Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Hecate Oct 2018
hot meals cooked by Mom,
gone, replaced, hollow airports
absence of storge
Maria Etre Oct 2017
There are
7 different types
of love
elaborated by
the heart's
7 different
beats, decoding
7 different languages
that the mind
meddles with
Chante Hinsey Dec 2015
She and he were inseparable
But not the always together type
It was on a much deeper level
Their hearts were in sync
But the thought of him leaving
Made her cry until she sank
The day finally came
When he left on the plane
She grew tired of trying
And so sick of crying
The hope became lost
And a last their love was doomed
I think this poem just came from personal feelings and how I feel my relationship might end up.
Enigmuse May 2014
  o when I die, burry me inside the deepest of graves
  farther than six-feet-under, because if I’m that close
  I won’t behave. I’m too close to him, through the earth
  I feel his sins, and they keep me alive until
  omorrow. When the quiet life subsides, there’s no blue
  left in the sky, and the life we thought we lived was just
  a happy little lie. **** affection, I don’t need it, all my
  lies will supercede it, and I don’t need some therapist
  ver-analyzing my thoughts, because I’m already dead.
  Love was just a word we made up to feel better about
  the holes in our shoes and the ones in our hearts, and
  maybe I’m not over him, but I’m over the thought of him
  eaching out and grabbing my hands, he’s a boy, not
  a man, and he’s too afraid to whisper ‘I love you, too’
  because he’s too busy trying on a new pair of running
  shoes, and I know he won’t ever love me, even though
  od and him both tell me to wait and see, and I know he
  won’t stay, even though he swears he’s anchored to me
  and I know when the sun sets, he’ll be nowhere to be found
  just burry me at least seven feet under the ground, ‘cause the
  arth will love me more than him, and the frigid temperatures
  will remind me where I am, and the sun will bleed down promises
  (not so empty this time), and my corpse will be the breeding
ground for new life. I don’t love him, but I’m glad he killed me…

I always wanted to be a flower.
Now I get to be a whole bed of them.
storge: another word for affection

— The End —