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beth haze Jul 29
Kindest boy with a library that
reached the ceiling and
the same personality as
my best friend, they would talk about
movies in the middle of the street at
three a.m.
Everyone wanted us
to end up together but
it would never work out
in the end.
Moody boy with dark circles
that rimmed his eyes, always
wanted to talk about romance.
He looked at me with the softest eyes
but couldn't hold a conversation to
saves his life.
I don't know why but
I always think about him
when I'm feeling bright and
blue.
- dates at seventeen.
Teea Jul 28
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The blood fills our hearts and rushes
through every crevice of our bodies.

One. Two. Three.
We breathe in unison as our hearts travel
And our thoughts diverge into particles,
bright as the stars, but strong as my heart.

My cold and bruised cheek makes love
with your warm and red cotton shirt.
Eyes closed, I take a leap of faith.
Failed me before, I cross my fingers and jump.

I fall into your arms and dissolve into you.
Engulfed by the stench of your sweat,
the warmth of the skin baptized me.
Swish. Our skin mingles like newlyweds.

Honeysuckle. Honeydew. You’re sweet.
I miss you.
The sun tattoos the red you give me,
a reminder of a week on Calypso’s island.

Emerald and pearlite. Eyes that enchant.
Your freckles make Bermuda’s triangle
a perfect landing point.
So safe but so unknown. Mary Magdalene

No wonder I fall, you are gravity.
Bring me down to earth. Away from the
Burning sun. Apollo rapes Artemis.
As he prophets my fate. Poetry.

I ignore the stars and their cries,
as together here and now, I am infinite.
Soaring like a bird on ecstasy. I believe.
A crusade brings me to faith. Love.
I wrote this poem after spending a week with someone I care very much about.
Karly Codr Jul 9
Even during quarantine
Sometimes hanging out with friends
On the one day of the year
That celebrates YOU
Can be the world
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY AND MY FRIENDS ARE COMING OVER I'M SO HAPPY
Where Shelter Jan 2015
are you seventeen yet?

have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?

surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
haunts
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what you’ve purloined,
stored in you
from her withins?

so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply,
so, close to the surface,
endless?

life so far is but a draft.

take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
adventures!
Paul NP Mar 8
ice fire and the cryogene.
clear water with most love.
sprouting the finest being.
The god of love.earth.
echo haiku
mjad Feb 27
The clock ticking cuts through my soul
You are only seventeen
Am I really too old?
yra Feb 8
Seventeen back then
***** and late nights we spent
Partying like it's the end
Memories I'd never imagined
With you whom I'd never yenned

But then a day came
A vivid memory in Love lane
When you left me like a sane
Leaving me in pain
Crying my heart out in vain

And again I regain all the strength
Back in the  game
Same name but on aflame
Now all I can say
Is that Thank you my seventeen
Dante Jan 29
The world comes to me again with my sunlit room. A bird is nestled on the branch outside my window. My troubled-kitten sleep. The ceiling. The pictures in the cracks. My emptiness outside of school.

Yes, divine is this space
for holy are the tears I’ve shed in it.


-
Dante Jan 14
The world comes to me again with my sunlit room. A bird is nestled on the branch outside my window. My troubled-kitten sleep. The ceiling. The pictures in the cracks. My emptiness outside of school. Yes, divine is this space, for holy are the tears I’ve shed in it.
Tengo Dec 2019
you will thrive in your own cocoon—
legless arthropod wriggling out
of its leaved shell, crunching
on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel.
you crawl up the leaves like they’re
the steps of a winding staircase,
circling and circling to one day
step out of your cocoon.

you are your own skin—
a wing ripped in figure
eights of formative tearing.
at the bottom of a
wind-leaned green tower,
you are torn down as if starting all
over again, away from the pace of
a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.

you are not quite a monarch butterfly,
not yet the zebra-patterned black and white,
but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve—
thriving as a flower, swaying and alive.
you must visit the filial leaves and trace
their veins gently.

soon you will thrive in your own cocoon;
as those plant’d seeds will
soon leave legless arthropods wriggling—
for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither
without your leaves crinkling beneath it?
beginning to love a change i initially hated.
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