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Story Oct 2017
I am emulsified.
Painted onto shingles
of glittering rooftops
Where the weather abrades me.
Fated observer from a distance
Ogling people and their things
People and their things
Feeling feelings inside me
and all around me
People and their things
Passing past.
But I am empty windows full of images
and antique furniture.
Never looking and always seeing.
Story Oct 2017
I AM THAT HOUSE
in your recurring dreams

I AM THAT HOUSE
the one you are always running from
yet never entered

I AM THAT HOUSE
full of old-things well-loved
crooked and cursed by the neighbors

I AM THAT HOUSE
the white one rubbed grey
paint peeled away
sighing at the crossroads

I AM THAT HOUSE
my creaks and groans so familiar
you know exactly where to step
to go unnoticed

At the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
Paint peeled to grey
Never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
Always running away
Unnoticed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Of familiar steps
Crooked and cursed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Well loved by the neighbors
Ablaze
I AM THAT HOUSE
In recurring dreams

I am that house.
You're back here again.
The door is open.
Won't you come in?
Eileen Xu Dec 2016
Cracked skin
Empty eyes
Chapped lips
Sullen sigh

But a ghost
In woman's shell
I'm no longer here
Can't you tell?
featherfingers May 2016
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore.  I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor.  My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers.  The frozen silence
does not know my strength.  I will bend the world
with feet of glass.  In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.

I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt.  There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
you will never break my spirit, world.
Lou Van Kampen Apr 2016
veins dehydrated stems  
skin a million withering petals
arteries spout ink
and I'm losing my mind
Heather Valvano Jun 2015
blurring a line
defining an edge
I have to find a way
to make my colors blend
I'm only happy
when I'm me
and my canvas is black with complexity
I draw the lines
straight and clean
but sometimes that isn't
what is seen
blurring a line
defining an edge
I am alive through my pen
I work on my portrait endlessly
my cells are words
my blood a river of poetry
an unfinished work
an oeuvre of me
Xan Abyss Apr 2015
I promise myself
you'll break
if I keep pushing hard enough.

You are an angel of liberation
How could you ever love **** so hateful?
It must be a lie, it must be fake
But I can make it true if I break you

Heavenly creature, let this creature come to you
Smother you and shovel all his wretched love in you
The way a golden goddess glows, mortals always follow
And only through destruction could she love a fiend so hollow

At your weakest, I strike
A predator in love
I convince myself you'll feel the same
If I damage you enough

I will teach you to love me
So that you can teach me why
What a Demon's meaning is
In an Angel's Eyes
A metaphorical self portrait of the obsessive, destructive, vile lunatic I am.
Janelle Oct 2014
She
She never understood
why she loved books
The way they are much more capable
of warming hearts on a stormy night
than a cup of bittersweet coffee.

She never understood
Why she hated capitalising
and hated the word ‘why'.

She never understood
Why her favourite word is still ‘incredible’
And why she loved repetition
And use of periods.
And commas.
And conjunctions.

She never understood
Why she always wanted to cut her hair herself,
But if she was bird
She wouldn't fly across oceans and seas
Because she wouldn't trust her wings that much.

She never understood
Why she always find herself late at night
Thinking about why and how
She can’t kiss the past good bye.

She never understood
Why she easily lose herself to others,
Like rivers to oceans,
And how she finds someone worthy
If he makes someone’s heart happy.

Somehow she can never love
Or hate herself wholly.
It was always between self-love and self-loathe.
And *she never understood why.
Our English teacher asked us to make a self portrait poem. I know it's a bit awkward, but at least I tried.
Alice Baker May 2014
I'm not me, I think
Or at least I thought I wasn't.....
That is I thought I wasn't who I was.
Well, I'm not who I was.
Which is to say, a good thing.
I think.
I think I am who I am.
I think I know who I am.....
Or at least I thought I knew who I was.
But now I'm
Thinking
When I've already thought.
And I guess I've thought a lot....
Who would think to overthink
Me?
This is supposed to be more fun than anything haha

— The End —