Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kash Dec 2016
I am too much the same.
Pattern after pattern of pointless intent.
I can't break it.
I can't bare it.
I want to smash myself to pieces.
Put them back in a different way.
I want you all to witness,
The very painful day.
Kash Nov 2016
We are two hearts
They beat individually
So lets see if we can sync them
Rewire and unteach them
Because that  potential brought us together
Back then there was no pressure for forever.
Cody Henatt Mar 2016
Blood stains—it taunts as well—
Sings Our Tale—of long farewell—
Inspires art—brings Us to hell—
Blade in hand—We understand—Death's plan—

Dark scythe sweeps across head—
Takes me Under the Ground—
Words unsaid—live forever—Deafening Sound—
Sweeps across this barren town—
I tried writing in the style of Emily Dickinson. :) Not that good, but alas, I tried.
Cody Henatt Feb 2016
Humans are fragile creatures,
Swept around by gusts of wind
Like autumn leaves that are brittle.

The gusts are the words of others,
Battering us into submission.

We allow society to torture us,
To decide upon our development,
Like we are the book and
Everyone else is the author.

But I want to be my own author.
Don't you want that as well?
I am not a ******* leaf,
And neither are you.

Have strength, take some from me.
Some days I have little but
Would happily give it to you.

Have strength, it is worth it,
To be your own author.
To shape your own tale,
To live life deliberately.
Cody Henatt Nov 2015
I love him. I love his heart. He, like so many people in this world, has been beaten down and forced to harden his shell. He strangles his emotions and locks them under key, and how am I, me, supposed to fix that? I'm the same way. I drift so emptily through my life because of uncontrollable strife and I... I just don't know how to regain a sense of purpose, feel some motivation, muster the ability to have some sort of elation. My pen used to bleed for me but now my skin is what's bleeding and I'm just so hurt and unhappy with the life that I'm hardly leading. I'm not a painter and I can't turn this ruby red blood into a painting, but I can write about it, record it, instead of under the pressure fainting. I'll do my best to stand strongly for him, for if we don't have each other, we have nothing. Maybe we can help each other blossom again, and be as healthy and pure and whole and perfect as we once were. I imagine it's possible, just difficult, to survive this; but a future with him is one I don't wish to miss.
Peter Davies Jan 2015
This poem isn't about love,
Or sadness,
Or really anything else.
It doesn't have structure
Or really any deep, philosophical meaning.

It is about sleep
And how hard it is.
At first it is slow
And then very quick.
If you feel yourself drifting
You're doing it wrong.

You can't pinpoint when you actually lose consciousness
Or when you wake up.
You can't remember
The beginning of a good dream
Or the end of a bad one.
Isn't that weird?

If you want to stay awake you fall asleep
And if you try to fall asleep you stay awake.

There is no method for falling asleep
And no talent for it.

Isn't that weird?

Just some thoughts.
MS Lynch Sep 2014
Back bent, arms out,

I cannot contain my spirit's desire.

I will dance if there is no music,

and roll with the punches,

even if nobody is throwing them.

I am heaven-sent, hell-born,

purgatory-living in its finest form.

If you dare to laugh, I'll laugh along, too,

Because it feels good to hurt so bad.

You don't seem to realize how much I know

without saying a word, with just a look in your eye.

I am glimmering, reading, illusion illustration,

staring into the greatest galaxies I have imagined for myself.

And you, with petty marks and pretty scars,

have ventured out into the cold without shoes on.

As I look both ways to cross the street,

your pinky swear pulls me back in.

You are the sea turtle's deep, slow, sleepy veins,

and I am a hummingbird heartbeat.
Martin Narrod May 2014
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me

And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your

Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.

Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right

Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say

Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.

Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to

Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.

That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

— The End —