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How can you be so blind?
Crushing on dumb boys who don't deserve you

Unable to move on from a toxic guy
With the maturity of a 5-year-old
Who lies and manipulates and takes
the most amazing person in this entire **** world
for granted

I want nothing more than to beat him to a pulp and
throw him in the
garbage where he belongs
Because no one is allowed to hurt you
I'm so angry
My mind is racing
How dare he
You could do so much better than him
So much better than anyone
(So much better than me)

What kind of sicko has the best girl in the whole entire universe
and throws her away?

I don't know what to do
But he does not get to get away with
hurting
you
I've never wanted to punch someone so bad
This isn't even a poem just me raging
Why doesn't she see?
Why does it hurt so bad?
She only likes this new guy because he's telling her about all the **** her ex did
Neither of them will ever come close to deserving her
Archer Feb 1
And I think I love an orange boy
But I think I like an lemon girl
Yet a little lime like me
Is a bit too citrusy
To have either of them like me back

And I think I want some lemonade
But I think I’d like some OJ
Yet my lime’s not sweet it’s sour
So hour after hour
They just leave me alone to sleep
~
The boys of summer.

Johnny once sat under the bleachers, the scar on his tongue, a reminder of the time he bit it after falling from a treehouse. A sack full of yesterday's news in a red wagon, the first and last clues.

Eugene ... the other kid who dropped out of sight on Sunday morning, now the evening edition; now a black spot on the sun.

Why the two-year gap?

Departures and landfalls. But no explanations.

Mom and Dad never comfortable peering into the camera lens. Big brother breathing out vapors until something sparks and all
the old questions came back.

A detective's paradox. No bone. No fragment. No evidence. In his home garage hangs a poster of Eugene to remind him every day.

-- for Johnny Gosch and Eugene Martin
~
Ignata Jan 29
Men. Boys. Small obsessions.
I want to be free of them.
Of me?

I get too drunk too quickly. Too excited.
A sloppy kiss in a badly lit kitchen can unlock something deep inside me.

A flicker of waking desire.
Nothing tastes better than a secret.

Nothing better than the soft touch of the lips you are supposed to stay away from.
I trace my fingers over the questions he smeared all over me.

Always cold and restless. How can I stop it?
Do I want it to stop when I’m this young and problematic?
  
Hungry for emotion, I want to get drunk off others' lips.
I want to wander in the drunken haze cloaked in the smoke of gossip.

A word from him. Hell of a digital rollercoaster.

I am easily hooked, always happy to surrender. Does he want me enough to keep me stable for a few weeks?

Do I love him? Do I hate him?
I only need him.

Is this inspiration or pure desperation?
Should I be grateful or furious?
For now, I am both.
  
Is this the burden of inadequacy that comes with being a poet?
Are we the most shallow of all?

What if this tumultuous destruction of my fevered ***** mind proves itself completely pointless?

I am made out of buzzing question marks.
  
My heart is on the verge of exploding.
My stomach is corroded with terror.
I can only handle this much.

I can’t do this anymore.

This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
tory Jan 28
Some boys.
Some boys cut you
they are all edges you know
Leave trails
After all love
Does not feed
Does not free
You, you're my one and only,
Without you I'd be a little lonely.
Nope I lied,
If I were to lose you,
I'd lose myself and they'd have to gather tools to fix my heart.
And while the ocean is wide,
I need you to be my bright side.
In fact it's starting to seem that you're the ink in my pen,
Your tears of sadness and joy.
Staring into your eyes,
I freeze like a toy.
I'm just a boy,
And you're my classroom crush.
This one is for my lady who's always reading these, love you. :)
Right on 490,
The raised turn to 490 east.
There’s a hill,
And on that hill sits a lone,
Lazy Boy recliner.
Two folding chairs,
A table,
Two men,
And one sign.
“F Trump”

Boys will be boys,
Guess that’s it.
To anyone living in Irondequoit you’ve probably seen this hill. Some real brave people there.
Àŧùl Sep 2024
She had introduced me,
To Hello Poetry.

'Twas a day like none other,
I reached Amritsar for her.

Accompanying me that day,
Was my kind physiotherapist.

Yes, the very same physiotherapist,
Who I dubbed physio the ******,
For the pain used to be unbearable.

But no,
'Twas necessary for my betterment.

Coming back to Amritsar,
She was pleasantly surprised.

For she thought I'd play a prank,
Just like she had played one on me.

Giving me a false hope that she'll come,
Anyway, I went to her home.

I wished her on her birthday,
My physiotherapist went away.

I tuned her guitar as E A D G B E,
Eddy Ate Dynamite, Good Bye Eddy.

They laughed, her friends.
For who eats a Dynamite!

Well, that's the standard tuning,
Now I played a few songs.

Her friends were impressed,
Of me, she was proud.

I presented her a pen drive,
A Gaņesha adorned drive.

She loved it,
And thanked me.

After the party, she insisted that I stay,
I slept beside her father.

She shook me awake, and I was like,
"Who are you," she put her hand.

"Shh, it's me," she whispered,
I understood and relaxed.

She kissed me again at 3:30 a.m. on 24th,
This time I was awake and gave her my warmth.

Later, before sunrise, I went to the Station,
I had united with my Physio The ******.

I hugged her for one last time,
And we climbed on the train back.

Now nothing remains but memories,
Bitter ones to be more precise.

She cheated on me in 2015-16,
When I couldn't go to Amritsar.

My former best friend capitalised,
The ******* induced the breakup.

But that girl, who got so easily seduced,
She Wasn't Sad — Droņa Wept Like Kids.

And the immortal Droņa died,
Unable to trust anyone again.
My HP Poem #1997
©Atul Kaushal
Left Foot Poet Sep 2024
there is no river
without the shores,
two hands guiding

no left poet
unless a right,
to believe in

let magic dragons
all the live long day,
sit upon my shoulder

whispering bad jokes,
always showing off,
with whistling fiery

demonstrations,
still there, old man’s
boon companion

didn’t wake to write
this, but Puff nudged
me awake, his heart

so big it lives, loves,
me still, always will,
for the little poem boy

could not dream, now
that history leaves its
handiwork tell tale signs

upon his carriage,
but look closer,
twinkling eyes, yet scheme

and my dragon licks
me wet face, every Morn,
and I tuck him in every Eve

he is my friend, my better half,
and likes this poem very much,
watched me write every word

dragons purr, laugh out loud,
at their own jokes, makes me
happy, because old men die
happy contented knowing that

dragons will always tell jokes
even when a little boy lover
must go
in every grumpy curmudgeonly old man,
lives f o r e v e r a little boy, I am living
almost dying proof…just tell him an old corny he has
heard 1000’s of times, and watch what happens

stand back for that scaly dragon may just yet
spit firer *****
mikey Sep 2024
i don't even like you.
(i want to be just like you.)
i don't want to participate in your humiliation ritual
(i'm sick of being the sacrifice. spread someone else's ribs on the gym floor.)
**** conformity.
(i study every movement and take it for myself.)
**** conformity.
(i want to be just like you.)
**** conformity.
(can i wear your skin?)
don't come near me.
(i want proximity and brotherhood like a sick second hunger.)
please go away.
(please hit me without being afraid of hurting me. with all the tender force of brotherhood.)
i don't talk to him.
(look at me, look at me, look at me, please.)
i'm not good at sports.
(i work so hard and still come up short.)
don't hurt me.
(hurt me like a brother would. i am sick of you walking blood through the hall from the eggshells you walk on. i am not so fragile.)
i can smell the axe body spray.
(hit me like you know i can take it.)
please, no.
(i wish.)
sometimes i just wish i was cool
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