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Erian Sep 10
maybe someday
we'll find each other
making wishes
and counting stars

when we lookup
watching the moon
maybe we'll see one another
with all our flaws
all our scars
all our broken promises
all our fears

maybe someday
we'll find each other
making wishes
and counting stars

i love you for who you are
there's no where else i'd rather be
than in your arms
Nada Syafira Sep 8
Some things are to be grateful for,
you're one of them.
Butterfly Aug 4
I'm going to count how many days I haven't cut myself.
Yesterday it was 14 days.
Today it is 11 hours ago.
I'm sorry for the people who had so much faith in me.
I'm so sorry.
If you can't handle this, please don't follow me. I don't want you to feel bad because of me.
Donna Apr 25
Sitting on a train
Joking about with my son
We count stops and zones
Been on a train this morn was much fun and educational for my son too ***
Sketcher Mar 25
I text my girl,
She leaves me on read,
Then she says she's tired,
And I say I'm dead,
Then she asks why,
And I say because,
I'm not getting kisses,
And I'm not getting hugs,
And I don't know,
The next time I'll see you,
So I'll sleep and I'll sleep,
Until I've received my cue,
To come on over,
Or she comes to me,
I have to have hope,
I have to believe,
That this girl won't leave,
I really hope she'll stay,
Cause if she ever left,
I'd have one more day,
To figure out,
How I'm going to die,
Then **** myself,
Cause ***** being alive,
If I have to live,
Without my girl,
My sweet sweet baby,
My entire world,
My entire universe,
The planets the stars,
The slowest of snails,
The fastest of cars,
My everything,
Makes me want,
To rap and sing,
And write about,
Her pretty face,
Her perfect ***,
Her sweet embrace,
I miss it so,
I'll go to sleep,
I may wake up,
From this long dream,
Then I'll go back,
To counting sheep,
Missing her back,
To counting sheep.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...
Penguin Poems Feb 15
my socialization meter is down to zero
I’d be happier if I was the only one
but no one else thinks that two.

they’re right when they say a crowd is three.
but what am I asking four?
loneliness instead of a high five?

haven’t been this antisocial since age six.
I’m supposed to be there by seven
but it’s still the morning; maybe eight.

I might be over it a little by nine,
but I’ll never feel like a full ten.
"Will we win mom?"
The eight-year-old questioned while gazing at his half bald reflection.

"The aliens of the cancer-ship have been destroyed, only a few are left."
The hopeless woman gave hope to her son,
while counting the number of days left.
She has a story
She was once 300 pounds.
She was never worried until someone called her fat.
She brushed it off at first , but the comments kept coming and the people kept judging until she cried her self to sleep at night because no one took the time to know her and see her beauty within.
Instead they visualized her imperfect body onto a piece of paper to pass around the class.
She was so embarrassed,
She ran home from school that and never left her room.
She slept through the weekend
She began passing by mirrors so quickly she didn't want to see the drawing that was passed around and ridiculed by and abundance of people.
The scale became her best friend, but her worst enemy
The number on the scale dropped just as her body did each time she forced food from her body.
The mind that once was so beautiful became a math class for calories
You couldn't get a bigger number or the answer would be wrong
She consumed less and less each day
Hating the feeling
She hated feeling this way but she hated being laughed at more
She was congratulated on the drop of pants sizes
No one realized her drop food consumption.
The loss of weight became her addiction
The drawing wasn't being passed around anymore.
She wasn't a fat girl in huge clothes
She wasn't a walking diabetic waiting to be diagnosed
She wasn't a "muffin top" people would make fun of
But it didn't stop for her
The calculator in her head felt more familiar and more supportive than her family
Her sickness soon became all she had
She kept that drawing and replaced it for the food that would never touch her lips
But she never realized that her body didn't look like a giant marshmallow
It was a work of art that had way more beautiful detail.
She was just too busy counting to see the canvas where it all lied.
Julian Delia Jan 21
Stricken-down, struggling and stranded,
Dealt a hand that was quite underhanded.
I am done with never settling down,
Always having to run –
I am standing my ground stubbornly,
I am a storm of sounds,
Discourteously curmudgeonly.

I will not accept defeat -
I feel naught except the beat,
The rhythm, the flow, the show –
The hurt dissipates as I let go.
On these two feet,
I fight the finite, finicky, fraudulent conmen of deceit.
It’ll serve you right when you get roasted by the roaring heat,
When mother death cometh with hungry babes at her ****.

Stranded or at ease, it doesn’t matter,
Landed like a breeze, serving poetry on a platter.
I’ve been feeling like my time is really up,
Like there’s the ceiling and all I can do is get numb.
That, or just ******* wander off and die;
Just like that, with no explanation as to how or why.

I can’t go on like this, I can’t blow off life’s bliss.
Thing is, if I knew I was going to die and live on somewhere else,
I can’t even think of what I’d actually miss.
I don't know what to do with my poetry to be honest...doesn't really seem like anyone wants to read it, anymore. Maybe it's time to let go.
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