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Crimsyy Sep 2016
You are all as loud as
a vaccum cleaner,
The living room's a refrigerator
and my room's a heater.

And he,
He is my safety zone,
a smell of his cologne
and I know I'm not alone,
I cannot name the feeling in a rhyme,
I guess it feels like erasing bad times.

Why'd you decide to get
annoying and inquisitive
when I'm high on love?
Why'd you push my buttons
when I'm on a high, love?

When I'm sporting that
love drunk smile,
just leave me alone for a while,
it takes time for an
overdose to sink in,
meanwhile, just trust that
I'm living from within.
Aoife Aug 2016
the nights you call lonely
are the nights i spend
reading and writing and drawing
and loving my own company
i enjoy dreaming of possibilities
and laying in complete silence
you see, my mind is so loud
louder than the party you're at tonight
and for me that is enough
i balance it out by being quiet,
by producing shambles of poetry
and endless jumbles of words
to try and understand
that it is okay to love the silence
and the mystery of who i am
you find yourself in bright lights
and loud music
i find myself in the dark
we have been afraid of our whole lives
it is the darkness and the silence
that make you so scared of us
but we are simply introverts
trying to fit into a world made for you
while you are dancing your heart out
ours are pounding in pride
as we proofread our writing for the 100th time
your open arms and our open minds
embrace in harmony
you see, i started writing us instead of me
because i know i am not alone
on these nights you call lonely
i call lovely
Asha Jun 2015
She barely existed in the world of people;
those faces, masks of lies and deceit,
she concealed her joys and tears,
for her companions - the pen and the paper
Atypnoc May 2015
She cried In the sun as we sat on the
concrete lip of a family plot.
told me her regrets of returning God's gift.
Life would be so different.
I can never get it back, I'm so ungrateful.

The world underlies.

And we are sensitive people.
Estherzz21 Apr 2015
Stillness within tranquil,
Movements within clamour;
In mixture she stood there,
Introvert she names.

Gazing and perceiving,
Simply fascinating;
But residing in her world,
was nothing but hollow.

Catching her insight,
Diverting towards him;
telling herself,
that she never matters.

Self-pity, she would say,
But I say strength;
Pathetic, she labelled,
Thou I say brave.

She was simply a girl,
Malicious was an unknown;
Through dawn and dusk,
She became a title.

A title she called,
The Introverts.
smiling as herself
This, my friends, is an anthem –
For the ones who feel small; the introverts,
The ones who believe in things so much
They can feel it in their bones, yet at the end
Of the day refuse to believe in themselves.
You are all beautiful.
I don’t mean that in the socially-constructed,
Warped, narrow-minded sense of the word.
You are beautiful for your raw, honest souls
Your unique individuality, and the love
For every living thing you pour outward
In a radial, sunshine-spritzing way –
Promise me you won’t forget to love yourselves in return.
Yes, you, the ones who believe in second chances,
Big droplets of rain, the first snowfall of winter,
And the rejuvenating cycle of leaves.
The ones who believe in the sound
Of typewriter keys and songbirds
And the beauty of stars after a long day.
If all other things deserve the greatest joy
We call happiness, then so, my dear,
Beautiful soul-friends, deserve all the happiness
This great big world can contain.
svdgrl Jun 2014
Anticipating discomfort
as high heels climb stairs
with light steps to avoid clicks.
Attempt to dodge the cigarette brigade
with quick nods and hellos.
Finally on their floor with labored breathing.
They are so loud- heard down the hall.
Behind the door there are friends
waiting for the next best topic.
Greeting friends,
drunk and drinking more.
Open the door to
loud friends,
laughing over each others voices.
The only thing worse than the clamor
is the spilt stout that nobody noticed.
But hugs and wise cracks are still in order.
Holding hands with a cup of speaking serum,
with eyes that already seek a clock.
It's too early, we've only just got here.
Obligation to talk.
Spy the lascivious in peripherals-
in the corners of the room.
What languid lovers narcotics make.
High stakes with low gains,
leaves mouths with ****** tastes.
Words exchanged in witty waste.
Spy the conversations that selective hearing
couldn't rid
about you- about him, about them
and the trouble we're in.
Avoid eye-contact, but answer to
"What's going on with you? New job?"
with a smile and a nod and an "It's cool."
Burning desire for an air
without so many ****** breaths.
Someone is hurling in the bathroom-
and friends are singing desperation.
Tap toes and fidget,
avoid more conversation.
Everyone is so involved, now.
Gravitating around the life
of the party.
The foyer's empty.
A platinum opportunity.
Fake a bathroom break.
Apartments don't have back-doors,
and comings a regret.
Slip past the lazy leg bridges.
No one's looking yet.
In between coffee tables and couches.
No one's looking, yet.
but some are rising for the night trips
of cancer indulgence.
Jet for the door and ever so
close it when you're beyond
for relief.
The air is already colder-
slip off the heels and run barefoot
in to the rest of the night,
safe and alone with yourself
and your secrets.
Ignore the question texts.
Disappearing acts.
No, you're Candy.
you don't let them in your heart.
Ignore the question texts,
don't explain yourself next time either.
Enigmuse Mar 2014
Her eyes and lips and waist are sad poems,
which he finds pretty, but hard to look at, due to
the fact that unlike anyone else in the world, he's
indulged himself in the words she's composed of;
he's ran his fingers over the black print covering her
skin, and, mesmerized by her story, found solace in the
melancholic stanzas of optimistic sadness.
A girl with eyes as wide as the moon, maybe even wider,
hides behind books and songs and movies,
which prove nicer than the real world.

He stands tall and silent, one epic poem too long for
the world to read. However,while he's
fast asleep, she runs her fingers over the words and
pictures he's made visible to the world. One long,
sad poem about the world, one the rebels would marvel
at, about what it really is and what it never was.
Tattoos starting at the nape of his neck,
traveling down his arms and back, ink spilled upon a
lonely canvas, displaying a sad but accurate portrayal
of him: the boy who grew up too fast..

They're both odd and difficult to understand;
they are the poems that do not rhyme, the ones with
breaks midway through lines. Scriptures written along
the brims of both their beings, about a precocious boy
with tattoos and a naïve girl with dreams.

Love and dreams and perfume and flowers,
stars and books and blood and tears,
tears and blood and fire and angst,
want and drugs and needles and hate.

But that's okay.

In their affair of little talks, awkward silences,
holding hands beneath tables and speaking with their eyes,
they make beautiful silk webs of words, which hang from
the ceilings, are strewn along the walls and cover them in
their sleep.
Words to lines to stanzas to poems to stories.
Never had there been a more bitter-sweet relationship than
that of two beautifully sad poems in love.
Where he won’t say ‘I love you’, and she swears she understands,
and he sits on the sidelines drinking, while she waits to be asked to dance.
old, but mine

— The End —