Elliot 1d
when he breathes out each word;
my eyes follow the curve of his lips
my heart hangs off of every syllable that rolls from his tongue.

when he smiles;
i can’t help but forget how to breathe.  

you are gorgeous
Afiqah 6d
be at rest and
stay a little more, darling
until the night comes hungry
let’s keep modeling our souls
under tonight’s wild, starry veil
and watch our pulses
beat its magic out

Afiqah 7d
the need is to be okay
to be okay with sometimes,
to be at rest with the
heart’s doing its anthem
after such odd,
anarchic catastrophes

Skyler M Apr 9
The trees seemed to close in on me as I laid in the middle of a clearing, my eyes staring up at the star-filled sky above. My breathing ragged from running to this secluded spot in the woods.
I felt the prickly pine cones under my back, letting silent tears run down my ink-stained face.
I had fought too hard, I wrote everything that I could have possibly done.

“Sing me down from the sky,” I sang to the sky, “All the way from death’s ledge. ” My chest felt heavy, whether it was my asthma or my anxiety didn’t matter anymore. I felt the scars on my wrist itch again, underneath my skin in a way I couldn’t relieve.
The trees were shadows, I could consider them demons but they really aren’t, they’re my home.
The only place I can feel satisfied with who I am.

I spent so many nights lingering in this forest, thinking the cure would be here. A mission for a purpose that would be found inside my head. Of course, I sometimes forget that my head is the most dangerous place to be.
I sat up and pulled my notebook out of the ground, along with a glowing pen. A symbol of my pent up creativity.

Maybe by writing a few poems, I’ll feel better about myself. I know that it won’t work, I need more. I need to have a name for myself, even if it’s just a few people. I want to sing to the forest and watch it sway in joy instead of pity.

I imagine myself on a stage made of bent over trees, the bark is slippery but I’m able to stand.
The people surround me, they are calling all our names. So, the ground holds me up, as I sing my heart out onto the makeshift microphone. My voice echoes and bounces through the greens, I’m finally outside my head, I’ve made it through every night and stood in a place I thought I never would.

Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. I wake up, my eyes once again looking towards the sky.
Again, words begin to spill out of my mouth in a tune, “I talk to myself and the dark grey sky beyond…”
Nothing answers, as per usual. It’s okay, I reassure myself, I don’t need a voice.
I wrap my hands in leaves and pretend that it’s a disguise.

Suddenly- I am home. My ceiling fan above me, whirring softly. My pen and paper laying on my chest. The night was sinking in and I am just as scared as I was the last night...
Afiqah Apr 7
of all the nerves they have,
they only ever try
to awfully want to seem good at
taming and demonizing our flames
when they barely
can’t even quite grasp a hold
of their own catastrophes
besides hurrying in those
filthy, greedy acts

Is it one size fits all
Does it fit you,  is it irrevelant.
Can you smoke it
Can you wear it.. can you take it or leave it.
Is it fitting like underwear..
A just for me pair.
Poetry.. intimacy.
deep down to the soul.
Like a pair of comforting shoes.
Like your muse..
Does it heal or bruse.
Can you wear it.. if so where like on your head.
Or can it take you to bed.
Poetry does it tickle your funny bone.
Is it comical, does it delight your witty.
Does it ignite your silly..
Does it sooth the aches when you feel alone.
Poetry needs.. To absorb as it feeds. Oh it has its tone.
It has needs..It is being exposed.
Even to the unrecognizable.
Poetry is revealing..Needs reading..The poetic anatomy.
Consume It.. drink it greedily.
If you reply back It responds so happily.
Where ever you can apply it, you can have it.
Its down to the soul.. Poetry is personal.
s.a.m selinasharday 2018
All.about that poetic vibe
G Apr 5
no rhymes to fill the meter,
no meter to grind along,
no grind to fuel the intentions,
no intentions to prolong.

the poetic prose
of the defeated and the broken,
the longing, the brave,
and the soft-spoken.
this isn't the Greats;
go read some Dickinson, Hemingway,
Pound, Ginsberg, Whitman,
Stein, Frost, Cummings, etc.
Afiqah Apr 1
this is how flinching
the world will always seem to be
but know that
despite the inner pressure to just be,
life has its clever ways
to bring about
the salvageable part of you
if only you don’t ever let hope cease

Afiqah Mar 30
we came to each other
with every taking breath
full of future
and it all recognizably felt like home
the first time we had held
such days we say yes
to our names,
to feelingly just be
alongside with love

Afiqah Mar 26
we had to happen for someone
at some point in our lives
to sort of give a little life support
which we unknowingly,
do that bit of saving for one another

just know that even after
such temporary connections,
there is simply no said competition
on whose getting the winning title or not
we’re still going to be walking back home
to our same Creator and in His sanctuary, too,
we will still be His guest
no matter what our status looked like

Next page