Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Wayward Dec 2018
Family: a group of persons of common ancestry

What is a family when they make you cry?
What is a family when they don't hear your sobs?
What is a family when they let you down?
What is a a family when they don't help you back up?
What is a family when they condemn you?
What is a family when they don't appreciate you?
What is a family when they can't support you?
What is a family when they don't value you?

Why call it a family?
Being bound by blood does not justify the term.
Where is the love, the respect, and the happiness?
Don't they see the suffocation they put me through?

                                                                                     -Wayward‚̧
Been a little isolated from my family recently.....
I don't really like this poem lol but I wanted to let it out somewhere
Iska Jan 2018
We all tell woes Of shattered things.
Scattered dreams and pretty things.
All tangled up in endless string.

A string of letters,
Of words and lines
Mixed with emotions
and beauty and lies

Stories of girls broken inside,
Of boys with more blood to dry.
Of Secrets and lies hidden away
Of adults trying to make it just one more day.

Some are well told
Others a jumble of string
Yet in them all one uniting thing.

The audience.

Ah yes, those brave souls, willing to read.
To read the rambling of broken things.
Of flickering poets crying to be heard.
Of lost souls with pathways blurred.

So gather all your tangled string
And join in the cacophony of broken things
As we spin around this shattered ring
I ask you of one simple thing...

Do you smear yourself in ink and pain,
Just for the number of readers you'll gain?
Or is it an art to be admired?
Something to live on long after we expire?

No, if that's true I'm afraid
you've got it all twisted,
its not for the audience that poetry existed.
It's for the poet, tangled in string,
It gives them a chance to create the whole thing.

A world where no one chooses what goes
Save for the poet who truly knows.
The reason to write, To fight and bleed,
Is because we all long to be tangled in string
Why do you write?
What is the purpose?
Sophie LaBelle Apr 2014
Baby touch me...
kiss and caress me.
Trail your fingers on my cheek
down the curve of my neck.
Across my breast,
up the hill of my hip,
over my thigh,
between my legs...
Bite me but softly,
grab my hips and pull me towards you.
Skin on skin,
Lips, together.
Bodies pressing.
Intertwined in a passionate bliss,
much like our first kiss.
You massage my back,
taking from me the pain long felt.
Yet again running,
fingers up my spine so gently,
I shiver,
Eyes closing to remember this,
this passion, content, no longer longing.
Time passes,
while your touch weakens.
Ceasing to kindle that fire,
gone, all gone,
as well as your hands
from my soft skin.
The memory of your lips.
The feel of your hips.
I sigh as I walk away now,
my choice yet it still hurts.
Remembering fondly that touch,
that caress.
Love of mine.
Think of me kindly, don't miss me.
Believe simply that we had a fire,
but the door is shut now,
cutting off the air that fead it.
Baby you've done your part,
but now its time for a new start.

— The End —