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Aria of Midnight May 2015
I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.

But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.

Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.
Arlo Miller Apr 2015
'til now I've kept my prose under lock and key
but I've decided to set a few free
to be taken in and perceived
for better or worse received
this millennia(l) felt like it was time
to start, to share thoughts and rhyme
the beginning of a flow of toils and joys
and playing with words like kids with toys
stranger, here is a piece of me that I chose to share
true connection only happens when vulnerability is there
so here's to first dates that turn into wrinkled hands holding
and the first glimpse of color from a flower unfolding
if you're reading this, in a way, I'm writing for you
and in the act of writing, it's for me too
even if these poems are never heard or read
I will appease the words that yearn to be said
Her frame exposed from the way her dress hugs her body
leads her to feel that oh too familiar feeling
of disgust, of judgment, of guilt, of shame.
This day only comes once a year,
yet she allows the demons to dwell in that pretty head of hers.
Unable to shake the thoughts of deceit
she continues to smile.
She dances.
She laughs.
She dances some more.
The ceiling spinning, the lights flashing, the floor moving
she begins to fall.
Her figure has been wasting away for a while now,
food being a foreign object to her frail self.
Had she been told that she was beautiful growing up,
had she been told that she was worthy,
had she been told that she was loved,
had she been told that she was wanted,
maybe things would be different.
Maybe.

People surround her as she lies on the floor.
They know.
They know her secrets.
Exposed and vulnerable she comes back to the surface,
surrounded by the ones who love her for her strength, her patience,
her resilience, and her friendship.

One night.
It was all she had wanted.
One night to feel beautiful.
One night to feel free.
One night to let her walls down and be.
What she failed to realise was that tonight gave her all of those things.
Exposed, she entered the next step of her journey to self discovery.
She began her journey to health and healing,
knowing that in the ugliness she is beautiful
and in the tears that flow she gains freedom,
and that her sisters in Christ see her as God see's her:
a unique, fragile piece of art.
sweet ridicule Apr 2015
nirvana
nirvana me
how did I get here
soporific no more
this story
is spinning me into hurricanes
salty skin lustrating itself
and I shake when
people open to me
raw raw raw
like an onion
draw tears
out of me
they come very easily
like secrets
I have
none
zealously for life
defines the dreamers
I will never be Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
or Frida Kahlo
but I am art
I will inhale from Lethe
every day of my life
because
I will create a new earth
every gasp I take
and vulnerability is my power
consistently unabated
I'll strip down naked
before the world
before I give up my
Lethe
this woe
this cataclysm
does not belong in me
power power earth
claire Apr 2015
i. Allow yourself to be clichéd. Forgive yourself the comparison to phenomena like stars, tsunamis, volcanoes, and the end of the world.  There is no shame in depicting the galaxies you see in your irises or the seas crashing in your lungs. Don’t for a minute diminish your words because you’re afraid of seeming larger, lovelier, or grander than you really are. Keep writing huge. Keep writing splendorous.

ii. Destroy the anxiety gap between you and your work. Sit down and write whatever’s filling you in that moment. When stupidity comes, embrace it. When unoriginality comes, offers it your deepest welcome. When panic comes, give it a wink and keep dragging your pen across the page. There is no wrong, no right. There is only Something. Do not label the Something in such stark, dull terms as good or bad. If you must label it, label it burning, label it victorious, scarlet, howling, fresh, moving, disastrous, gleaming, but never reduce it to success or non-success. Who are you to determine these things? How can you take what streams out of you and cram it into a superficially constructed box? Would you degrade any other kind of natural release? Would you relegate blood flow or shouting or tears to a simple one-word title? This is your time to glow in full vulnerability, to fall head over heels for every blundering, beautiful thought within you, so build a bridge between you and the paper that will be strong enough to bear your weight. Then cross it.

iii. Know who you are writing for. It should be yourself, not the one who holds your heart or the fire-faced figure in the park at dusk or people who make your soul twist. Write for brave, bruised you; wondering, powerful you. Always you.

iv. Rise above the need to match your creation to a preordained image in your mind. The two will never be the same and this is fine. Accept whatever you produce with tender detachment, then move forward. Remember that every literary icon has felt the same pounding dissatisfaction, and walked about tugging at their hair, frustrated and abashed. Remember they are no closer to divinity than you. Ultimately, we are all just shells through which a greater ocean sings, so let yours wail its melody as it likes.

v. Write without the tight egoic fist; write without a blueprint; write without fear. Write like it is your first day on earth and you are stunned with awe. Write like the caterpillar bursting from its cocoon, transformed, breathless. Write like that.
Thomas EG Apr 2015
I'm no good at this...
No good at this at all.
I'm not ready,
I never will be.
I wanted independence,
Not neglect.
I feel really, really alone tonight...
Vulnerability at its finest.
Sweet, sweet pain.
Salty, salty tears.
1 year, 178 days sober.
I congratulate myself.
Last night was great,
In the glow of the moonlight,
To the rush of the waves...
The ocean waved at me...
And she smiled.
What a smile she has.
I need to quit,
I never will quit.
With a sigh,
I disappear into myself.
Who knows when I'll come out?
Who knows when I will be okay?
I better be okay, one day...
I'm sad :)
Isabelle Perla Mar 2015
Like a child's first steps, I begin to trust, rely and give in.
Later on there will be hard times; I will fall on the ground.
I'll become vulnerable and childlike,
and need the assurance of a helping hand.
We need those first steps,
while it's exciting and new,
before we are jaded and unwilling
And we sit down.
Javi Claycombe Mar 2015
The man with the hand that is uncomfortable to hold
It is rough and sharp with no feeling really at all
Except for that spot where he trimmed at the nail
Not again he says, no no, not my nail

The clippers he used that went too deep
He only intended to keep appearances neat
To be seen like the man with the hand of a soldier
Broken and beaten, but with a veil placed over

So no one will know that he still feels pain
He grabs course rock and weilds hot flame
Forging the hand that belongs to a man
To be hard and tough this is his plan

But in that spot where he trimmed at the nail
The fire is too hot and the rocks painful
They scratch and burn at his sensitive skin
He stares at the spot where is nail should've been

Its the first true pain since he scared his skin
Remembering the hand that belonged to a boy
Comfortable to hold, gentle to touch
Able to feel every tickel and rush

His hand is too rough to touch the skin
The skin of a boy that once had been
Afraid of the pain before he hardened
He stares at the boy he cannot uncover

Unable to sooth
Unable to love
This hand is uncomfortable
Too hard and too rough

The hand of man that can't feel enough
I find myself stuck.
Unsure if what I told you
Was a mistake.
Unsure if you really don't
Think less of me.
If you're just saying that so as not to upset me.
Oh well.
I can't change what I've done.
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