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Payton 6d
the moon chased me through cities
growing more as days go by

I could not escape its gaze
through foggy curtained windows

I always thought I was made for
the night but as it turned out

the moon burns in me more
than the sun ever could
This poem was written in 2018.
Lost Jun 2020
Sun
I forgot what it felt like
To be burned
The familiar sting of sensitive skin brushed against fabric
All too real for me.
I wonder if she, too, felt pain like this.
Days spent basking in the sun on summer days,
While cancer scrawled upon her skin like a signature.
Sometimes I think she knew what she was doing,
Laying there,
Letting herself be killed,
Slowly,
But surely.
I hope she sees me,
Walking with friends.
Hundreds of us,
Marching for racial equality.
Would she have scoffed at the idea?
Or scolded me for not protecting my delicate shield?
Say,
“Your heart may armor your conviction,
But it does nothing for your ivory skin”?
But I know,
The lace on my wedding dress may hurt now,
But I will heal.
I cannot say the same for my brothers and sisters of color.
I will not let them lay there,
And be killed.
I received incredibly painful sunburn while protesting police brutality this weekend. If that's the worst pain I am delivered from this movement, I am beyond privileged.
Josephine Mary May 2019
I have been suffering from sunburns.
Sunburns that I call "missing you" syndrome.
I have been feeling the scorching heat of the Sun
and the burning sensation on my skin.
It's not the kind of warmth that I miss.

I could not reach the Sun.
He is far. He is vibrant, fiery and hot.
I could not gaze at him on his blazing peak.
I looked down in tears.

I miss him, I am trying to say it,
but all I can do is to swallow my words and get burned with my own longing.

Sunburn, sometimes it's on my skin.
Most of the time, it's the Sun that I am missing. ☀️
My skin peels
and in the places reborn
I apply products that charge me for beauty and self-esteem.
This isn't really what I need.

My skin peels
the salicylic acid burns my flesh,
but it whispers, “I am not the pains
of my father,”
and I believe it.

I stand in the mirror
and lock eyes to skin.
You are not the pains of your father.
You are not the pains of your father.


My eyes refocus, and I realize
I've been talking to myself again.

My skin peels,
and in the places reborn
what's underneath is revealed:
Raw flesh and parental issues.
When will my showers clean me instead?
Luna Wrenn Mar 2019
every time i see you, it's like looking into the sun
- it hurts
KateKarl Jan 2019
scratchy and damp do not harmonize underfoot
and fear and the ocean should not coexist
but like this elevator missing the thirteenth button, my comfort sinks with tantalizing, lethargic anxiety.

the boards are a smokeless fire underfoot,
grit rolling between me and chipped brown paint,
as i beg for cold, thirst for salt, but do not run to the provocative, promising body beyond the dunes.

and my clothes are underfoot,
and this lemonade pink towel whose corner grabs at the sand,
and the hot dry fades into something that is sturdy and packed down by bounds like mine.

carbon slices at my underfoot,
the sharp home of a long-dead thing,
as my heel strikes the iron, water-pat shore, and the shock of it stuns my bones.

shock! cold underfoot
lace between my toes, smoking from wood and run
and then my face is in the sea, because who needs air when life is the sun trapping itself in the pink of my shoulder blades?
I haven't written poetry in a very long time, but am putting together a small portfolio for a writing class assignment. Any and all advice is more than welcome, even if you're the type who can't say it nicely!
jünø May 2018
i feel the heat of the sun
beating my body
like a whip.

all over me, it cuts gashes
and wounds
that sting from the sweat
flowing into them.

i fall, unable to take any more.
but still, i am whipped
until my body is so cut and ******
that i cannot recognise myself.

the whip has changed me.
the sun is too hot.
Haley Tyler Mar 2018
I dare you to peel away my skin,
dig in my flesh and pull me out
of this ******* shell I’m in.
Leave me raw and pink,
A sunburn from your soul,
that righteous light, the missing link.
Fill a hollow heart that doesn’t beat
but you’ll find in a corpse,
it just won’t keep
I was pronounced dead on arrival | h.t
TD Feb 2018
Lounging on the poolside
like some die cast model for hopeful artificiality,
sweat-slick and ignorant
a shy lobster cooking in her dreams
it was... fate.

Fateful really.

Scuttling up the mirror
the underside tender.
And peering wistfully
at a storming sea
from one precarious perch.

I thought in shades of red.
and I was blue.

Fantasies leave sunburn
in the worst places.
A bit of wry self-deprecating humor for you. lol
Carlisle Jan 2018
The Sun
beats upon my
shoulders
a drunk
Father stinging me;
Your face
red and peeling,
grins past
your straw.

A hot day
spent dunked
in the ice
water;
Green and
slow moving with
algae.
inspired by William Carlos Williams, a poet after my own heart. particularly inspired by This Is Just To Say
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