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Bella Isaacs Feb 2023
Gaze at me, with you ever-so-slight smudged lipstick
Pop-punk lyrics issuing from your perfect mouth
Dark circles from the khôl and folly
Forgiveness from your youth
Torsion of perfection into a wry smile
Sober, you say, drunk, who'll walk upon my style?
Who'll dare? I dare, in laying bare, ballet hands,
The contents of my *****; You know, friends,
I may be an actress, and pretentious,
But my ability to lie's contentious.
Can I just be my perfect self, please?
Ind Feb 2022
If I were to bottle this it would be

Fleeting moments of such deep joy it’s hard to recollect the moments of utter misery,
Of which there were more.

It would be bitter loneliness without the sweet tang of friends,
The ache of realising alienation isn’t about being alone.

It would be waves
Crashing into rocks after washing over us
Curling our ankles on pebbles
Tripping but running headfirst anyway
Toes in the sea.
It would smell like sun cream  
With the coarseness of sand
Salt and sun and summer.

It would sound like jazz time on a friday afternoon
Blues, show tunes and improv.
Empty balconies,
Conversions I listen into but don’t join.
Thunderous silence.

It’s white walls awash with laughter,
Paint fumes and flying
Fresh puddles
Stifled tears
The longing for something more.
seekai Sep 2021
I walk through a ghost town
where I’m never alone,
kicking empty cider cans across the road,
whispering secrets to the stale, morning air
where my life, at a standstill,
hangs over the beat of a single heart

and a single large Eye,
always watching,

judging my footsteps as I cross
the path, to a flatland, between the forest
and the streams of music playing in my ears -

there's a spring in my step this cold winter.
Even though I don’t see the sun until it’s too late,
I dance, like the dead, poison in my veins,
because I’m free from my grave.

I’m free from monochrome soil -
draped in a bright pink dress,
I kiss the days away with a warm hand in mine,
and a stolen, back-washed bottle in the other.

I skip on the pavement, rocking back and forth
to high notes and drum rolls,
where I find myself moving between friends and pages,
collared sweatshirts and daydreams.

I whisper my moments of happiness to the North Wind
and hope it travels South,

down to you, down home,

where you’ll hear of my vices
and understand everything.
this poem captures my first term experience in my first year of university. it deals with new-found, personal freedom, along with the chaotic response that comes with it. there's a sense of despair within the anarchy, but also a feeling of homesickness - i've missed you through it all; i want you to hear of my adventures.
maria Feb 2021
So much to study
and here I am
writing poems
for you,
14 febuary 2021
© ,Maria
C Jul 2020
Coming up
Reminds me of
Waiting for the high to hit
Never enough
Never as good
As last time.
The new discovery
An addiction
To new discoveries.
Never satisfied
In that
Matthew Roe Nov 2019
It’s been a year since I typed some lines,
probably cuz it’s stuff like this,
I want to get laid
and i want to get ******
but instead all I feel is sick
Kedgeree thats tumbled dried
from 38 minutes of bad Elvis hips,
while legs pop like rockets
my eyes sink in my sockets
saliva swells in my cheeks
as I drift in disappointment
swimming in icy air to catch my confidence lost at sea
but its too far gone, so i just stare
at a laptops glare
thinking about my spots
my unstyled bramble of hair
my polo, too garish?
too confident in thinking I looked smart?
as i wish for another heart
one thing sticks in my mind
a girl, or was it a boy,
looking like Johnny Rotten,
in Westwood striped dungarees and flames of hair
flashes of the Public Image, King Krule and all that in my headphones.
Words that are all in my head
as my stomach is sick
oh yeah, they played the killers
I like them
now my head is bleak like Mike Skinner
I wish I’d chosen earlier to have my dinner
another music reference lost on you
but stuck in my mind in bed
as I picture a red head
oh my.
Why am I so bad at socialising?
Colm Aug 2019
College is
A peaceful mind
Because it's years
And years
Of nonthinking

Free of judgement
And greatly
At a price
Often bought
Tuesday 12 - Back when you're just starting out. You know nothing... And that is great.
Sophie Hartl Jan 2018
i have not quite learned,
to love,
or lose,
or myself

"these will be the best years of your life"
echo in my mind
over the sounds of my gasps
for air, in between tears-

sometimes from laughter,
more often, from loss,
or perspective of it.

"yes i love it"
"yes i'm having a good time"
is not convincing
the only person,
important in my own happiness;
the hero of my emotions

learning to say no, stop, over now
learning to contain
a shout, a judge, a scream
not quite, but a little bit

the [best] two years of my life
have now so suddenly received
a forecast of much rain and clouds
always on the brink of hail.
feelings about my uni years
Eleanor Webster Oct 2017
"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," you say.
Would you?
Would you really like to be privy to all
that drama and intrigue, without ever being noticed?
Sounds nice, I suppose.
But I'll let you in on a little secret-
That, my dears, is false advertising.
Truth is, people always notice flies
They just choose to ignore them
And lower their voices when you buzz by on sugar-spun wings of self-confidence-
Maybe it's just all in your head
Maybe you've misinterpreted things-behind kaleidoscope eyes
It always looks like there are more of them than you.

So you gain confidence
You hover on the fringes of their circle
And drone out a low hum of 'what've you been up to today?'
Or 'how're you?'
Or 'long day, huh?'
The response is offhand
A verbal flick of the wrist
Batting the ball back into your conversational court
Because coming at you with a fly swatter
Or a rolled up Cosmo magazine
Takes more effort than they're willing to give.

You buzz about some more
Hoping maybe the silence will entice them to engage
But no,
They can't hear your buzzing
Or they won't.
So instead you stand
Fly on the wall
Content with watching the light catch your wings
Repeatedly wringing your hands near your face
In a way they probably think is malevolent
I promise I'm not plotting-
I'm just juggling the weight of my loneliness
Maybe if I shift it from one palm to another
Somehow I will lighten the load.

Take comfort in this, little fly-
The sun makes your wings iridescent
And even though they'll never get close enough to see that, you can.
It's not a trick of the light
Your fractal eyes do not deceive you-
They are duplicate.
A poem about social exclusion.
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