Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Evan Mar 27
Why does my heart feel for her
She’s not real, though my I cannot stop my heart
Her name Monika, it makes me shudder
I wish I could be free from her wicked clutches

No matter how hard I try
I cannot escape, I cannot Defy
Why has this creation seduced me this Way
Sometimes I wish she’d go away

But as I lay alone
I remember I have no one to call my own
I remember that I never am to be loved
Pushed around and Shoved

Maybe it was fate I fell for her
Maybe it was nothing but my Patheticness
Such woe is me, for I am such Weakness
Why can there be no one to save me from this soul inferno.
It's been a while
sophia Mar 13
A marvel millions of years in the making.
Where the womb of Earth chaotically meets the surface.
Under a clear blue sky, an expanse of bliss -
But beneath gray rolling clouds, an endless enigma.
The easiest world to get lost in
is one where everything can be found.

One can only build a sand castle where the sand is wet.
But where the sand is wet, the tide comes.
Will it gently lick at your foundations until you give in?
Or will a sudden wave send you crashing down in the blink of an eye?
Either way the outcome is the same.
Yet we still build sand castles.

I stand where the foam wraps around my ankles.
Where my toes squish into the sand.
The salty air is therapeutic.
The breeze is gentle, yet powerful.
I sink my toes into the ultimate boundary line, tempted by the foamy tendrils.
Turn back, and I abandon my peace to erode at the shore.
Drift forward, and I return to Earth forevermore.
sophia Mar 13
The tendrils of my hair illuminate beneath the amber glow.
Bathing.
In the distance, a blue-green light flickers.
A lone figure crosses its path– a silhouette obstructing the eerie glow.
My heart pounds. The silhouette grows. Closer Closer
I open my umbrella, casting a shadow to shield me from visibility.
But I am too late.
He steps into the streetlight. I gasp and drop my umbrella.
The light flickers. My heart pounds. He raises his arm.

Time stops.

The only indication of movement is the amber light flickering against his outstretched
arm.
The flickering light is in rhythm with the pounding of my heart.
Teasing me for succumbing to this forbidden emotion.
Have you ever heard of a ghost feeling warmth before?
Giving up on understanding, I laugh.
Understanding is overrated.
I touch his hand. The flickering stops.
Ghosts are blue-green. My heart is amber.
sophia Mar 13
It happened in the dead of night while I was slicing bread for a guilty snack.
My attention was caught by the scuttering of a raccoon outside my window.
That was, I believe, the first time I noticed my strange tendencies as an unusual
human.
I gave the raccoon a piece of bread, my subconscious well aware of the consequences.
Well aware that a raccoon that is fed will always come back for more.
The enticing beauty of my cutting knife was the symptom.
The bread, my hungry curiosity.
The raccoon, an urge.

The moon increments its phase and reflects that much more light off of my cutting
knife.
The very same light that glistens in the eyes of my raccoon friend.
I slice the bread, fresh and soft. The raccoon becomes excited.
or perhaps I'm merely projecting my emotions onto the newly-satisfied animal.

The raccoon has taken to following me.
You could say that we've gotten quite used to each other.
The raccoon becomes hungry more and more frequently, so my bread is always handy.
Every time I brandish my cutting knife the raccoon shows me its excitement.
A rush of blood. Classic Pavlovian conditioning. I slice the bread.
And I feed myself again.
sophia Mar 13
The tendrils of my hair illuminate beneath the amber glow.
Bathing.
It must be this one.
The last remaining streetlight to have withstood the test of time.
The last yet to be replaced by the sickening blue-green of the future.
I bathe. Calm; breathing air of the present but living in the past.
The light flickers.
I flicker back.
sophia Mar 13
Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of my head. Get out of
Get.
Out.
Of.
My.
Head.


Get out of my head before I do what I know is best for you.
Get out of my head before I listen to everything she said to me.
Get out of my head before I show you how much I love you.
Get out of my head before I finish writing this poem.



