Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mark Wanless Dec 2017
"10 W 4 mw"

I see you   in the past
I want you  now
Tori Oct 2017
Those three simple words
The "I love you"
You didn't mean them
And this I knew.

But I cared not then
For I treasured them so
In my minds great museum
I'd revisit the show.

I didn't think this would last
But the feelings remain
Years have long past
And I still feel the pain.

You never knew me
For I loved like a shadow
Going unnoticed
All empty and shallow.

I watched you find love
As I prayed that you would
Though it makes me ache more
I know it's for the good.

Unrequited love is
Like a flower without sun.
I cling to a love
That had never begun.

An idea of a person.
A feeling. A hope.
I hung from the cliff
By an imaginary rope.

I found I wasn't hanging
But falling....for you.
I shot down. I plummeted.
And you never knew.

But it's really okay,
If you never know me
For all that I want
Is to make you happy.
Dedicated to my unrequited love....Some people start a fire in you that never burns out.
Maria Monte Jul 2017
Sharp sighs and the smell of coffee,
It filled the cold morning air
Of my small room in the apartment.
Grey filled the shadows of my face,
As I hugged myself on the spring bed.

I hadn't been feeling well that morning.
Maybe it was because the old woman
That lived beside me was smoking,
Slowly filling her apartment with tobacco
Instead of cats that meowed gently.

I didn't feel like going out.
Maybe it was because room 7 was open
And out came the strong figure of a man;
A man that'd left his children and wife
I was scared that I'd hear the sobs
Of his little young'uns and his wife
Again for the 5th time, and I'd break.

I didn't want to open my blinds.
Perhaps it was because my apartment was right across room 10,
Housed by a lone boy in his teens.
And maybe if I had open my blinds,
I might have seen his blue glassy eyes
That sobbed for the warmth of
The childhood he had missed and lost.
I swear I heard him howl last night.

I didn't even bother to dress up.
I knew I wasn't going anywhere,
Especially when it was room 5's time,
To remove her dainty mask and honour the drunken sailor's days
By cussing out her only child
And leaving scars in his heart
That no amount of candy would fix.

Don't get me started on room 1.
Oh, room 1, a poète maudit.
There she lays all day in her gown,
Sipping coffee and listening to bicker,
Scooping ideas to weep on paper.
Room 1 had problems of her own,
But she wouldn't dare to confront them.
Not today, at least, room 1 was tired.
Nonetheless, today, room 1 was very observant.

It was a strange small apartment.
It specialized in crazed sane people,
People that didn't grow up too well.
People that weren't quite broken,
But weren't quite fixed either.
They were often cracking under
The own weight of their sins and flaws
But they managed to wake up everyday
And maybe.. Just maybe think
"Today, I'm going to fix myself."

Maybe tomorrow, the old lady would decide to get a bit of fresh air.
Maybe next week, room 7's door will close shut again and ooze with love.
Maybe next month, the kid would've decided to make use of his mouth
And scream "I've had enough!"
He'd bring his mother to tears -
Because that's what she wanted;
For him to stand up for himself.
Maybe next year,  the young teen would pick up his school bag and live his life.
Maybe a month after that year, the poet would've shared a masterpiece.
Maybe by then we'd all have lived better lives and left the apartment.

But today was not the day.
Today nobody had thought to fix themselves.
Today everybody clung to this strange place.

-M.M
Sometimes we all just want to stay in a place where hurting is okay.
alasia Dec 2016
I said I have to marry rich and he says someday he will be, so we joke about wealth and worthless spending and how beautiful people have life easy. I am his window into the life of a beautiful person he cannot touch. I see her as he does with adoring, envious eyes as she smiles and the room gets brighter. He can't talk to her so he talks through me hoping I relay his words back to her with more romance, hoping I'll know the secret to winning her back. He touched her hair once with nimble fingers dancing along her scalp and traced her freckled body into constellations because she was his night sky but she turned on the lights. She curled into a ball and would not cry in front of him only scream until all the stars shattered and fell to the earth. He traces the ground like he can rebuild her but her broken pieces no longer fit in place because he was never the problem. She is the tree that stands bent and curled with roots sticking upwards and the wind shakes her with words and commands telling her how to grow straight. She cannot please everybody so she opts for no one. He loves her but he doesn't know what it's like when she suffers, when her illness becomes the storm that tears her out of the ground or snaps her limbs and leaves her to fix herself. Her mother says they should cut the tree down because it's dead and she agrees. His watering can is no use when her body started the drought. She is beautiful and terrifying when she cries, when her emotions finally burst through her cracked skin and she is forced to face her reality. He cannot help her, only she can help herself. He says beautiful people have it easy and I am his window but he cannot hear through me the trouble her backwards heart sings and how she swallows from her toes and feels with her  eyes: two raindrops on her face that never seem to dry. She is not a car with a stalled battery or a criminal with intent she is a person. He lost the right to feel her warmth and we may never know why. I am his window but he is looking for a door; he may never admit that he is always looking for more.
Put more work into this than studying for my exams and that ain't saying a lot.
Devin Lawrence Mar 2016
They come and go,
like empty greetings
and rising tides.

They influence the way you walk,
the way you see the world,
even the way that you look;
and you're so willing to obey.

They are rebirth and death -
beauty,
and whatever you call
frozen piles of dirt.

They are the bliss of the sun,
the bite of a blizzard,
the glow of a fire,
and the innocence of morning dew.

Though you clench to the moment,
though they tell you that things are changing,
you always depress
once the colors begin to fade.

You may have a favorite,
but no amount of love or devotion
can freeze the calendar in time;
so Summer becomes Autumn,
Winter becomes Spring,
and all you can hope for
is a roof over your head -

- and even those come and go.
Next page