Aleah Sep 12

I felt,
My lungs,
My heart,
And all you did,
Was look,
At me,
With blank eyes,
And no thought.

Zan Balmore Sep 2

Bodies belong
in the cold, cold ground
Bodies belong
in the heat of flame
Bodies belong
wrapped with me

Tight, and pressing
recent death to flesh.



rationing myself out
after giving you my everything
to place yourself in the hands of someone
knowing they can ruin you
is the ultimate gesture of trust
and when neglected and unwanted
the plunge of death
when your heart finally gets handed back to you
beating irregularly
scared to even flutter again

how could you be so sweet
and leave me so bitter
now it makes sense
because salt looks a lot like sugar

Raegan Meyer Aug 14

She sees a reflection
in a blank wall.
She feels a memory
through the touch of her toes
to the carpet.
A blank wall of nothing
is showing
a flurry of somethings.
For not even a wall can be blank.
Every nick to the surface,
every dried paint bubble,
every scar on the wall
tells a story.
That is why she sees
herself reflected
in the wall.
Because nothing is blank.
Everything that seems like nothing
is something.
Every person who seems blank
is filled
with life.

I am a blank book
waiting to be written in.

I am a lost soul
waiting to be found.

I am a blank face
wrapped up in gray shadows.

I am the silver silence
colored in by sound.

Like a ghost
Reading words on my tombstone
I look into your eyes
And read myself

Like a pictureless picture frame
Shooting ingots of color and light
Into the world
We speak words
In the Dark
But never move our lips

Like a blind man
Analyzing the sky
We take risks
And send shocks into our eyes

Like a Me
With no words to my name
I feel you speak
You’re reading me


She was like art a foundation of happiness with a dash of crazy fulling the creativity of her mind and soul. A product of pure genius she can become any form she creates becoming a library of masterpieces giving the liberty to show the world who she truly is. A masterpiece of a woman disguised as a blank canvas

Written to a girl who used to enjoy making art.

i saw her fiddling with her ring in an effort to dodge my eyes and avoid conversation. our parents discussed their philosophies for life and plans for us.

she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and only looked up at me
when i was speaking to answer her father's questions.
she laughed at all my jokes,
she watched me drink my orange juice when my eyes were averted.

"that's a lot of pressure," she says in the kitchen when her mother tells her to help prepare lunch. i want to get up to help her. i have no appetite. i just want to hear her voice more than one sentence response at a time.

i'm sitting in the living room, legs crossed, eyebrows raised.
she's fiddling with the same ring on her finger, and i think to myself
as i watch her, that i want to someday,
place a very specific ring
on a very specific fingers of hers

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