweiler growing, you the poodle.
                                      But don't worry,
                 not here to ruin you bro.

  Just to ruin her wet spot,
                    And I'm already thirsty.
She sits on her bed, with chaos lurking outside her bedroom door.
Asking herself what she should draw next.
She feels the clock ticking down the time she has left in her world before she is forced into her role as a Quiet One again.
As the seconds tick by, she feels an odd sense of calm when she notices the next source for her latest work.
She questions how she will capture the inspiration purring in her lap when time finally runs out and she's forced to be a Quiet One once again
a friend of mine who is like a sister to me wanted to help me with writer's block and offered that I do a poem about her, this is the outcome of that
She likes the lights in my room
They highlight everything I love about
The lights highlight where my lips
Have pressed & my teeth have marked.
She circumvents and understands
The lights when they come to hush.
The way that I touch her.
The way she lays back & enjoys
The thought of my hands
Revealing the parts of her that I cannot
The ridges of her back my tongue
Walks & drowns in slowly.
Soft the way her body
Stretches & yawns (in ecstasy.)
She likes the lights in my room
But more so the way they cut off
When she walks in.
The light gives way the hint of attention.
Shadows fleet before my hand reaches
Becoming one with the way she yearns.
Her thigh gap at perfect ease
This craving a friend we both welcome
She wears this light for me
Until the switch undresses this yearning
She spreads & undresses for me
Everything I love about her
Sofia Ageyeva Nov 2019
Men Cry...
     But only alone...
        When no one can see...

They fake being strong

What do they really need?
***? Love? Hugs?
All of the above....
So.... They go on a Journey
     to find... LOVE
Again and again...
They give up...
               again and again and again...

Then... when they least expect it...
Then... when You least expect it...

I sent you a message...
simply saying that I like you...

... Can you open your heart one more time?

... Can you drive for 4 hours one more time?

... Can you be excited to hold hands one more time?

... Can you... hug me... but send me to sleep into my room...

Can I be OK with you respecting me this much?

Yes... I'm a Big Girl now...

And this is why...
     I can hold you in my arms when you cry....
I can hold you....
    I can love You...

... And I'm going to be the one to offer you
a peace of metal to put on your... wrist...
that says... "I'm right here"

Be Present....
   Go on your new Adventure!
            .... Just * Go!!!

I'll be here...
   With the sun in my window...
And your heart in a frame in my bedroom...

I'm right here...

I promise....
   You know...
I respect myself so much more now...

              I will wait for You!
for David B.
Sydney V Nov 2019
I live,
under the quilted
periwinkle skies,
of my room.
This is where
my clothes
amass themselves
and spread their empty
arm and legs,
like a stubborn,
overgrown child.
This one is not good, I will most likely delete this later. But, by popular demand of my poetic friends, it looks like she is staying.
Tom Oct 2019
lemon drops
and worn-out tops
pre-made meals
and vintage steals

nothing ever changes
unless you want it to
broken circles
if only I knew

damp-stained walls
and cropped overalls
books half-read
and plants unfed

eagerly awaiting
for when it comes around
the thousandth time
lost as the first

unkempt sheets
and forgotten feats
time zones
and preset ringtones
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