Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Endless Horizon Aug 2014
As a kid,
it hurted being
an island in the middle of the ocean

Seeing all your classmates,
bunch up together,
forming groups,
and just standing there
by the corner,
thinking why life left you out.

Groupworks were the toughest,
when friends were allowed to pick.
It hurted,
because I was always picked last.

That was so for three years,
until another island came over, and sat.
We said nothing.
But as the days turned to weeks,
and the weeks turned to months,
and as the months turned to years,
we became good friends.

The class soon bonded,
and I am happy to say,
that I bonded with them.

So, if you're an island like me,
don't be afraid to make friends.
Because they might just be,
the person that you've been always looking for.

Because after all,
all we really need,
*is a friend.
This was before highschool guys,
Im fine now :)
Just thoughts I wanted to express in either song or poem,
I chose the latter.
I walked 1009 feet
And reached the comfort of
Your tippy toes
Soon I'll be rubbing
Your knee
Block I.
I came to see you yesterday
Just what I was hoping for
You haven't changed a bit
You still taste
Like iced matcha green tea
But today
Your trickle is just about to start
And your iced matcha green tea
Now warming up
Since you betrayed me
Turning hot
For another woman
Her name is Rain
So I'm leaving you
You will always be real to me
But I've got something else
To replace you for now
His name is Cape
Just like you
A long story
And a desirous body
Sarah Michelle Aug 2014
Wine is dry at Contessa's party.

Liquor gives it a merciful taste.
                        A little salt
(draw it from her body; it hangs
from her lashes)  adds to the universal
bitterness.
                                   Her sadness.


8-11-14
Deserta is Italian for "desert island".

Although I cannot put my devastation into words, I had found out about Robin Williams' death only several minutes after finishing this poem. Poetry itself can be my tribute, as his performance in "Dead Poets Society" inspired me to continue writing it when I was sure that I wouldn't.
Jon A Fernandes Aug 2014
Why,
When words calmly manifest the intimacy,
Our hearts render them asunder.
In just a sliver of time.

How,
When surrounded by souls dimly lit,
Do I feel as a death moth fluttering near a lamp.
Ceaselessly eternal.

What,
Can my lips say when my heart is burnt by fire.
What words?
When all are mean.

Where,
Are the seconds of every day gone?
Swallowed;
Except in frivolous pursuit or meaningless drudgery

When,
Could I raise my arms up without fear of falling,
Or be swept by Lethe.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
My mind is adrift, carrying me afar
Away from the binds of words
Beyond the realm of consciousness
Of the regular and mundane
Taken off, to reach a higher plane
Which has housed me in quietude
Away from marooning thoughts
I have found my island of bliss
Wide Eyes Jul 2014
On a derelict island lived a solitary youth,
A desolate prisoner of his own- the unfathomable truth.
Enclosed by the fence which his own hands had built.
All day he lay, still as a rock, eyes fixed on the silt.

From his enclosure, the same sorry shells he would collect everyday.
And when he put them together, they never failed to look the same way.
The job he once loved was now monotonous and mundane,
No longer did people want to see his shells- so ordinary and plain.

One warm day, a shell so unlike the others his fence did hit,
Fascinated, he took down a piece of his fence with a new-found grit,
Joyously, he discovered a whole wide world of many a beauteous shell,
Vivacity enveloped him and godspeed, he took down the rest of his fence as well.

But the island, in reality, was his isolated mind,
The fence, the enclosure for his mind, around the ‘island’ was aligned.
The shells stood for thoughts, words and the inspiration he could attain.
As the writer opened up his mind, he fell in love with words again.
Ariel Baptista Jun 2014
It smells like summer on the island
Like laundry and leaves
Like late-afternoon lakewater
And pollen-filled breeze
I remember my summers on the island
The bunkbeds and bonfires
Beaches, bikinis
And dirt roads under dark tires
Birch trees and blackberries
Blue birds and sour cherries
Two hours on the ferry
Summer on the island
Lawn chairs and lemonade
Hammock-hanging, holidaying
Laying in the lazy shade
Hiking high into the bright blue sky
Deep inhale and satisfied sigh
We had been waiting for this
Our summer on the island
Cold tides and closed eyes
Penny candy and pecan pie
Crop-tops, flip-flops, tree-forts and drop-offs
Crayfish, crayons
And breakfast on the dock at dawn
This was summer on our island
Millions of mosquitoes, minnows and movies till midnight
Eating smores in the smoky firelight
Running through the trailer park in the rain after dark
Our summer on this island
Everything was my favourite part
I loved it all
The grass
The trees
The foamy waterfall
Sun, seagulls and sand dunes
Either services or sleeping in till noon
Sweet island summer, over too soon
Summer on the island
Was a lifetime ago
The island was my summer
But I’m letting go.
Next page