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jวซrรฐ Apr 2019
๐˜๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ฎ๐˜บ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฅ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ญ๐˜ช๐˜ง๐˜ฆ
๐˜š๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ท๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ฃ๐˜ฐ๐˜น๐˜ฆ๐˜ด ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ฑ๐˜ญ๐˜ข๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ค
๐˜ž๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฏ
The History:
I just signed the lease to my first place with the help of a couple angels. Moving always gives me a sense of dread. I guess it's the unknown, the wild, the lack of control that scares me the most. Alas, I am optimistic-ish.
Taylor Broussard Jun 2019
Warm Summer Day, 2018
Sun on our backs, Wind in my hair
Sweet tea kisses, Sunshine smiles
Ed Sheeran and Slow dances
Twinkling blue eyes, My glimmering brown
What goes around comes back around

Hot Summer Night, 2019
Piercing words, Thorns sticking out
Waterfall tears, Red hot anger
Secrets and lies coming to the light
Your true colors showing as bright as the 4th of July
Cutting you completely out of my life
This is two memories put into one story formed into a poem about a nine year chapter of my life that I'm finally finished writing.
Brandon Amberger Dec 2015
Whatโ€™s going to happen when time runs out?
Will we beg for life as if there was a drought?
Every year goes quicker and quicker.
Please, please slow down the ticker.
Yes the people of my generation are young.
Yes we have we many years on this world among.
So why do the years feel like theyโ€™re slipping away.
I really just want everyone to stay
Meg B Oct 2015
very much alone
on a makeshift bench
out of an old log,
my coffee balanced in
a knot in the wood I've
made into a cup holder,
my feet planted into the
soggy leaf-covered dirt.
I gaze outward onto
the wooden bridge
that aids the passerbyers
of persons and canines to
overstep the pebble-laden
The air is brisk,
the sun sneaking only
occasional glances at my
behind a screen of
scattered trees,
tall and thin,
buried in leaves slowly
transitioning from green to
I ponder on how
brave everyone has
said I am,
that they could never do
what I'm doing,
like I'm some sort
of war hero.
I laugh slightly to myself,
for, I wonder, how much
moxy does it really take
to sit on an
abandoned stump in the
woods, fighting off
tears of loneliness and
Aren't those who are
brave not so
chock full of doubt,
not clinging to a pen
and a notebook in
hopes of dispelling
waves of woes?
The wind blows by me
once more as if to
reassure me that
my newfound spot of
singularity is exactly
where I am supposed to
be, so I go back to
watching the passerbyers, or,
the lack thereof,
sipping my coffee
and soaking in my new

— The End —