Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sitting in my father's car.
No one as said a word.
All you do is look the other way.
And I am just looking at you.
No feelings
No words
So much cheese
Lyla 3d
I don’t really like my poetry
I often write when thoughts pop into my mind
Thoughts I can’t let dissipate
And float away like a passing breeze
The thoughts I poetize are
Strong winds
Pushing back - again and again
Forcing me to write

I don’t like these winds
These winds form my poetry
Into something
Not me

Too literal
The winds scream into my ears
As I write
After line
I don’t like my poetry
I wouldn’t even consider this a poem, just a thought *****
Zia 3d
hand in hand
our feet sinking in sand
whilst on the beach we stand
the cool breeze lulling us into dreamland

but it’s not a dream
we are not on live stream
i see in your eyes the same gleam
as a silver sea kissed by the moonbeam

All your beautiful flaws.
I am left crawling at your feet, begging, let me be yours.
Cynicism and pessimism; I see a beautiful prism,
Floating inside your galaxy eyes.
Bitter words choke realism;
I guess the party has to die.

Left behind to tell only lies.
I love the way your truly despise.
You are so apathetic and that’s to your credit;
You have nothing to hide behind.

They say miserable; I see incredible.
So credible, you do not speak their dull,
Repetitive slogans, no catch phrase needed.
No advertisements; you’re real and I mean it.
I love it when you say you really hate.
I love to see you act that way.

(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Maia 4d
If only you could hear,
All these words that I’ve discovered
Written upon the walls of my mind,
Disappearing at the wake of light.
Tell me I’m not alone with creating the best poems at 3am in bed and than waking up to forget it all.
We thought we would lose each other to better people we would meet in the subway with charming smiles and eyes that talked like the stars. We thought we would lose each to people whose words would come out of our favorite books, whose thoughts were the other halves of our own. We thought we would lose each other to people whose skins were colored like sunsets and that the silhouettes in them were us.

I thought I would lose you to someone who would look at you like you were the moon. I thought I would lose you to someone who would sing you a lullaby of poetries in your dreams — to someone whose kiss could extinguish the sun and would make one out of you. You thought you would lose me to someone whose demons would haunt me better than yours. You thought you would lose me to someone my favorite books were named after — to someone who would undress me the way the autumn undresses the trees.

But honey, we were wrong for we lost each other to the forgotten good nights. We lost each other to the asteroid belts that descended between us. We lost each other to the spaces that grew from your skin to mine, to the hands that forgot how summer was brewed when they touched, to the kisses that told stories we no longer wanted to read.

We lost each other to the nights that made the falling stars leave the cosmos, to the nights we slept fighting and woke up with winters in our hearts. We lost each other to the tears that dropped in the coffees, tossed in the sink, to the songs that sounded like a battle cry and we were too drained to fight. We lost each other to the fact that I was once the sea and you were once the shore,

and that the sea stopped sending the waves, and the shore stopped making sand dunes for her.

We didn't lose each other to better people or to huge fights the rain has cheered for, or to the whims of fate. We lost each other to the little things. We lost each other gradually, and then all at once.

Honey, we lost each other to who we are now — we lost each other to the people we've become.
i lied there on the pavement, eyes fixed on the big dipper, waiting for the stars to fall apart all at once, or for a car to run over me, whichever came first. and there i was, staring at the space and the emptiness looked back at me, and for a second, it felt like looking at my own chest; the stars, my bones, slowly coming undone. i wondered if someone felt that way too. i wondered if someone else gazed at the constellations and thought, maybe the stars are disillusioned with the galaxy and so that’s why they fell during meteor showers. or maybe they were lost causes dressed as angels jumping off bridges in heaven, ever the cynic. maybe it wasn’t something poetic. maybe it was watching celestial bodies

i lied there on the pavement, under flickering lamp posts that looked bigger than the stars. the poems always said that stargazing is romantic it wasn’t. ironically tonight, i lost count of the falling stars while wondering why they’d gone too soon. wondering if they’d survived the fall. wondering if they knew that their descent was burying me in the sound of my breath. maybe in an hour, the black space in my chest would consume me and then i too, would be a shooting star lost in peripheral views.

and i hope i would survive the fall. and i kind of hope i wouldn’t.
We were always so good at pretending, weren’t we? We would always climb rooftops and pretend that we were stargazers, christening constellations with our favorite songs. Look, there was Somebody Else. There was Nobody’s Home. There was Chasing Cars.

We would pretend we were souls from the 50s, reincarnated into another life — into another happy ending. We would pretend we were art critics, as if we knew **** about Klimt; as if we could tell apart baroque from classical. We would tell each other our weirdest dreams and analyze them, as if we were Freud or something, that misogynistic pig. Oh, you dreamt about us drowning together in the Black Lake? Oh, that means we were gonna have *** tonight, in the absence of the moon. We would pretend that we’ve circled the whole world and that Italy’s got the ******* blandest pizza. We would pretend that we were rock stars, surfing on the crowd.

We would pretend that we’d read the classics. Was that Harry or Henry in The Picture of Dorian Gray? Yeah, Hamlet was pretty cool, but who was Ophelia? ******* pseudo-intellectuals, we were. Nonetheless, I loved pretending with you. We loved pretending that the whole world wasn’t crashing down — that we weren’t stuck in this ******* of a small town, and that the world spun for us. We loved pretending that everything would be okay — that we could leave someday without looking back. We loved pretending that our lives weren’t all over the place. We loved pretending that we were the brave ones, that we could **** ourselves by 40 because the world wouldn’t be kind when we’re all old and saggy.

