Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bekki Jan 27
My handwriting
                                      is like a portmanteau of my parents'

I think it fits,

but sometimes

                                            I wish it was different.

I guess that's just the way things are.
But I can change.
Couldn't decide which version I preferred!
Jenay Long Mar 2019
She stumbles crookedly, confused by the pure hatred in their eyes,
She cries, afraid of the blood slowly seeping from sliced palms and soles.
She reaches out, only to be scorned by those who are to love her,
She covers her ears, as rage-filled words, echoes incessantly, cutting deeper into the wounds.
She hides in her own little dark corner, as she feels the pain their powers bring.
     Aren't villains the only ones that
     They should hurt?
     Does that make her one then?
She falls deeper, deeper down the rabbit-hole - deeper into the toxicity that is her life,
She scars harder; becoming more wretched, surrendering to the demons that haunt her.
She's disregarded by the powerful; she's scorned by the weak.
Its  s e m p i t e r n a l.
     "You cant become the hero."
She knows this, known it for so long now.
      No; everyone says she cant be the hero -
      Why not be the villain instead?
                                                        ­      By: Jenay Long
Originally made for a book idea, now an individual poem. After all if you can't be the hero - become the villain instead
Sabila Siddiqui Nov 2018
She sat there with her rusty voice box, a  drought on her tongue and a pen aching to flood the pristine sheet with blue ink.
She poured pain into words of refuge and tucked the love etched memories into words.
She wrote to the ones she loved, who made her heart beat ever so intensely. For who rooted her strengthening her spine with courage. For the ones who betrayed, abandoned and hurt making her swallow sorrows whole on empty stomach.
She undressed her truth as she painted shades of past, resurfacing the suppressed from the dustiest parts of her mind, reigniting the dying embers. As she wrote thoughts screamed to be heard, memories weeped to be replayed as she crafted sentences, paragraphs, beginning and ends, sunrises and sunsets; the breathing of her heart allowing her to feel a sense of relief.
But she never sent them, for they were riskier to be read by them than to be tucked safely away.
Hollie Wilson Feb 2018
What do we really have in this world?

Apart from the handwritten letters,
the dusty polaroids capturing
memorable days long gone,
and out battle scars.

We have nothing much at all.

Because it all gets snatched away too soon.
I always wish
That hand-writing
A letter
Didn’t go out of style.

I miss the excitement
Of getting something in the mail.
Opening a hand addressed envelope
And reading the words sent to me.

But now
All I get in the mail
Is bills and unwanted
Or needed, advertisements.
Virginia Whiddon Nov 2014
My greatest fear is
that handwritten letters
will soon be a lost
My greatest wish
is to be your
only artist.
Axl Rose Jul 2014
Why do people consider it as an "effort" when you express your emotions into words by having to translate them using pen and paper?
It took the same effort to think about it,
Same way you raise your left eyebrow,
Bite your lower lip,
Scratch your head
And just plain thinking.
But I'd always prefer it
Postcards, letters, sticky notes, stamps and stationaries.
In that way, I'll discover so many things.
Your choices.
I could imagine how you made them.
How much you put into picking the most striking marker,
The smoothest paper
To give me a sign
A single hint of how much the fragrance of the paper,
The strokes of every letter formed,
The mistakes you put a cover on already
In order to find the perfect words to match with each.
All these, to show me not just what you feel
But also of what you are made of.
The boldness in you,
The things you rather hide
And some you wouldn't want to forget
That remind you of so many things
Even the little ones
So you sealed them, put colorful stamps and send it to your second home which you have found in me.
Fah Apr 2014
nonsensical reason -
flash forward to now
see they had an essence of the
A world so Dark.
Light is
without much reason.
Actions are one's own
let their repercussions flow
Written first by hand - here is what it looks like

The blog is a new endeavor. Check it out if you wanna :)

— The End —