Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
every Love poem I write feels like a suicide note, as I let a part of me find another home.
love articulates a passionate soul caged in my ribs
wrestling with every beat to break free.

Some say if U love a flower don't pick it coz it will die, so I planted mine next to yours.
for the roots to meet beneath the Earth's surface.
b Oct 2018
i woke up to write a poem
i woke up to write a poem


i woke up to tell you
that the lips of love are soft.
that the touch of hell burns cold.

but youve heard that before and so have i.

so if

i woke up to write a poem
i woke up to write a poem

why even bother if the
words im looking for
havent made themselves
known to me.

they should be at my ribs,
knocking on the glass.
but instead they
dance like a child.
and hide like a fugitive
wisteria Jun 2018
a bewildered face, a blurry
cloud in the sky, i’m
turning in circles and every second i see something else collapse.
like the lungs
behind our ribs, we can’t breathe
when the air is so thick.
our bodies shrinking, lungs
suffocating, i don’t think you have room for
me,, anymore.
it was too overwhelming i think
Jack May 2018
i need your help
i need you
to break my ribs
no i'm serious
it's my heart you see
it's suffocating in there
under the weight of skin
and blood
and the ribs
you have to break it out
i've tried
i really have
but the more i pull the tighter they squeeze
like one of those finger traps
they do it for open heart surgery
this is not dissimilar
please you have to do it now
they can hear me writing this
and they threaten to squeeze tighter
and make my arms forzen
my fingers in rigor mortis
just break
my *******
LCP May 2018
I've always wanted someone to take my breath away
Bu after struggling to obtain oxygen these past few days
I have realized how precious it is
Saving it and storing it up for the right words
But my oxygen could never be wasted on you
My ribs may creak and crumble
And my lungs stretch paper thin
But oxygen is a precious thing
And you are worth every single breath
That burns me from the inside out
I have been very sick with a respiratory illness and lately it has caused my ribs to ache and it's a pain that I've never experienced before. Doing simple things hurts and requires so much effort. Important people in my life have been very helpful and they make me want to laugh even though it hurts but they make the pain worth it.
KM Hanslik Apr 2018
You dream of the sun when
your words begin to miss their mark, when
you haven't seen the flaws of your actions until
it's too late,
when the tentative what ifs are swallowed by the looming presence of no.
You begin to dream of the sun when you spill
yourself into another and the other
devours you whole and leaves you
You begin to notice changes in
the lack of color in your skin or
the way your ribs feel a little sharper under your fingers, but
change is natural, you tell yourself
and try to forget the fuzzy things
in the corners of your mind that tell you
stop, because
what do voices know?
You drum your fingers along the edge of who am I, turn the phrase over in your hands and try
to forget the answer
as you dream of the sun and being
swallowed by it,
AD Snail Mar 2018
Locked behind caged ribs,
Left to destroy just the inside,
Left to be my secret; mine to hide.

Buried in but tearing at its prison walls.

Lied for my pride,
Not wanting to be supplied with aid,
No need for some peace of mind.

Little ripples of discomfort,
Form spasming as it slither under my skin,
Leaving a sensation that brings agony in its wake.

Little creature that lives within my chest,
You bring me to my knees and curling into my own frame.

None shall know of this little being,
It cannot be seen by another eye.
All that is known is the sensation and state it leaves me in.
The little being that ripples underneath my flesh, and lives in my delicate form as it tears at it home for no real purpose but just to leave its reminding mark within in my heart.
None can get rid of it permanently, it already has festered deep within and cannot not be extracted, it will be with me till the very end.
Tsunami Jan 2018
Time is a human construct.
It will spill numbers on the floor,
Whilst it slips its fragile hands around your throat.
Choking you out,
Until breathing becomes more of a chore than reality.
Until it feels like you’re drowning from the carbon dioxide swimming in your veins.

The clock is the home that stutters away when you get to close.
It’s the boy who tells you he loves you,
And then never calls.
It’s the sound of your ribs snapping in half,
Simultaneously filling your lungs with ambrosia.
So that when you take your final breath,
Time will be there to remind you that no matter what,
You were never ******* enough nor ever really there.

