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Seán Mac Falls Dec 2014
Old love says it all  .  .  .
Sweet nothings winter utters,
  .  .  .  Only words to me.
Beck Dec 2014
it was so sweet of you
to show up at my door
flowers in your hand
heart open, like a sore

did it take you a long while
to write me that song
to paint me a picture with sweet, unspoken words
to admit that you were wrong

do you expect me fake a smile
and listen to your lies
while your words twist red like sin
intruding the pure, white sky

i'd lie, too, and say its fine
that i really don't care..

but i can't do that you ******* fool
you hurt me all too much
i refuse to be your night time secret
i will not be your crutch

I'm moving on
and on
you know,
i hope you cry tonight

and when you call me on the phone
i'll laugh right in your ear

you ******* fool don't you see?
I'm about to disappear...
Love hurts everyone, this is kind of a twist, though. As the apologizing lover thinks things are okay, that the hurt one will alway come running back, he/she is growing stronger and more independent. Soon the poem shifts from a whining, pleading tone to a harsh, independent-- almost satirical tone. Soon the hurt lover has become indifferent, to the point where he/she tells the other to *watch* him/her disappear.. (a bit ironic)!
The music climbs inside my empty shell and fills me up with fountains of color and swirling geometrical patterns, becoming a vortex ready to touch down as soon as the gentle bristles kiss the rough canvas.
Oh, the canvas!
My life raft in a sea of faceless, indifferent individuals who exclude any person with the sense to push back against their idiocy. Anyone strong enough to demand answers.
Favorite hobby is to paint while listening to music. It keeps me sane.
Andrew Saromines Dec 2014
When I was little I always counted my steps.
I would keep track of the delicate taps of my feet,
to see how many I could fit in one square of the sidewalk.
And while I was busy naming each step after a number,
I was unaware of the world.
Because I marched to the music of my own.
Choosing instead to see the smiles on the shoes I saw go by.
And when that little child grew I knew, I knew, I knew,
of the world and all its evils.
So my silly counting habits, they returned because without it,
I couldn't see the smiles that I found on all shoes.
I tried to see the other side.
But people's eyes just can't suffice,
because a smile is so certainly scarce,
on the faces of those I find.
so I count on my counting, my sacred devout thing,
to keep me from frowning,
by seeing the secret smiles on the shoes that march on by.
Josiah Wilson Nov 2014
And you thought
That you could **** with me
Play with my heart, my feelings
And do what you wanted

Well I've seen past the ruse
And I care about you,
About as much as I care about the ******* form
Of this **** poem
Tainted Heart Nov 2014
More blood drawn for no apparent reason.
Things may be okay, but I am not.
My body will be my canvas, that nobody will see.
My scars will be a masterpiece, but only in my dreams.
I want the pain.
Or is it pleasure?
Since I get so much joy from the crimson blood forming on my thigh.
I am a *******.
I want it, I need it.
It's a bad night.
Chalsey Wilder Oct 2014
My mind is in-between
In-between hell and insanity
In-between heaven and solitude
My heart is in-between
In-between hoping and wanting
In-between sorrow and self punishment
My soul is in-between
In-between hell's cold fire and heaven's pure indifference
In-between my mind and my heart's in-betweens
In-betweens are difficult. Though I am difficult. Very difficult indeed.
melina padron Oct 2014
call me a mess then
pack me into boxes. place me
on the driveway with your old
mattress and couches
better off with a guy who says i'm only
worth a dollar and 50 cents tell him to
buy your mother of pearl lamp set
and throw me in for free instead
i swear i did not make this up in my head
call me a mess then
pack me into boxes, along with
the 23 poems i wrote for you
a garage sale display of my
shattered periphery

i swear i did not make this up in my head
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