Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member

My old friend

Oh my, oh my

Where have you been

You creep back into me

Ever so sneakily.

How i wish, we can make amends

After all this time spent

My old friend,

You cut me open

Then stitch me closed.

My tears flow and flow

Scars open

Bleeding out into the unknown.


Just like that

You shut me off.


Now I am numb

To the bone.

My old friend,

It is either all or nothing with you.

Well I am sick

Of having to come up with reasons

Of why I am not feeling well.

I’m through with you.

Out, Out,

Gone be.

You are not me.

I will not be defined by the lies you shout and whisper to me.

My old friend, you will not take me with you

I have worked too hard,

Towards light,

To stay on my own path.

My mind has blossomed and my heart has been watered

You will not **** me dry.

Leave me, Leave me

Let me be.

Nic Mac Sep 2019
There’s an ocean, collected on the other side of the world.
Away from those that taught her destruction.

Learning from the land what it feels like to sink.
What else can she do but weep?
and slowly flood as we sleep...
Luna Wrenn Mar 2019
you forgot to take it
to the curb
you forgot to empty it
your mind had been full
overflowing with the memories of us
it sat there for awhile
you wanted to keep them but
they began to
rot to their cores
and the smell lingered
you started to bag it all up
one by one you put pieces of us
in a jet black
plastic bag
with a twist tie
and walked us to the curb
Anna Jan 2019
It starts small.
A thought.

Then it grows.
It turns into actions.
Not to others but to yourself.

The lines start small,
Almost to faint to notice.

Then , they grow.
They begin to deepen,
In hopes of drowning out the pain.
The pain of everyday life.

They hurt,
But not as much as your heart does.

It starts small,
As a thought.
But as it grows,
As it struggles to keep up with your flooding emotions.
It begins to strangle you.
The thoughts begin to hurt.
They scream;
Hear us
Hear us
, but what if We don’t want to hear them.

The thoughts that start those lines.
The thoughts that starve us.
The thoughts that deprive us of living a fufilled life.

Hear us.
See us.
They scream.
For anyone feeling the same way I am here
In my estranged daze,
I now fall from the floor,
The utter sadness flows in like a summer's rain.

It is okay, poor one,
My child, it will soon be over.
And soon you will grow.

So be kind,
You cannot drown in tears of joy.

~Robert van Lingen
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
Our house is flooded
stop crying, its not helping
only adding more
Michelle Argueta Mar 2018
we sink half an inch every year
"soon, we'll be up to our ears
in water"

not a creature of fury, just of habit
the moon pulls her to churning, to crashing.
hotter water temper tantrums
rush the brine into our basements
soaking scrapbooks in salt
until it crystallizes faces

and yet i cannot blame the marsh

for reclaiming what was never ours
and taking even what was as penance.
but i refuse to condemn us
for shaping shorelines into lives
because things are so much clearer
when they turn with the tides.
we’ll grow gills in time,

we have to.

the ones who stay on land
could never handle shifting sands
don’t know we cling onto the inlet
with white-knuckled hands.
they never grew from buried roots,
seeds are just flotsam in the sea
so they’ll call Frank O’Toole crazy
when he can’t bring himself to leave.
This poem is a reaction to a clip used in a John Oliver segment on flooding (here it is for context: ). In it, he was quick to make fun of Frank O' Toole, a man from Broad Channel, New York who had his house destroyed by Hurricane Sandy and rebuilt it in the same spot, despite constant flooding, because he couldn't see himself in any other neighborhood. Growing up in a similarly close-knit (and similarly threatened) neighborhood fairly close to Broad Channel, I sympathized with his determination to stay right where he is. Shoutout to you, Frank.
Next page