Ninah Dau Nov 2016

for how long can i go
without loving you out loud
before my teeth break
for bitting down on themselves
before my soul aches
to message you late at night
looking for old answers
with the same old questions

for how long will my heart beat
without you loving me
before it stops, tears, and breaks,
snapping the pain away like ink spills
from the old pens i keep

fow how long can i breathe the smoke
(if i were ever to quit smoking
but i'm not)
before my dry lips crust to their very core
becoming a thirsty slave again
from your puddles drinking dirty water
prasing you like the god you are not

fow how long can i exist in this sliver
burying my brain into the depthness of nothingness
I made myself become
voided, meaningless, so proud of all the bitterness
i never planned it out to be like this
but  it is such a beautiful thing to be out of feelings
unpure feelinds, lonely feelings, loving feelings,
shallow feelings, with you feelings, anxious feelings

fow how long will my poems sing about you
without cutting you with its sharp tongue twisted knife
before i can not longer crawl back to you at night
because it's so late and you're so tired and the never ending pain
keeps growing within me; (i wonder if you have ever noticed
all the bad you have caused me just by existing near me
so far away from me, outgrowing me like bad weed)

for how long have i loved you now
for how long have you not cared
drowing in front of my eyes,
in front of the mirror my poems have made me out of
ought to confront the not only wrecking but defeating battle
of loving the unloving, you;
for you were never one to settle
and it was pathetic of me to think
you could ever love me
for how often i realize that someone like me
doesn't end up with someone like you

i suppose i can only fool myself long enough
until i forget why i need to
but even that is not long enough, apparently

I saw the piece that'll complete me.
I saw it again.
Maybe, you're confused
And I am so nervous
So how could I start my story?
When I just saw my missing piece?
I am a puzzle
And he's a puzzle piece
I am a mindful art.
A black and white one; gloomy, simple, boring.
I am contented with my life, I am not looking for more.
But then, he came.
He came to me like a thunderstorm
And I cannot do anything because I'm a mere stone.
He's a poor lost soul
And I'm willing to became his foolish map
I was hypnotized with his colorful gaze
And I fell deep.
Yes, I am.
I really am. I knew it was trouble,
He's a trouble.
But I am a willing victim, a suicidal prey
Who’s begging for more.
God! I am pathetic!
I know, those laughter's and fears are worth it.
I know that every burst of anger, every drop of tears are worth it.
I am nothing but a handicapped
When it comes to him.
He used to hug me with his fire- coated body,
It could burn my skin. I am well aware of everything.
Yet I let him.
He touched me like
He's taking the air of my lungs with him
And I know it's deadly
But I can give it all to him.
He's a parasite within my mind, heart, body and soul.
He corrupted me.
He became my skin.
My air to breathe.
I did everything so we could fit perfectly.
And that's when I realized.
I realized that he cannot love me as I love him.
He cannot sacrifice himself as I could give my life for him.
He was selfish, I am selfless.
He was composed of color, I am made of black and white.
That's when it hit me.
I am damn too late to realize! Damn too late.
I was falling deep
But I am falling into an abyss of confusion,
An abyss of emptiness and sorrow in the pits of hell.
I am broken.
No, I am always broken.
I look at him blindly and I am at fault.
Maybe I am just desperate
But I am ready to be a fool for him.
I'm a willing victim, a suicidal prey.
I look at him blindly
And forgot that he's a colorful art and
I am just black and white.
I look at him blindly
And forgot that he was a walking disaster
and trouble to my life.
I look at him blindly
And forgot that he's punishing me
With his every touch.
I look at him blindly! I look at him blindly.
But, I cannot look straight at him
'Cause I already gave up… so I am letting him go.
He shattered me into pieces
And now, I'm all alone
As sadness started to grow.
I saw the piece that'll complete me.
I saw it again.
I knew how I reacted
As I saw my missing piece.
I saw it! I saw it.
But I know, someone already took it
Because it is not my puzzle to fit.

Dear Mr. Puzzle Piece,
You're the most beautiful piece that I ever had. I believe that this is not the right time for the both of us, it's toxicating so we'll always end up like this -- broken. I'm so sorry for not loving you enough to hold on, I'm not the "girlfriend type" for you and you're not even the "boyfriend type" for me but always remember that I loved you so much, it hurts. You will always be in my heart. Take Care, I'll always pray for your health and success. Till next time!
Ms. Puzzle
Nicole Joanne Sep 2014

I'm ready for something real.
I'm tired of being the curtains that are pulled closed every-night.

I once gave a boy my glass heart, and he held it dear,
and then, he moved away. And I was packed inside a box,
it was labeled, 'fragile,' 'handle with care.'
It wasn't for months that I saw the sun,
and when I did, I couldn't tell the difference
between artificial, and sunlight.
Once again, he held me in his hands,
but they were rough and calloused;
the security was gone.

I was placed in a corner where I was rarely touched again,
and one night something terrible must've happened,
my smooth exterior seemed to have sharpened at the edges,
and he placed me in a bin, never to be seen again.

There's vases that hold flowers,
and there's vases that are placed in china cabinets;
I'm tired of being falsely decorated.
I'm tired of having to hold everything in,
and be expected to be the beautiful centerpiece
for everyone to glance at, and walk by.

I am beautiful, but I am not a centerpiece.
I am also a collection of flaws;
I'm translucent: all my emotions flood,
and I'm fragile; I tend to break at the slightest touch,
and I'm empty,
until someone fills me up.

But I want something real.
I don't want to hold plastic flowers,
that will never fade away.
I want to hold the beautiful rose
and at it's prime time,
though I will cry,

I can say it was real.
I can say he was mine.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I was going off into a rant, and I ended up speaking this and it resulted in spoken poetry.
OliviaAutumn Sep 2014

There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and not one of them describes how I feel about you, about us.

Maybe its because I lost my words when I first kissed you, when I placed my kiss on them strawberry preserve lips so in the future when you asked me,  ‘hunny, where is the last place you saw them?’ I could answer –‘in you’

But I’ll pretend, I’ll play dumb, and search for them like I never knew the universe lived beneath your tongue, as I never want to find them words in case in finding them I misplace you.

And I never want to lose you. To find you in my box of lost and found on a Sunday afternoon amongst tattered dictionaries that are filled with love poems I can no longer speak.
Full of pronouns that hide bener dust which you make angels in, changing he to she, him to her, spreading your arms to chase the rabbits that jump out from these open sheets.
And seeing you lying there, I am both lost and found, no longer bound by the binding of those before you. All I can say is ‘ darling, the Greeks didn’t see you coming’.
There are not enough letters in the alphabet to write this love poem. To assemble a word that describes the way you smile at me, like how the moon draws pictures of the shore, or the way mountains bend to kiss the clouds.

You leave me speechless.
Its hard to believe, but its true.
Sometimes we forget to listen to that pivotal silence that the orchestra plays. Composed in exquisite harmony to seduce suspense through an empty script, in a pause, a breath; an instrumental craftsmanship that maneuvers you through that moment where you enter the protagonists’ kiss.

That’s how I feel about you. About us.
There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, and only one of them stands out to me: you.

spoken poetry

— The End —