All I want
Is to hold your hand
Though miles between us
Makes it impossible.
But  I can still dream
That our fingers are laced
And our lips are touching
All I want,
Is you.



                             (p.p) 12/2/13 7:53 pm
"I just spasmed
As my life force left me.
At a rate of 2.3 pictometers per femtosecond."

"I hide behind the tears
Of a pretentious moron
Who laments himself at
Every
Available
Opportunity"

"Your premise assumes
That writing poetry
Would mitigate my boredom."

"Doing things you do not enjoy
Will serve no purpose
Other than remind you of how bored you are."

"I feel my life force
Being sucked out of me
Minute
By
Minute"

"Each minute that I endure
The mind-boggling ennui
Is another brain cell
That commits suicide
In order
To save
Its self."

"I may have to resort to poetry soon."
These are his words, not mine.
It hurt.

When I was a teen
all that I wished for was to turn into a bird and flee.

Far away, far above
Away from all the things I know

I know I'm bitter, it's the easiest feeling.

I know it's there, yet I try to avoid the things with I'm dealing.

I don't understand... why.



It hurts.
For the ones in that hell that's called "school".
Wayward 5d
I was in love once, my young heart believed as much.
I dreamed of romance and the jitters began in my stomach.
A feeling so raw, a feeling filled with passion.
That erased all flaws and flooded compassion.

I was in love once, or so I assumed.
I wish I had realized earlier but I was too consumed.
An emotion that strong could ruin me anytime.
But I strung along despite knowing it was a crime.

I was in love once, well that was a joke.
I fell down a hole, and saw that it was a hoax.
I finally had the courage to open my eyes,
To suppress my cries and see through the lies.

I never knew what love was, I realized with regret.
It choked me to death, that was its effect.
Someday, an honest true love might approach,
'Til then, this young heart rests alone.
Well, I don't know what I was going for in this poem. I just let the words flow out. I think it has a few mixed feelings, but I wanted to represent misinterpreted young infatuation, as love. We've all been there xD
Enjoy!
When I reached the age of ten,
I began to insist I was nothing like my father.
My mum laughed,
Stroked my hair,
Rolled sparkling eyes
To summer blue sky
And told me there were worse things to be
Than alike to the man she fell in love with.

But by the age of ten I had seen enough to know
That a stranger lived beneath the skin
Of the man whose few wrinkles
Made the cliff of his face that bit
Gentler,
Whose rough biceps
Turned him into a sort of superman,
Whose eyes were intelligent
And full of delight
At the children who grew up
Propelled by him.

I had seen the stranger,
The ticking time bomb,
Triggered by the scritch-scratching
Of felt tips on paper
Or a disregard for rules
Or a stupid, normal infant tantrum
And mistakes on a piano
Hefted in by my hero on the surface.

Neurosis, they called him,
The monster that lurked in his room
And erupted more often
Than childhood science experiments
Of coke and mentos
All over the wide world.

Neurosis.
Superman's kryptonite.

Your father loves you
He can't help it
He's trying
It's not as if it's abuse
It could be worse
You know you're so, so lucky

And yes, I was, I am, so, so lucky
For the beautiful, wise, soul
I was born to

I am lucky to be the daughter
Of a warrior who marched through life
With no armour
And manufactured his own shield

And I am so lucky
To be similar to the man
My mother fell in love with

But I am fifteen years old
And the stranger still bursts out
With the same thick veined anger
I've become so familiar with since birth
(Although it's true, it's gotten much better)

And today I raged at my mother
With a shocking ease that felt
A little
Too
Good
For a little while

Ranting
Raving
Ripping through her words with profanities

And I couldn't stop myself

It was a little bit like leaving myself behind
To the "teenage hormones" in my hurricane mind

And it seems that blue eyes
Are not the only things
I take from my father

Perhaps I borrowed the fury too.
I wonder if my mother is still glad that we are so alike
He tells me that he cares
Enchanting me with his eyes
Loving him is all I think about
Pressing my hands against his chest

My mind knows hes not good for me
Even though ive already fallen for him

Pretty ironic
Like all the teenager drama
Even though I try to hide my feelings
Assuming people wont notice
Some of them do see
Especially the ones close to me
dark times.
05/16/2018

i fucking hate structure in every sense of the word. always have.
any expecting mother, upon finding out that she's going to have a baby girl, suddenly begins spending all of her life's work on gingham overalls, and gigantic, faux-velvet bows to adorn her newborn daughter's bald head. my beautiful persian mama had nothing to worry about at first, she had it her way, and for a while, i was the baddest baby on the block, except i didn't have a block. i grew up on a dirt road on an island called whidbey in the north puget sound. much to fatima's dismay, all that little me wanted to wear once i turned six months old and developed a personality was big t-shirts with logos of bands whose music would keep me sane and my heart only half-broken seventeen years later. i wouldn't let her put pants on me. i would crawl around in my backyard in little more than an alice in chains shirt and a diaper, sometimes riding on my beloved golden retriever's back. i was young when my parents realized that they could try all they wanted, but their child, born on the cusp of gemini and taurus, was too much for them to handle.
i started skipping class when i was in kindergarten; i would run out into the acres of heavy forest behind the playground during recess, and i'd be damned if i decided i wanted to come back. in middle school, i would skip because growing up middle eastern in a post 9/11 society was enough for me to be bullied to a bloody pulp. in high school, i would skip because i wanted to smoke cigarettes behind the football field with my friends who couldn't go to class because they were tweaking too hard. we would make daisy chains and listen to everything that mark lanegan ever made. i was throwing my life away; well, at least that's what they told me, but i was happy. and it was cause i had been successfully fighting the man since before i could walk.
Liz Jul 3
You're consistent
And my teenage dream
But here I am
No longer seventeen
Our love is real
But don't ask how I feel
I always want what I can't have
And I can have you so easily
blaise Jun 5
my boy with bramble and lightning bugs
tied up in his hair, he kneels with
brown earth palms pressed to the unquiet dirt
and hums a childhood melody.

my boy with flowers on the riverbank,
ankles slick with mud & the dead things that lay just underneath.

my boy with rosewater and candle wax
feels me bless him with the softest kisses a sinner can muster,
and wipes my tears away with callouses
worn down gentle.

the light breaks.
there are no trumpets nor blood,
only his laugh lines beaming bronze in the sunlight.
Next page