Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Head to toe I'm made of glass,
Crafted with love and compassion,
I glistened beyond all I ever knew.
Once untouched and unsmudged,
But with time came scratches.
And parts of me chipped,
Or even partly cracked.
As I did my best
Not to shatter
My heart.
Still not completely broken
I'll cut off my own hands
For everything I touch shatters
Aleka 6d
I want to fly away...
I can hear her whisper...
A soft, tender melody.
I want to fly towards her...
But my fears,
They won’t let me.
Because of my cries,
She won’t hear me.
I walk towards her light,
Ignoring my pains.
Is that light as bright anymore?
Are her whispers as gentle anymore?
I’m almost there.
Her melody and light invade me.
My body,
It goes numb.
My mind,
It Shatters.
So... I realized not a long time ago that I really enjoy writing and reading poetry. I wrote this. I was one of my fist poems, apart from school assignments etc, and I’m very proud of it.
Grey Apr 27
When I gave you my heart
You lovingly cupped it in your palms
But I guess you got distracted
Because I watch it slide through your fingers
And shatter on the ground.

When you gave me your hand
I held it tightly in my own
But I guess I got distracted
Because our fingers are no longer intertwined
And our hands are empty.
4/26/2020
The mirrors and I start to shatter
I never believed that I was worth it
Nothing else seems to matter


The colors around me blur
I blink back more tears than I’d like to admit
The mirrors and I start to shatter

My hidden scars seem to quiver
All your words bruise me when they hit
Nothing else seems to matter

My shoulders start to shiver
You consider me a hypocrite
The mirrors and I start to shatter

My words trip over each other and slur
I wish sometimes, that I could just quit
Nothing else seems to matter

The ugly thoughts begin to stir
Everything seems to be starlit
The mirrors and I start to shatter
Nothing else seems to matter
It seems to me that many of us feel the same way
Jade Apr 15
Spinal column
a stairwell of books,
rungs of untouched vertebrae
avoided by the bibliophile herself

[myself].

Brain is wired differently
than the rest of them.

At first,
I thought it was a matter of being
****-retentive.
A veteran perfectionist
who strives to imagine every detail
as intricately and accurately
as the author must have intended.

Character's faces morph into
sloppy, patchwork collages,
features copied and pasted from
beautiful strangers and
celebrities who played
in the movie adaptations.

Their appearances are both
cliche
and
incomprehensible.

I am told a character is pale,
but can only manage to visualize a complexion
the colour of notebook paper,
penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions
against a wintry terrain--
her ears
nose
lips
misplaced beneath the tundra.

I lay the book atop my collarbone,
its cover pitched into a make-shift tent.

(Cautiously).

Almost as if I am
afraid to disturb
the seriffed constellations
that flicker above my heart.

I stare up at the ceiling
(vacant, as am I),
my eyebrows scrunched
into nooses of concentration,
several minutes passing before
her cheeks gradually begin to thaw,
warming over in an ombre
of pinks and olives.

And I rejoice!

Strike down the tent,
pupils hungry for prose.

But there is always
another character.

In Valley of the Dolls,
a handsome man,
whose hairline I cannot
properly envision

(this makes him less handsome).

This time,
when I lay my book down,
I do not proceed with caution,
the corners of its pages
dog-earing against my body.

Google:

men's hairstyles, 1940's

(I need to commit to memory
three different styles
so the three different males
I am working with
are not trite clones of each other).

I can only manage three pages
at a time
before having to take a break.

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is an exponential task,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting
Jaqueline Susanne's vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

on the first
(second...
third...
I don't know...)

try.

Turns out
this is more than just
being ****-retentive.

This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

I yearn for times of old
junior high
when I could finish a novel
in a day--
ramona and beezus
butterfly lion
the silver donkey.

But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:

the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.

Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.

Eventually,
I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.

Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.

My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not
[cannot].

The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.

Instead,
I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
fragmentation
of each stanza.

Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.

I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.

I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.

I am
as broken
as these verses.

But

it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site: notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

Mobile Site: notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/purplemobile
Faith Apr 11
You can not play with a glass heart

And expect to fix it just as easily as you shattered it

I'm glad you're seeing the consequences of your actions
دema Mar 1
here i am,
once again,
knocking at the door
of adventure,
curious to know
what kind of love
awaits for me,
just to have it
collapse and
shatter all over
my heart, my mind,
my thoughts,
so my words
overspill
and my trust in
myself becomes extinct.
mjad Feb 27
The shattered gray and foamy waves take over my field of green

I see everything you want in the reflection of me
Next page