Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julia Mae Jul 2016
maybe i want you to find my notebooks someday
so that you can read all about my pain
that i kept stashed and stored and hidden
behind my pen and the countless ink stains on my hands
my pain that i wanted to speak to you about yet never could
so here are my last words, they always didn't come so easy to write
i grew restless, exhausted, and i just wanted you to look into my eyes
instead i held base, behind these scribbled lines
Anna Mosca Jun 2016


it is a revelation
not one cicada
sounds the same

a butterfly sitting
by me admiring
something I lose

myself on such lightness
I use to tell children
to stop and to listen to

the songs  of
butterflies as
they nodded back
This poem is from the collection California Notebooks 01

www.annamosca.com
Anna Mosca Apr 2016


where I live
now is very hot
it's the dry desert

mountains encircle
the valley where
the rainbows lay

for short breaks
on periodically
sprinkled grass
From the collection California Notebooks 01
jenna elizabeth Jan 2016
i have these notebooks
they're nothing truly special
red, green, and black
70 sheets of college ruled paper
(less than that from torn out pages)
battered and worn
months of wear and tear
but they hold so much value to me
pages of thoughts scribbled out
some pages half torn
to-do lists that were never completed
poems that are half completed
notes of poems that could be
random thoughts throughout the day
a song that i heard and liked
it's just random notes
thoughts that were filling my head
thoughts i had to get out
there's so many things i can share
and someday, i will
but now
i'll leave you with this poem
Hannah Holliday Nov 2015
Every time I begin to miss you
I start to write
so far I have 5 notebooks full
and I can recount every line on the palm of your hand
but I don't remember the sound of your voice
and some things are too hard to put into words
please make this pain stop
I'm wasting my time writing for someone
who has no desire to be written about
and that is a disgrace to the art
and a waste of words.
Gaye Nov 2015
When he asked me to draw something I made little flowers at the corners of pages and when I grew up they bloomed all over my notebooks, today I pick them up one by one, look through the pages to see him and the evenings humming birds sang on its branches.
Nicole Dawn Jun 2015
If I don't have to answer a text
I won't look at it
That way,
My phone continues to tell me
That I have a message
And I feel a little less alone,
Like someone actually
Wants to talk to me

I count my notebooks
Every morning
Before school
Even if I haven't touched them all night
Just to be extra sure

I smile when I'm sad
Just to look happy
For everyone out there
Even when the best thing
To do
Would be to cry my eyes out

I have a lot
Of silly habits
Madness Viarti Mar 2015
Piles of unfinished, unfilled, untold notebooks,
Stack high upon the stand,
Whispering their pleas deep into the night.


Write for me, if you will write at all, one begged,
For in I, you once wrote,
"I don't believe in good and evil,
It seems a heavy sort of burdance to put on four little letters."


My story is incomplete,
I am not done speaking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.



Nay, write for me, another argues,
For in I, you once wrote,
"Your worlds isn't in danger because I came, as you believe.
I came because your world is in danger."


My story is not over,
I am not done telling,

Pick up your pen, and write again.



Write for none other then I, a different insists,
For in I, you one wrote,
"Life's for the living, the laughing, the chance takers, the gamblers of love.
If you must obsess on one thing, as you surely do, then go live it."


My story has not ended,
I am not done talking,

Pick up your pen, and write again.



Whispering scrawls filled the night,
Overlapping, strangling one another,
Until all that could be heard,
Was the gentle breathing of pages.
Next page