Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Henri Coetzee Sep 21
He placed his heart on the anvil
And picked up his hammer
He hesitated less than a second
Before he brought it down.

The first hit was bitterness
For life had not gone his way.
The second hit was cynicism
For no one ever cared beyond themselves.

The third and final hit was hatred
For love had betrayed him
And in its absence, he realized
Hate never broke his heart.

He returned his heart to his chest
And a bitter, hateful cynic said:
Emotions are for the weak
As a tear fell down his face.
A little poem I wrote a few weeks back
Jealous of a person that I don't even know
Angry with the person that let me go
I hardly recognize who I am anymore
Never have I harbored this much bitterness before

Walk me through the differences between me and her
Like walking the whole distance California to Virginia
A task so vast it seems insurmountable
Tell me what it means to you to promise things in double

Do you take her to the same places you and I would go
The thought of her tainting our lookout is enough to make me burn
Take her hammocking in our tree in the park close to school
At galaxie view remember when it was my body lying next to you

West Beach, Thousand Steps, Newport 56
Huntington, Laguna, San Diego for a switch
There is nothing new you possibly could do
Drive the whole coast searching, but you and I did that too

I hope I drive her crazy
I honestly hope she hates me
I hope I cause you lots of problems because your dreams still portray me
Realizing on the daily how you mistakenly betrayed me

I hope when you're with her you feel haunted with regret
I hope the thrill falls flat and conversation lies dead
And you walk away painfully aware
Of the fact that what we had was rare

Not every girl can take the late night thoughts you gave me
If you write her paragraphs past midnight
Then you're downright ******* crazy
Playing house with every person who is duped into the role play

If anyone asks, jealousy made me
Mansi Aug 10
There is too much happening
Too much to care about
Too much to fight for
All worthy causes
But the biggest fight of all
Is to be empathetic
In this apathetic world
nadine shane Jul 27
and then i saw you
again; the silence between
us became painful.
smithereens of our universe ruthlessly scattered to dust.
A bearer of hurt

A bearer of pain

A home for sadness

My heart
A carriage for bitterness

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
monique ezeh Jun 17
my mother drinks black coffee every day.
i’ve always thought it was strange— why not add a splash of cream to make it a bit easier on the palate? maybe a dash of sugar, too— some sweetness to ease its way down.

my mother's skin is the color of caramel, of coffee diluted with cream and sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon. despite this, she gave birth to three children the color of dark chocolate, of the black coffee she so adores.

unlike black coffee, we are not bitter, though the world expects that of us. we are not ugly, either, though they likely expect that, too. we are, perhaps, unpalatable, in the same way that black coffee is unpalatable to those lacking the right palate.

i always wondered why my mother insisted on tasting the bitterness, relishing in the onyx liquid sliding down her throat.
i always wondered why my skin didn’t resemble hers, smooth and unblemished and light and beautiful.
i always wondered why the dark-skinned girls in the magazines always had to have tiny noses and skin as blemishless as fine china.

i wonder, now, why i am so dependent on the splash of cream and dash of cinnamon in my coffee.
i wonder why i’m so wary of the bitterness, of the darkness.

i took my coffee black today. i savored it sliding down my throat, smooth as velvet and not nearly as bitter as i’d thought.
Jennifer May 13
taste the bitterness upon flowering
buds, it’s a bliss known only
to those who can bite the dark
and see the beauty within it.
Tangerine May 4
𝒾 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒸𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝑒
𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽
𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒻𝒻
Carlo C Gomez Apr 20
Where I end
And she begins
Is open for debate
There are places
We overlap
Blend together
Little between us
Is on the surface
Some are long entrenched
Others postpartum
And they will hold on
To the bitter end
Ebbing and flowing
Careening and crashing
So many create
Their own storm
Those wise enough
Allow them to drowned
Next page