Time is the intruder that breaks in
Steals your youth, your drive, your ******* life.
Erasing you slowly,
As I’ve done to every minute since I saw the universe in your eyes.

But, god, what would we do without time,
How would we subsist without measuring cosmos in our hands?
How am I supposed to live without the warmth of your body next to mine?
Taylor St Onge Dec 2017
If you're a patient in a hospital, wouldn't you want to know
exactly how many people have died in the room
                                                                 you're currently sleeping in?    
                           How many hearts have stopped beating, how many
                                                               lungs have deflated, how many
pupils have stopped responding to light—
                                                          ­                 how long CPR was
                                                                ­             performed before
                                                                ­            Time     of     Death
                                                           ­                       was called?
How many DNR patients waltzed into the afterlife
without so much as a half-hearted chest compression?

Ribs can break during CPR.
How many cracked ribs have echoed
                                                                ­  across the walls of your
                                                                ­            hospital room?


Eve was made from Adam's rib.
God plucked the bone and
                                                                ­                  fashioned it into a
                                                                ­             subservient woman to
                                                                ­               replace the wild one,
                                                                   the first one, the no good one,
                                     the woman made from the same soil as Adam:


We break ribs, break wishbones, break most things we don't understand. A confused patient will take out his IV, his PICC line, even pull at his chest tube or his LVAD driveline.
If it doesn't make sense, we will try to eliminate it in the sake of
                                                                ­                               normality.

                      ­                                     x

Some time in August, we had two codes within one hour.  After 30 or so minutes of chest compressions, they pronounced the second man dead.  He wasn’t my patient that night, and I didn’t know him.  I think his ribs snapped under Alyssa’s hands when she tried to revive him.
                                                            ­      And what does that feel like?   Not just the desperate rush of adrenaline,
        of trying to bring someone back to life—not just the emotional,
                                                                ­           but the physical of it all.

The cracking of the bone beneath the heels of your hands.  
Your fingers laced on top of each other
                                                                ­ pounding and
                                  pounding and
                                                                ­                                  pounding
                                                           against the sternum.  
One, two.  One, two.  One, two.  
                                                          ­            The bone cleaves in half.
And how much pressure does it take?  
I’m sure science could tell us, but
                              how does it feel in your arms, in your shoulders—
                       will your muscles remember the strength it takes and
                                                      stop you next time?


How hard did God have to try when he ripped out
         Adam's rib to make Eve? And
                           how long did it take Adam to recover from the loss?
(Maybe he never did.)


Healthcare is still so barbaric.  You must hurt to help.  
                               Saw through the sternum to get to the heart.  
                 Insert a painful tube to remove the excess fluid.  
                             Drill through the skull and remove
                        potentially useful brain matter.

I have nightmares of tripping over IV tubing and
ripping out PICC lines.   I am terrified of
dropping someone's chest tube on the floor,
                                                 of it ripping violently out of their lungs.
It's not my blood, it's some else's,
                                               and that makes it so much worse.  
                    Being responsible for another human's well-being
                                             is actually terrifying.

I just want to be helpful.  I don’t want to hurtful.  But so often,
                                         I find myself damaging the ones I love.


I would rather have my brain-dead sternum sawed open than
rot in some hole in the ground like my mother if it
                                                        would mean that I could be useful.
                                                   And all we really want is to be useful.
To feel something.  To be something.  
To be proud like the original sin.

Remove my ribs.  All 24 of them.  
Make them into several new women with
several new names and
                                           faces and
                                                            eye colors and
                       skin colors.
Their lives would be more beneficial than my death ever could be.

Like Eve with Lilith, replace the bad, with the seemingly good.  
                                                         Replace the soil with the body.
                                                  It all has to come from somewhere.  


                     How to keep the self close and yet distant from trauma.
part of a larger work based on my work as a cna in a hospital
Next page