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I do not write for you
I write about you..
Well not about you, about you
but about what you would be
had I wanted to add
a new character
to my fiction
Love me like I am your only addiction,
that always keeps you on the edge
Love me so real like that romantic fiction,
that looks so much like a ledge!!
Love me like I am your lovely yet unfinished dream,
that makes you work hard to make it real
Love me so soft that only for you my heart scream,
that finally lets this broken soul heal!!
Love me like I am your entire world,
that is running up and down in pace
Love me like I am to be kept furled,
that would ******* out of my hiding place!
Crave for the love that keeps you off the edge always.
Find a love that is an adventure everyday!
For to love is to live!
How can you enjoy playing that PlayStation 4?
You stole it from Best Buy, it's not yours.
That PS4 doesn't rightfully belong to you.
Stealing it was lousy and a criminal thing to do.
You sit there and play it and you feel no shame.
How can you get pleasure from playing that game?
I hate to be a snitch, but I'm going to turn you in.
If you go to jail, maybe you won't steal again.
EVEN THOUGH THIS POEM IS FICTIONAL, IT IS IMMORAL TO STEAL.
Your latest one night stand gave you a nasty STD.
Now you expect to receive sympathy from me.
People always have to reap what they sew.
You want compassion from me, but **** no.
Your wife is my sister and she's constantly being betrayed.
You're a slimy horn-dog who loves to get laid.
I beg her to leave you but she won't.
She loves you but I certainly don't.
You have an STD and I'm not surprised.
As far as I'm concerned, you're despised.
- Oct 8
I can’t feel the concrete through my shoes
As the chain-link cage around the sidewalk loops around me.
I climb steadily up the incline to your bridge.
The cars pass quietly and sparsely, hopping islands
In this suppressed midnight hour, streetlights reflected
Beneath us in the water. I carry you with me, as I do every day.
It’s been three months, nine days.
I think of our days together.
Of our youth, of your lilac perfume and chestnut eyes.
I think of how we never got tired,
Or how you never got old,
And I reach the apex of the bridge with these thoughts swimming about.
I lean and look to the water as the reflections shimmer in a boat’s wake.
And I wonder how it felt when you landed.
I want to ask you, was it instant? Did you feel yourself pass?
And I want to find out, to dive in after you and chase you down.
Did I tell you, I can’t see my therapist anymore?
I can’t afford her.
And as soon as I couldn’t pay, she cared little of my problems.
How ****** is that?
I raise our daughter alone now, but I can’t do her hair how you could.
She’s sixteen months, and four days.
I think often of if she’ll remember you as something more
Than one of her father’s stories
But the other day, she saw your picture on the mantle.
And she called for you, and began to cry as she pointed.
And I followed suit as I struggled with her hair.
I wonder, if you would have let me, could I have helped?
This that I feel now in your wake, shimmering like those lights,
Is this how you felt for those last months?
Could I have done anything to stop this?
And I think of your parents, of mine, of the therapist that I can’t see anymore,
With their piercing, bloodshot eyes.
Their needling questions.
I wonder if that’s how you perceived me, and I realize,
There’s nothing I could’ve done to help either of us.
Eleni Oct 2
A constant, distant cymbal.
A second, after the next each nimble
strand of wind catches amongst the chimes.

The women here sway at their troubles.
Needless to say, their pleasure doubles

with a glimpse of their dewed canvas.
Never vulnerable and never anxious.

The melanin glows from miles away:
Even seen now and again from the Wasteland.

A Valinor for deities and Gods;
To sip on the finest grapes, feast on the manna of the apotheosis.

A thousand glimmering rays, kissing the ringlets of green, meandering slowly around the Sun.

In these oriental Lands
I fall in love again after the many cold winters I have spent alone-

Crashing with the icy waves and glacial monsoons.
The maple and fragrant cedar
Fills my visions with a perdurable perfume.
Caleb Hess Oct 1
The fiction of people’s pessimistic statements towards life seed and grow rainforests in my head. Breaking my skull so that the green may spread throughout my dirt shell. Nonfiction, as in reality, blooms into pink gladiolus flowers. The reality is that people’s thoughts can either work as an anchor or as an open sail. Whether those thoughts are anchors or are open sails is completely up to the thinkers, themselves.
END
Don't think of life as if it is a burden to bare.
Randy Johnson Sep 27
I have a story that needs to be told.
I knew a woman who was ice cold.
Many men liked her because she was beautiful and had big *****.
But you could've poured boiling water down her throat and she would've ****** ice cubes.

A family was killed by a ***** driver and she didn't even feel sad.
The witch even started laughing and said that she was glad.
She left her fiance standing at the altar and he committed suicide.
She said that he was a dirt poor S.O.B. and was happy that he died.

This was a woman who I certainly didn't admire.
She died last year when her house caught on fire.
When Karma catches up to a person, she's a *****.
I'm one of the people who hated that ice cold witch.
Alya Adzkia Sep 25
do I love you or do I love the other version of you that I built on my delusion?

the appearance of yourself that I make up in bed before I go to sleep. who always does silly things just to see me laughing whatever mood I'm in.

the appearance of yourself that complete my boyfriend material expectations. well, maybe that's the reason why I don't enjoy watching romance movies. not just because they always talks about happily ever after that bores me, but also because those movies established my expectation on you become higher and higher.

so I treat you as well as I could because the other version of you treats me as if I'm the luckiest ******* the planet. but I still love you the same, tho.


— so darling,
I guess I'm in love with a fantasy.
I write with hearts.
Rose Brown Sep 24
Her skin was hot,
Burning to the touch of my left hand.
Her right was cold, her heart warming only its home.
Rain poured down, smashing through our windows and walls.
Her eyes blurred as raindrops dripped down her red cheeks, pressing cold hands to in her effort of seduction.
The world seemed to close around us, as I held her to my body and wished the water away.
We were swallowed by imagination, by her will to stop the flow of life.
She kept me in that instant when my lips first graced her skin.
There was no other time for us to exist,

Just an eternity inside her mind.
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