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shatteredpoet Jan 15
they glued labels
on my body
that won't come off
without removing pieces of myself
too
and it hurts
almost as much
as watching them
bend and twist
and break your
body
to fit you inside
a box your heart
has outgrown
Sebastian Nov 2018
Red, green, red, green
He treads to the pace
Of a heartless machine

Black, white, black, white
Her thoughts neatly fall
Into holes of delight

Grey, brown, grey, brown
They sink in the snow
By the weight of a noun
Anya Sep 2018
When you look at me
You instantly stereotype
My glassses
My skin color
You can probably guess I’m book smart
You’d be right
You can guess I’m introverted
You’d be semi right
You can guess I’m not naturally very athletic
You’d be right
You can guess my ethnicity
You’d probably be right
You can guess a lot of things
And there’s a high chance you’d be right for many of them

But...

What about those things,
You’d never guess?
I bet you’d never believe I was a Goalie
You probably don’t know I write poetry
I’m learning Chinese
I ran six miles in fifth grade
I enjoy acting
I’m an atheist
I have a mild obsession with Asian light novels
The list goes on...

But still,
The point here is
There’s a lot of things you don’t see

About me

About everyone

I’m just as guilty of judging as anyone else
We humans tend to categorize,
A lot
...
But,
It’s
Often
Not
True
From the perspective of an American girl whose parents are from India.
Nicole Dawn May 2015
If you ask a scientist,
A human is a machine,
Life is a category,
And emotions are chemicals.

If a human is a machine,
Why can they hurt?
If emotions are chemicals,
They must be acid.
I think I'm in the wrong category.
Life can't hurt this bad.
No one would survive.

If I'm a machine,
I must have a rusty part.
Or two.
Or three.
Or many.
Or all.

If emotions are chemicals,
Mine must be ionized.
Unbalanced.
Unstable.
Unsure.

If you ask a scientist,
A human is a machine,
Life is a category,
And emotions are chemicals.

I'm not a scientist.
I was not in a good place when I wrote this...
Riley Oct 2014
Our heads are the most terrible place, you know.

And I’m glad that he cannot possibly exist there, not actually. If I try to fit him in my boxes, place him in my categories, I’ve removed every bit of his individuality.

Individuality is what makes us who we are. So if I remove the thing that makes him who he is, I’ve removed him entirely.

So it’s a paradox, you see.

The boy out there in the world cannot possibly exist in my head

yet I spend all my day thinking of him.

I’m thinking, rather, of the objectivity of who he is.

I like the idea of the object-boy — it’s simple, it makes sense.

The object-boy fits in all the right boxes, he slides right into my assumptions and conclusions.

He never has a care, he is perfect and is spotless and is happy and is robotic.

He is not real.

He cannot be real. And I’m so very happy, because perfect people tend to be a bore.
ephemeral Oct 2014
She wasn't the kind of girl
You would usually notice
She wasn't super popular
Or loud
Or "hot"
Or super friendly towards everyone
Or surrounded by tons of friends
She was the kind of girl
You couldn't help but fall in love with
Once you got to know her
Because of her quirky personality
And her dry sense of humor
And the way her whole face lit up
When she laughed
Because of how much love and hate
She held inside of her
For the world and the people in it
As well as the way she smiled
At the most random-seeming things
And how her eyes sometimes
Clouded over
"What's wrong?"
"My mind's just stormy today"
Is all she would say
She was the kind of girl
Your mind would register as
"Trainwreck"
But you wouldn't care,
Because she was the kind of girl
You would find only in books
And you couldn't bear
To lose her
Hi I didn't really know where I was going with this when I wrote it but I actually really like it. Feedback would be awesome.
Ebony Kale Sep 2014
There's a box, a relatively old and beaten down piece of cardboard.
It's been rained on, ****** on, thrown up in.
This box is weak around the edges, it's barely holding up.
This box is one reality is threatening to crush.
It's the one people put you in,
so that in the next minute they can write you off.

I know this person they want to fit in that worn old box,
it's the same box I fit in.
They're not different.
I tore up my box,
I realized I wanted several things,
and the box, with it's weakening walls and ideals,
wanted to shame me for it.

I stomped and tore up that box,
because it said things I didn't agree with.
It complicated simple delights, like love, pain, hurt, anger and regret.
It hurt my soul and entire being.
When being in the box, is
more harmful than helpful,
crush that **** up.
Lay it flat,
and wall all over it's weak walls.
Feel it compress and bend to your will.
Free yourself of the **** and *****.
It's the only way to live,
Outside the box.
Megan May Apr 2014
No, no you don't understand.
What most people fail to realize is that there is more than one type of love. The love I feel for my parents is different from the love I feel for my friends, which isn't anything like the love I feel for the boy who's captured me attention. Even still, I love each of my friends differently. The English language only has one word to label a hundred thousand different feelings. Love is a broad term, and I will use it broadly. Most people would probably say I'm just throwing it around, that I don't actually love the people I'm saying it too, but I do. I love them with all my heart, and there's very little in this world that could ever change that.

— The End —