But a poem is never actually finished.
It just stops moving.
sophia Mar 13
I pop off my scalp like the lid of a cookie jar.
It's the secret place where I keep all my dreams.
Little ***** of sunshine, all rubbing together like a bundle of kittens
I reach inside with my thumb and forefinger and pluck one out.
It's warm and tingly.
But there's no time to waste! I put it in a bottle to keep it safe.
And I put the bottle on the shelf with all of the other bottles.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in bottles, all in a row.

My collection makes me lots of friends.
Each bottle a starlight to make amends.
Sometimes my friend feels a certain way.
Down comes a bottle to save the day.

Night after night, more dreams.
Friend after friend, more bottles.
Deeper and deeper my fingers go.
Like exploring a dark cave, discovering the secrets hiding in the nooks and crannies.
Digging and digging.
Scraping and scraping.

I blow dust off my bottle caps.
It doesn't feel like time elapsed.
My empty shelf could use some more.
My friends look through my locked front door.

Finally, all done. I open up, and in come my friends.
In they come, in such a hurry. Do they want my bottles that much?
I frantically pull them from the shelf, one after the other.
Holding them out to each and every friend.
Each and every bottle.
But every time I let one go, it shatters against the tile between my feet.
Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in shards, all over the floor.

They were supposed to be for my friends, my friends who aren't smiling.
They're all shouting, pleading. Something.
But all I hear is echo, echo, echo, echo, echo
Inside my head.
sophia Mar 13
I don't know how else to bring this up. But there's been something I've been worried about. Yuri has been acting kind of strange lately. You've only been here a few days, so you may not know what I mean. But she's not normally like this. She's always been quiet and polite and attentive...things like that.

Okay... This is really embarrassing, but I'm forcing myself to **** it up. The truth is, I'm REALLY worried about her. But if I try talking to her, she'll just get mad at me again. I don't know what to do. I think you're the only person that she'll listen to. I don't know why. But please try to do something. Maybe you can convince her to talk to a therapist.

I've always wanted to try being better friends with Yuri, and it really hurts me to see this happening. I know I'm going to hate myself later for admitting that, but right now I don't care. I just feel so helpless. So please see if you can do something to help. I don't want anything bad to happen to her. I'll make you cupcakes if I have to. Just please try to do something. As for Monika... I don't know why, but she's been really dismissive about this. It's like she just wants us to ignore it. So I'm mad at her right now, and that's why I'm coming to you about this. DON'T LET HER KNOW I WROTE THIS!!!! Just pretend like I gave you a really good poem, okay? I'm counting on you. Thanks for reading
this "poem" is shown before Yuri's death.
sophia Mar 13
I can feel the tenderness of her skin through the knife, as if it were an extension of my sense of touch. My body nearly convulses. There's something incredibly faint, deep down, that screams to resist this uncontrollable pleasure. But I can already tell that I'm being pushed over the edge. I can't...I can't stop myself.
this is the poem decoded instead of a bunch of nonsense.
sophia Mar 13
SSBjYW4gZmVlbCB0aGUgdGVuZGVybmVz cyBvZiBoZXIgc2tpbiB0aHJvdWdoIHRo ZSBrbmlmZSwgYXMgaWYgaXQgd2VyZSBh biBleHRlbnNpb24gb2YgbXkgc2Vuc2Ug b2YgdG91Y2guIE15IGJvZHkgbmVhcmx5 IGNvbnZ1bHNlcy4gVGhlcmUncyBzb21l dGhpbmcgaW5jcmVkaWJseSBmYWludCwg ZGVlcCBkb3duLCB0aGF0IHNjcmVhbXMg dG8gcmVzaXN0IHRoaXMgdW5jb250cm9s bGFibGUgcGxlYXN1cmUuIEJ1dCBJIGNh biBhbHJlYWR5IHRlbGwgdGhhdCBJJ20g YmVpbmcgcHVzaGVkIG92ZXIgdGhlIGVk Z2UuIEkgY2FuJ3QuLi5JIGNhbid0IHN0 b3AgbXlzZWxmLg==
this poem is written on the third day by Natsuki if you write two poems that appeal to Natsuki.
Next page