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Alexis 2d
My name drips perfectly off your tongue,
sweet like my morning coffee.

And when your eyes meet mine,
I see an electric ocean skyline
almost as beautiful as the rest of you.

Alluring like a siren's song
when you say "I love you."
Anya 2d
Shy
Sometimes,
Poetry is easier
Than socializing

Because in poetry
One can get it all out
In one go,
Without being
Hindered by
Social
Anxiety

Then,
People get to comment
Without being
Unable to listen to the whole story
You’re
Too
Shy
To
Finish
Don’t quiet my lips,
free your ears.
Don’t deny my feelings,
open your mind.
Don’t fix your eyes,
expose your heart.
Don’t run your mouth,
give your arms.
And then,
I will share with you
my pain.
And only then,
I will share with you
the secret beauty within.
Unknown Oct 2
I have finally come to the conclusion,
that I do not love myself.
that I don't love the way i smile,
or talk,
or laugh.

I hate that I am quite,
that I'm introverted and
would rather prefer to spend my days alone,
rather than surrounded by people.

I'm trying to improve how I view myself,
however, how do you change your perspective
when you have been living it for years?
to those that dont love themselves. this has been my biggest struggle this year.
Daisy Marrow Sep 2014
Find me across the room,
I am the silent morning.
I've known your name for centuries,
but mines still just a foreign language to you.
My tongue is tied
and you're lost in translation,
But that's just how these things will remain.
My body sings every time
because your smile is like a melody.
You light me up
shining brighter than the moon and stars.
I'll follow your voice to the beginning of our first hellos.
You're a perfect afternoon.
We could sing away evenings with the radio.
Drive to places only we would know
where there would be nobody but you and me.
So please won't you come talk to me
because you see my words are lost
and my knees are shaking like trees in the wind.
I hope it doesn't come as a surprise that you light up the room.
Every time I see you I hold my breath
and my mind goes blank.
So I suppose I'll just always be on the other side of the room,
loving you from afar.
a poem about a boy what else
Anya Sep 28
When someone praises me
I'm like a deer
under headlights
Of course I'm delighted
beaming,
even
But I really don't know-
how to respond
...
Do I brush it off?
Act like it's
not a big deal
whether or not
it really is
And move on
to another
subject?
...
Do I just stay quiet
Look down shyly,
and smile?
Or just let the conversation
pass me by?
...
Do I adamantly
reject it?
Refuse, and insist
to the point
that the person
before me
ends up
fighting with me
about
it?
...
Do I roll with it,
faking non-existent
confidence?
Owning up to it,
sometimes
in a joking manner?
...
Do I immediately
switch the topic
to praising
the one
who praised me?
Or have them talk
about themselves
to turn
the
attention from me?
...
Or, do I just smile
large and wide
and thank
the person?
...
I don't know
and it irritates me
that I can even have trouble
with something
as lovely
as a compliment
...
It's not
negative
hurtful
or even
a criticism
...
So why does it
bother me?
...
Maybe
...
I care too much
about what others
think of
me
Anya Sep 27
Today my friend told me
I was acting strange
I gave her the
excuse
of a sugar high
But really,
...
I was just being
myself
For a baby, I am unkempt,
But for an adult, I am very unkempt.
People can tell me my age just by looking,
So when I bashfully admit I am 21,
I actually have no bash left,
Because I used all of it on my ***** sneakers and chipping nail polish,
and hangnails and tangled split ends in a scrunchie,
and leftover acne from the homecoming dance when I tried to erase it away with my mother’s makeup, two shades too light, two left feet as I had not grown fully into my limbs.
And they can see how aware I was of my pointy chin when I was thirteen years of self-conscious, repeating all the better responses to conversations, like my life was some laugh track sitcom,
just like I do right now,
many days, still,
in notebooks, to plants, to the bank machine, to the mirror at the optometrist, to the grocer when I run errands,
because even though now I run errands and have checks to cash,
I still have baby hair to bash,
and I laugh the same laugh,
with my eyes that turn into little moons,
thinking in the same cartoons,
under good eyebrows, though unkempt,
above the toil of braces and 21 years of chapped lips.
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