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The stakes are high
when words are at stake
It’s an open hand
we give
we take
waging with words
a gamble for me
playing a fine line
with cliche
or corny
no matter the draw
poker face
or story
that rhyme you find
too profound
too bally
I deal this poem
I roll
you read
double or nothing
a hit or miss
is always
I could stare into your eyes
For all eternity
I am so beguiled by you and by you beauty
Wish that I could talk to you And know the words to say
To find the strength to ask you out to know the words to say.
I wish I could ask you out I wish that I i knew you
I wish that I had your number so i could call you
Setting I wrote at a bar
JD May 18
for the longest part of my life
my mother said she would be "better off dead"
for the longest part of my life
i had to hear, "if you dont do what i say i might as well be dead"
for the longest part of my life
i heard "you will miss me when I'm dead"
for the longest part of my life
i was blackmailed, emotionally.

One cannot make a person want to live.
One cannot make a person except what they have done.
One cannot take the blame, if you are only a little child.
my earliest memory of "keeping things safe" by agreeing to mum ultimatums...I was maybe around 6.
fm May 17
i take what i love about myself and wear it as a badge of honor, but at night i stare at the ceiling
and list all the things i hate. i stamp it in a
journal and time-date it, bookmark the
page i left off on and i put the leather
bound away. once a year i visit
what i hate about myself and
find that as long as the
feelings are inked
on a page and
not weighing
heavy on my
chest, there
isn’t much
to hate
at all.
i’m not as bad a person as i claim to be
Sick of mistrust
eyes on my every move
It's your anxiety
I have nothing to prove

Double check?
A much higher amount
Control for (in)security reasons
my privacy doesn't count
His5Her is a series of poems with different points of view of fictional people
Carlo C Gomez Apr 26
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself

avenoir - n. the desire that memory could flow backward
Natalie Apr 13
Skin dislodged
A bone in the wrong place
Just the wrong size
Can't we see what's underneath?

Cold, empty air
Wind winds through the tunnels
And here and there and there
You can see the ****** funnels
micaela drew Apr 1
i miss you when things get hard

i miss your gentle voice and understanding

i miss your presence, sweet and commanding

i miss how you knew exactly what to say

i miss how you always brightened my day

but I really only miss you when things get hard

your love for me was completely unmarred

and I want to call and say I miss you

but I know it’s not entirely true

i miss the way you supported me

and saw me for all the things I could be

i don’t miss how we were

i miss the way you made me feel secure

- insecurity
Jade Mar 30
When someone calls me

I never know how to
believe them.
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jrae Mar 27
We are
Floating down a river
where the waiting never stops
Holding onto our last exhale
too afraid to drown
Dreaming of the day that we sail
high above the clouds
Pretending we have yet to reach
the edge of the waterfall
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