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Asunna Feb 2018
Tell me that it's love that i'm feeling.
if it's not I fear my heart can't take much more.
I can't take my eyes off you,
yet i know the reason I won't leave is in your eyes.

I know it's love that I'm feeling,
even though we haven't been together in so long.
Your eyes still sparkle the same,
like watching a meteor shower

I'm caught in awe.

I swear you've never looked so good
so much better than anyone should,
after they tore away my heart.
I can't take my eyes away from you still.

If I survive another night,
I know that I can get over you.
I once had that lovin' feeling from you,
but now I'm gone still dreaming...

still dreaming of those meteor showers.
JD Harold Dec 2017
Oh self, gardener of mistakes.
The trees I planted grew sideways,  giving shade only when I need it, never when I want.
Oh her, gardener of nervous hearts.
The tiny little buh-bump, buh-bumps of the night haunt my mind.
But they leave me thinking she's got countless petals and seeds trespassing in me.
And I am still learning if I should embrace them in the soil,
Or if I should dig them up before I get too attached.
I'm trying to figure out whether or not I'm in love.
Madison Y Dec 2015
If open books suddenly close,
So the fears I've written can never escape
And the creases in my mind where you marked your place
Once again become whole,
I'll fold what remains
And carry it in my pocket;
I've never met someone who could turn a page so lovingly
As you.
Captain Trips May 2014
I have no...
(self-boundaries)
...means of changing.

It's not my fault, I...
(place blame)
...didn't mean to lie.

Why should I try, I will...
(believe in nothing)
...eventually die.

All the underground people...
(your ancestors and mine)


...Do they remember
Being alive?
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

— The End —