We loved pretending that we were too cool for mental breakdowns and for any kind of feeling. Honey, we loved pretending that we were psychopaths, too voided for love and all that other crap — that we hated clichés, while doing the most romanticized clichés anyway. We loved pretending that this was where the chapter would end, and that we were together in our make-believe ending. We loved pretending that we were the ones who stayed and made it.

Now, sometimes, I would pretend that we did. Other times, it would be me pretending I was all there ever was — that you never were here to pretend with me, and that I was okay. I would pretend that the rooftop wasn’t too high, and that I didn’t need your help to climb — that the company of city lights and the empty space were enough, honey they never were. Honey, I would pretend too that I never missed you. But I did.

I always did. More than that I would ever admit.

I would look at the stars, the ones we named but I guess they all had already fallen to the earth. You said that when you died, you would live in the shooting stars so that you could crash to the earth and come back to me. But it had been more than a decade since the angels took you away and I no longer stargazed, except tonight. And maybe, just maybe, when I would catch a glimpse of a falling star, I still wouldn’t wish that you didn’t chase your meds with *****. I wouldn’t wish that we didn’t find bubbles coming out of your mouth, like they were a part of your soul. I wouldn’t wish that I didn’t see you die. I wouldn’t wish that you were okay; we both knew we wouldn’t have clicked if one of us was happy or okay.

Heaven, hell, we didn’t believe in those. But when a star would fall unto my chest, I would wish that wherever you were right now or wherever you would be in the next life, darling, you would no longer feel the need to pretend.

And with no lies, no masks, no pretenses, I loved you. Here. And in the next. And in the lives after that, until we lived in one where we would both have the courage to abandon all pretense and just sit on a different rooftop, sharing silence — sharing honest thoughts — sharing the luster of distant stars. And tomorrow, our demons wouldn’t rise with the sun. And we would be okay.
rain sprung,
as bells clang,
leaves withered,
as my skin felt the chill,
from the winds that pass by a river.

as i contemplate through my thoughts,
my mind crumpled like paper that is tossed,
and raindrops started falling, bit by bit,
second by second,
'till a violent rain came and rushed in without any doubt.

life has been violent,
problems never stopped,
failures were inevitable,
and that perspective has been my rain.

the rain that does'nt really go away,
but a rain that stays,
forever never measured that time it'll be with me,
but that rain is such a wonderful medley,
without it i may not be visible,
change can also not be feasible.

but there will come a time,
a sunshine will bring light,
and as that happens,
the raindrops will be a reminder,
that the sun never left your side.
Let's cut the crap and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We weren't made for romance and sappy poetries, weren't made for love songs, and cringey sweet nothings and gazing at the sunrise after camping out for the night on a hill. We were made to hold hands and a few almost-kisses during drinking sessions and forget about it the next day, to smoke and lie down a little bit too close to each other on rooftops and talk about depression and anxiety attacks, and deny everything in the morning. We were made for my unsaid "I miss you too's", that want to escape my lips the moment you say your drunken "I miss you's". We were made to see each other break down in between a pack of cigarettes and two bottles of local ***. We were more like two ****** up souls recognizing each other; more like two faultlines causing an earthquake and taking everything down with them, more like the first raindrops to fall apart before a thunderstorm, like two planets out of orbit crashing on each other in a brief but destructive way.

You see, maybe we're just drawn to people similar to us, and maybe, we're just drawn to each other because we're equally messed up. Maybe it was just the strong urge to save the other that borderlined to romance. But I guess being messed up wears people out, and sometimes I find myself wondering who got exhausted first. Where did the talks about "wanting to die together" go? When did the conversations about our saddest secrets cease? What stopped "Man, loving you is a disaster I won't mind being struck by," from coming? Was I too depressive and sad for you? Were my breakdowns suffocating? Did my fuckedupness stop feeling like home and started looking just plain ****** up? When did you start fading away? Why would you do that? Stupid questions.

You should know, it beats the **** out of me to say it, but I was perhaps a little bit desperate for you to stay. Perhaps I got too comfortable with your demons, I almost adopted them as mine. Perhaps the fact that you were willing to give me your ******-up all was comforting. Perhaps I was selfish, and I kinda wanted my darkness to be the only darkness you'll wanna light. Perhaps I miss you and it feels like I'm a chainsmoker on withdrawal from her cigarettes, and what ***** more is that I don't even know if I still cross your mind as that same sad girl you were happy being sad with, as that same sad girl who had always been your destination, and the very same one you apparently stopped coming to. And perhaps, thinking about all of these is *******. We weren't some modern-day knight and damsel. You weren't the guy with the beautiful blue eyes, and I'm not the girl with the blue washed denim they sing about. We were just misfits who made a mess out of the messed ups we already are, as if that isn't already enough. We were just planes thrown in the air, hoping to land, but ending up crashed and burnt. And that's how it always worked for people like us.

I was never worn out by your sadness as much as I was worn out by mine. And clearly, you were my favorite messed up, but, you're just not worth it anymore. And this — this is a just an unpoetic musing about the wrecks that we are, an impulsive attempt of detoxifying you out of my system. This — this is me, disowning your sadness; this is me disowning your demons. So let's just cut the drama and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We were the almost-but-not-quite's, the could've-beens, and the never were's. We weren't the kind that bags the happily ever after. We weren't the kind that makes it.

All we are is everything short of lovers. All we're made for is everything short of I love you's. And this is everything short of love.
Next page