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Grey Feb 13
"Pretty girls don't smile!"
Those are the words of wisdom
fake soothsayers preached,
not thinking that she'd listen.
Alas... now she's cold as ice.
A Tanka is generally made up of five different lines. The first one has five syllables, the second seven, the third five, and the last two seven.

Feb 12, 2020
Jessica Jarvis Apr 2018
...My hardened heart has been awakened.
The broken grounds will begin to quake and
within the crevices between the faults,
Your rushing water will flood....

Here is a little excerpt from a much larger spoken word poem entitled, “Reborn”.
Gabbi Jan 2018
Woman becomes blade. Woman becomes something sharp,
something you’ll think twice before running your hands over.
Woman becomes cold steel, because maybe if she is threat
she is no longer target.

You do not blame a sword for how it is sharpened, how if it
is wielded in the wrong hands it can wound. Still you say this
is no way to live. As if your sharpened teeth and hidden claws
do not bear the same weight.

You say this is no way to live. As if you alone could melt
her winter heart and metal bones. She will not bend to your
will, no matter how she loves you so. She will not soften her
edges into a coffin. She will not become your final resting place.
Nicole Bataclan Sep 2017
You run,
Chasing after none
There is no fear in your momentum,
Not a bitter thought once fallen.
Your memories are new
At thirty-two, I have made a few.

You will run,
Chasing after some.
There will be fear in your momentum
Many bitter thoughts once fallen.
Your memories are new
How could I forget, mine are too.
Cody Henatt Nov 2015
Her tears fell like rain,
With an abundance of acid;
Whereas her lover's tears rarely fell;
As a person he was placid.

The rivers flowing down her cheeks,
Reminded him that he used to be not so weak.
When he cried, bleeding emotion like she did now,
He was a stronger person then, his soul a bough.

Now, weaker, he could accept the fact,
That when he let sadness dehumanize him, he made a pact;
No longer would tears fall down his face,
He would bury the emotions and lock them in place.

He wondered now if he was destined to be happy;
He missed the days when his trunk was damaged, sappy.
He hardened to a point far beyond desire,
Steely now, having quenched his inner fire.

He embraced her in their small living room,
Happy that tears wetted his shoulder, and that sadness loomed;
She was still human, she still bled emotion,
Something that for him was a distant notion.
Enjoy. Let me know what you think.
Nicole Aug 2015
I was merely clay
My master's hands molded me,
Shaped me to her own desire.
She loved me dearly,
telling me daily, how beautiful I was,
sharing with me her struggles.
All I knew, all the words that came out of my mouth,
a reflection of her, it was.
Only in her hands, held in captivity,
never seeing the light of day.
People looked at me from the sidelines,
not knowing what I was becoming
- a hardened soul.
I was with no one else for long enough,
I never knew the perspectives of others.
All I knew was the lessons she imparted.

One fine day I was put through the fire
Intense flames, I screech and scream,
begging for help.
Yet no one knew me,
no one was willing to help.

Eventually I left the fire,
Hardened, and cautious,
looking at everyone who did not come to my rescue.
I would never let anyone near me,
Never let anyone shatter me.

Little did I know she was the one who put me through the flames.

She no longer has control,
I am being put out there,
But I am hardened,
void of emotion, void of feeling,
I am in circles. I don't know how to leave this loop.
Your garden was lush
   with poetic wildflowers
yet, darkness swayed its spirit
    'neath teeming salt tear hazes,
  tried to enrich the soil but
    ground cover was defensive,
hardened by winters' of
   contrary disconnectedness
For a good friend's special day...
Calloused is defined as having a hardened area of skin.

But I would venture to guess
That if you looked at my heart
And compared it to
My feet and my hands
That my feet and my hands
Would be in better shape.
See manicures and pedicures exist
But regardless of all the wear on my heart.
There's no procedure that can soften it.

Life has taken sandpaper to me.
Marring me through
Missteps in love
And searing loss.
Leaving me hardened,
Which served its purpose,
At least I wouldn't be easily hurt anymore.

I avoided love.
Not out of fear, I'd tell myself,
But because I was done looking for it.
I'd tell people that I was waiting for love to find me.
And so I'm still waiting
Or hiding.
From the fear of opening up.
From the fear of softening.

It's hard to be yourself
When you know that
You're scarred
Or scared
Or both.
So the callouses come in handy.
Keeping me from pain and hurt.

Actually, I prefer the term hardened to calloused.
Simply for the sake of finding a better connotation.
I'd rather be hardened by my circumstances
Than calloused by them.
I'd rather be hardened by the hurt
Than calloused by it.
And if loss were to strike me in the face again,
I'd rather be hardened,
Instead of calloused.

But if you'd grab a dictionary
You wouldn't be fooled by my attempt,
At clever wordplay.
You'd realize that both are the same,
And that whatever I'd chosen to call myself
Didn't matter.
I was still as broken as ever.
Still scarred.
Still scared.
As hardened
As calloused
As ever.
JWolfeB Sep 2014
All you have to do is be a man.
These words bled through my veins with disgust.

A man he said, does not smile
The flat line of his lips laid across the lower half of his face and read empty.
Shocked I was, when he told me that a man does not find joy in little things.
The leather skin palms that have seen more death than life.

A man he said, does not clean
A brain in his head, full of reasons why he can never show affection.
My arms wanting to do nothing more than wrap them around him.
Love may not be the answer to everything

A man he said, will never back down
His eyes burned, when I backed down
The ocean between will never be filled.
May the waves of tomorrow be ever calm.

As our callused palms met in between the peace treaty we signed in our heads,
The muscles in his face relaxed.
Not one more word was said.
His presence stands over me like an angry sun.

Burnt and shriveled.
I shall return home.
Just some thoughts about what a man really is. It is interesting to think of it in the perspective of an elder in a village or a father in a village than what I grew up with in a city.
MC Hammered Jun 2014
Walking barefoot down rocky dirt paths.
Kicking up clouds of dust with each step,
testing the thickness of my soles soul,
I found comfort in the pain of each sharp stone,
digging deep. Comfort in pessimistic understanding.
Knowing, the next wouldn't hurt as bad.
Wounds turn to callus. Hardened skin, hardens within.
Each weathered scar, reminder of hard earned strength.
Ritual of self inflicted mutilation by choice, rocky dirt path
by fate. Walking, walking, still. Still barefoot
down rocky, dirt paths.

— The End —