Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Man Nov 16
there were oil stains outside his house
where the car had sat
like the stains,
he bore marks
little pocks
that had worn on his face

from a life he lived

al a erosion

though each scar, skin deep
as shallow as the rest
he felt best
when they bled
neth jones Jul 2019
minding care of sun
i step outside cautiously
finding repulsion

observe the day golds
refolds in time proceeding
i flee ; propulsion

arbor shield timely
stop-rest inner ******
heartbeat, kind pulsion
welcome tinkering

without reference
what is i ?

hello
blade of glass
karen Oct 2018
in the inside, I’m magnetic
but the type that repels

he sits next to me, attracted
                                                  I move away.
he says his hands are always cold.
                                                  polite, I respond that mine are warm.
he looks at my hands,
                                                  I walk away. I will not let him hold mine.

I wonder why I’ve been cursed,
banished to this loneliness, temptation.
after all, maybe the problem is me,
maybe he’s fine. but he’s not fine
and so I guess I’m magnetic…
but the type that repels.
a boy in my bio class keeps bothering me and i'm convinced that love deadass just doesn't exist
EricM Feb 2018
As I breathe in
The city exhales
As I breathe out
The city inhales
My heart beats
To the ticking of
Pedestrian signals
Which none of us obey
To parking meters
I dedicate time unpaid
From the saintly hobos
Who avoid my stench
To the college girl ***
I dare not to pinch
The bar drains my pocket
Traffic signals my soul
Just like the woman
Who left me so long ago
To the city, my ****
To the city, my soul
this mere mortal frequently feels:
   a. like joost another brick in the wall
   or b. feels comfortably numb while alienated
   in this condemn nation
with the sounds of silence

   written on the virtual subway hall
n wishes he could escape
   (like that eponymous spoon
   running away with the tine e fork)
   2 the dark n far side of the moon
   jumping without Humpty Dumpty fear 2 fall.

joost as an *** side (wit me only intent 2 *** till late)
   let me playfully close this email by readily admitting
   that voluptuous women with plenty of junk in the trunk
   (or 2 employ more outdated term zoftig)
does readily prompt a top notch rating of google times ten

   for those queen of denial big a$$ bot tum gals
   who possess buxom build plus smart n able 2 understand
   how 2 cosign via trig
anyway, for your edification, i wish for nada qua non
   one snarling day vid growl joining me
   in monogamous ****** gig
which latter mental ability

might not in the least matter 2 moost men
unsure if my poetic reply you will find *** abominable bore
   or be prompt an oh bomb in a bull barrack 2 dig
   this common joe just biden his time
but in a nutshell with no intent to be impolite,

   mine eyes (no surprise nor insult meant)
favor gals whose ***** happens
   2 be outlandishly big
   in tandem to the searing roe bust english language,
   which this simian i.e. **** sapiens doth adore.

from::the fool on the hill, who lives along
abbey road near penny lane
across the street. Eleanor rigby, Mister Kite,
the virtual nay burrs o this human grain
plus Norwegian wood, the latter actually a great dane.

postscript:
words my (ahem) pen ultimate live aim
while trying 2 steer clear of reese sieving a wagging
   virtual finger in blame
neither at some fellow nor destitute dame

since chance circumstances of existence akin to being frozen
   in some space/time paradigms frame
attempting to extricate our selves playing lifelong game
which message offer in this poem rather lame.

email moi, which means
   applying cerebral muscles to flex
fire off a brief bull a tin i.e.
   preferably a brief text
    to TRACFONE NUMBER =
215---370--8929
Sydney Williams Nov 2017
maybe we are like the opposite
ends of the same magnet
perfectly designed for one another
but never meant to touch.
Maine Dela Cruz Nov 2017
you stained me
like napkins you

wipe around your lips,
crumpled and thrown away.

a lump in my throat
some nights you set me on fire

some nights you freeze me
with your words

i couldn’t walk away
i couldn’t set things straight

for each time i take one step forward
i take two steps back.

i made a thousand paper cranes inside
my head hoping that wishes

could somehow
be granted because legends tell us so

i guess legends
are legends for a reason.

i am not a phase of your life
nor a moment that would just

pass like days and nights i feel empty
after you shoved the life out of me.

i am not a jolt,
a spark, that surprise you

for a moment that’s soon forgotten
i am more than a moment—

i am an experience, i breathe life,
i am capable of reading between the lines.
eli Dec 2015
you ask, "why i haven't killed myself?"

I.
the day she died,
i remember my father telling me
there are millions of good girls out there
then i realized, she was the one in that million
and for her, i'll stay alive for another trillion

II.
my hope that one day, this pursuit of happiness
will eventually peruse me to joy and success
but i wear anxiety like a dress
to the point i've made this whole 'killing myself thing' a mess

III.
for all the heartbreaks i've endured
there will be one girl that invents the cure
but i reject love to the point it's lost its allure
and death is the only thing that has become sure

IV.
why i haven't killed myself?
i am already dead.
we said we'd grow up and meet in a coffee shop one day
now you're gone and to see you again, my life would be the price to pay
but you have reserved your soul in me, embedded like espresso in a latte
push these pills away, and hear you whisper "there are other ways"

V.
i outright refuse to hear my grandmother's religion talk about suicide in an ignorant manner.
i rather not be the talk of Christmas dinner
and rather endure my aunt's repulsive dessert than become the devil's bread-winner.

VI.
why i haven't killed myself?
i am already dead.
i am finally starting to find love again
and i'd rather the ink of this pen die before i enter Heaven's den.

VII.
i can't handle seeing my brothers at my funeral
hear them whisper of all my "wasted" potential
then see them leave to use drugs as their coping utensil

VIII.
i would get to see her again in heaven
but she would bring my heart into a deep descend
as she says "to me, you are forever dead."

IX.
everyone would speak about my sacrifice
but i wear pride and it shreds my skin like knives
and god forbid, i disappoint my loved ones before i end my life.

X.
why i haven't killed myself?
can't you see it? i am already dead.
i died the day she left and i'd rather my final words to her
be the last thing i've ever said
than a stupid poem about how i kept wishing i was dead.
for her.
Lexical Gap Apr 2015
The greatest of distances separated us,
but being abrasive at best,
our two rougher edges always sparked.
Even when friendly,
a side conversing of judgement
and not-quite-resentment
kept the parameters of conversation
shallow and narrow minded.

Deeper inference
caused interference
like static in my mind,
and short circuits were common
even in the most civil of discussions
common to other circles.

Round and round,
wishes to connect and
a secret bid for volatile collision
kept us chasing,
while a wary voice forced us to stay separated
like magnets pushing and pulling.

Never did two people
hate so many common things
and yet repulse each other so completely.
Next page