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Jenay Long Mar 2019
She stumbles crookedly, confused by the pure hatred in their eyes,
She cries, afraid of the blood slowly seeping from sliced palms and soles.
She reaches out, only to be scorned by those who are to love her,
She covers her ears, as rage-filled words, echoes incessantly, cutting deeper into the wounds.
She hides in her own little dark corner, as she feels the pain their powers bring.
     Aren't villains the only ones that
     They should hurt?
     Does that make her one then?
She falls deeper, deeper down the rabbit-hole - deeper into the toxicity that is her life,
She scars harder; becoming more wretched, surrendering to the demons that haunt her.
She's disregarded by the powerful; she's scorned by the weak.
Its  s e m p i t e r n a l.
     "You cant become the hero."
     "YOU CANT BE A HERO."
She knows this, known it for so long now.
      No; everyone says she cant be the hero -
      Why not be the villain instead?
                                                        ­      By: Jenay Long
Originally made for a book idea, now an individual poem. After all if you can't be the hero - become the villain instead
Wayward Mar 2019
You
What is it about you that holds me smitten? Is it,

These hands,
These hands that send me to ecstasy.
These hands that entwine with mine.
These very hands that hold me close to you.

These lips,
These lips that caress my body, loving me, kissing me.
These lips that whisper "I love you".
These lips that entitle me as yours.

These eyes,
These eyes that look into my soul.
These eyes that hold promises of tomorrow.
These eyes that are drunk with love, love for me.
These eyes that see me and accept me for who I am.

This heart,
This heart that cares for me.
This heart that would chose me over and over again.
This heart that loves me.
This heart that belongs to me.
©waywardvarsha
Oh the fantasy.
O hope y'all experience a love like this
Stay weird, stay wayward!
Much love xoxo
Akshay Feb 2019
Happy about...
Today I feel different than earlier...
I am happy about this change.

Today I feel the original me...
I am happy about this sweet little me.

Today I feel to leave back all guilt...
I am happy about my innocence.

Today I feel to live the new me...
I am happy about this rebirth.

Today I am happy about this change...
This is what I feel is life.

-LifeKeepsChanging
This is my first poem.
RUBY STYLES Feb 2019
its weird to live
where past and future pulls you
in  its black hole
emptying every essence of you
like you are nothing.

its weird to live
where original
is covered with fakes
and being original are
labelled as freaks

its weird to live
where people look
at your mistakes
when the already have
loads of their own.

but its beautiful
to live in the world
where words help me
to escape my own truth
and find peace

its beautiful
that even though life
seems meaningless and purposeless
the meaning of some collective words
makes living purposeful.

RUBY..........
hey writers ........ i am a 17 years old mess and i need a help
Max Feb 2019
Call me the outlaw of the modern age.
Modern age
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2019
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
Sarah Ouhida Jan 2019
only the dark can see
my desperate fingers
find reprise
in between
my  lonely thighs
she cries with me
I slip into
delirium
then she kisses me
goodnight
ma chérie
first poem on this site in almost three years. I am determined to try and post here regularly again. But, in the case I slip off again, you can find this poem and all my other works on my poetry instagram: sarahimanpoetry.
Cecil Miller Jan 2019
I followed the trades to the center of Mecca,
Maybe looking for my soul.

All I found in the people around,
Were pieces of what made the whole.

I searched in the sun for the purest light,
But my eyes could never see.

The hollowness inside my every thought
Was a hunger I couldn't feed.

There was a rubble in the sands of time,
It all turned upside down.

Suddenly I was under the water,
And hearing not a sound.

Everything was nothing then the moment came,
When everything was alight.

An opening of eyes, there was clarity,
I was passing through the light.

I can still remember serenity,
When I was safe inside the arms.

All I knew was comfort and love in the moment,
There were no alarms.

I didn't know that I was fragile,
Or an aging ghost of an old man yet to come.

I only knew in the moment that I never knew a moment,
Or where the next was from.

It would last forever, in this familiar place
Where I might have been before.

Because I recognise the light,
But not the purest light that was vacant at its core.
Written Jan 14th, 2019

Now this might offend some people, but this isn't my intention. How is it that someone could post one or two whiney lines about some break up and it winds up all over the front page, however, when effort is put into a piece of work, to create something of a poetic nature it goes by hardly noticed?
I mean, writing a one line diary entry to cry about getting dumped is not poetic. Put some effort into your art, a little structure or something. Some creative turn of phrase. Anything that is metophoric, or oximoronic might work, also. Otherwise, it might be an honest feeling that's going to get some sympathy likes, but there is nothing creative in simply declairing a broken heart. Even if it is very brief, without structure, saying something like "I'm not good enough," is not poetic or musical. Without more content, I wouldn't call it prose. At best it might be a brief, singular undetailed narative. Then hashtag some trendy words that usually have little to do with the entry. It's just doesn't make this site seem fit for decent writers.
So try this: poets, take your singular line and dual lined entries and see if you can construct an actual poem with some rhythm. An online thesaurus might help some of you when you want to rhyme, or when you don't because poetry doesn't have to rhyme.
Very, very seldom does one phrase make a poetic statement. How many times can people praise, "my boyfriend dumped me" one liners before they get eye-rolly and cynical? Let's ask Mr. Owl to lick the tootsie roll.
Daniel Dec 2018
You want to believe in afterlife.
I hope you’re not counting on to see me there -
to fix everything we did wrong,
to start again,
because I’m going to walk
this earth only once,
so sorry, love.

Maybe it’s arrogant of me to assume you even thought about me.
Maybe I wasn’t included in your plans at all - that’s alright too.
Yet, I know for sure that you hate me for saying that.
...
For all the times I cursed you,
I confessed my love for you.
Did you notice?
Cecil Miller Dec 2018
Ten minutes til the perculator
Brings me from grime to grind.
And in the morning stars are setting,
As soon the sun will rise...

On a world that I hate to hate.
On a world that loves to hate me.
I have to go outside and want to die.
I cannot stay in and hide.

There are monsters in the field
And they've got the taste of blood.
There is no end in sight.
I cake my face with mud.

They always know to find me,
Though I move in patterns, rare.
Deep inside, I turn inside,
I deny dispair.

I know I'll never beat them.
I avoid, but can't back down.
And so I'll take the beating,
But I'll try to rend their skin.

I know just how they see me.
The same as they did then.
Silent words that we all know
Do not go unknown for sin.

The time has metered nothing.
It hasn't changed a thing.
If authority lets loose it's leash,
The dogs would gnash again.

The eyes upon me see distainly
What they want to hurt.
Only, just, to keep alive
What every monster wants.

Ten minutes til the perculator
Has darkly roasted beans,
That was ground into powder,
Like the bullets in my lean.

The night will soon be like
A blanket ripped from me
To show me in the basking light
For all the world to see.

They'll say that I'm a monster.
I always was so strange.
I was a trouble-maker, boiler maker
And the only one to blame.

They'll say I was a bad seed.
When all of them do know
The type of horror that befell
From the monsters long ago.

In times of triumph I did learn
How best to bide the time.
They think I'm so predictable.
They're thinking colorblind.

For all the worth of quiet,
And to rest this savage pain,
And retribute the misery,
(It won't happen again)

And yet you'll cry for justice.
Say it's never served.
If you used measured all they put on me,
They'll get what they deserve.

The victim becomes monster,
The world fears the marters more
Than any of the heathan clan...
Ten minutes, nothing more.
I wanted to write something provacative and edgy. I also wanted to empathize with another point of view. I think if it polarizes, that's a fair reaction.
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