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Lunar Mar 2017
The most tragic story isn't the one written by Shakespeare
or Hans Christian Andersen

It is not about Romeo, Juliet and their forbidden love, dying together

Nor a man, a mermaid and their impossibility to live for each other

It is about a writer and a reader:
Where the writer has written down, in every language, every realistic & imaginable word & emotion for the world
But the reader doesn't even have a chance to read them

The most tragic story is about the reader who can not read, and in the end, the writer who will not write

The most tragic happily ever after is where the reader and writer end each other
To My Reader
Sophia Lynne Mar 2017
you were that one blinking star in the sky i had pondered on for hours when i was a child just to discover that all stars twinkle and you were no different from the rest

sls
Kata Mar 2017
I’ve been craving female companionship as of late. The need to have her in my presence at all times. I want her, face against the wall with joyfully erratic breathing, hands tied behind her back. I want her on all fours, head swivelled my direction with a smiling look of pleasure. I want her legs wide open for me, only because it’s me, only because it’s her. I want my tongue to make musical instruments of her ******* and *******. I want her to put me in her mouth so I can see her eyes tearing with shameless sin. I want her in her parents’ bedroom, I want her in tut rooms and auditoriums, I want her in the back of my car, in McDonalds, in elevators, under restaurant tables and on top of kitchen counters, I want her to say my name under soft moans during rough rounds. I want her in as savage a manner as possible.

I want her sitting in silence with me. I want her to listen to my ramblings, to sit there and be present. To exist. I want her to have her own ramblings, to educate me. I want her lips to be available for me at all times, for my head to make pillows of her chest. I want to introduce her to Ben Howard and Tom Misch, to Planet Hulk and The Pixar Theory. I want flowers to remind me of her. I want her to cradle me when Chelsea loses, to stroke her hair and rub her tummy when she has monstrous cramps. I want to hear ‘I love you’ over loud laughs between soft kisses. I want her on butterfly wings. I don’t know who she is, but dear God I want her to laugh, because I know I’m going to love her laugh.

I want so much from her, I want her to want so much from me. I want so much that I never wanted before. Only thing I’ve been wanting was to feel again, now I need to feel again in order to get what I want. I want her. I want more than me.

I’ve been feeling a certain emptiness
I feel like I’m not enough
I’m not enough to make myself as happy as I want to be.
I feel like there is nothing more I can do for myself.
For so long, I’ve been happy because all I’ve wanted, I’ve given myself
Or I’ve taken, but
I don’t satisfy myself anymore,
And I can’t take what I now want.
I think, for the first time in a long time, I feel lonely.
- Kata
Aaron LaLux Mar 2017
----

**No,

I don’t want to go out,
not trying to be negative,
nor am I trying to hang out,
with people who are negative,

which is why I don’t want to go out,

no,

no way,
you’re not getting me out today,
don’t care what you do,
or what you say,

I’m perfectly fine here,
with my nostalgia and insecurities,
and I’m paranoid enough already,
so please I don’t need any one or thing else to worry me,

I’m fine in my own mind,
in my own home in my own room,
where I spin these stories,
which makes this room more of a cocoon,

but if this room is a cocoon,
then does that make me a butterfly,
or better yet a catepillar,
my mind’s drifting again whatever never mind,

just forget it,
it’s easier to just not care,
no need to pretend you want to attend to my wounded heart,
believe me you don’t want to mess with the mess that’s in here,

I’m a troubled soul,
we both are,
so what good would two troubled souls be together,
that’d just be double trouble for sure,

sure,
I might seem popular if you read my Facebook posts,
and sure from the outside looking in,
I might look like I’m living life the most,

heck,
a lot of people even call me a Player,
but I’m not a Player I don’t even play,
at least not anymore,

and I’m writing this like it matters,
like this poem will be the one that the world shares with itself,
like I haven’t written enough already,
like three #1’s in a row isn’t enough,

it’s never enough,
nothing ever is,
that’s why I’m not going out,
before I even get into anything I’m already over it,

not sober with,
my anxieties getting the best of me,
yeah I guess it’s a natural high,
if you consider a natural high EMF’s and caffeine,

and I don’t even think you know what I mean,
and if you do you probably don’t care,
and if you care I probably don’t notice,
and that’s exactly why I’m staying right here,

I’ll save us both the trouble,
so we don’t have to go out and you don’t have to feel awkwards,
because if we go out I won’t be able to let loose,
because I’ll just be thinking about how our society is so perverse,

how we party away,
having drinks that cost more than most people make,
see it seems the only way to have a good time is to be in denial,
and I am a lot of things but one thing I’m not is fake,

I can’t pretend,
don’t even want to,
I’m not your Arm Candy or your Sugar Daddy,
we are already even so I don’t owe you,

anything,
nope not a thing,
and no I’m not going out,
so please stop asking,

as if,
any one is even asking though,
it’s Friday night and the phone doesn’t even ring,
oh well I guess I’m better off alone,

so no I don’t want to go out,
not trying to be negative,
nor am I trying to hang out,
with people who are negative,

which is why I don’t want to go out,

no,

no.

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
iamtheavatar Mar 2017
The moon shines brightly
as she walks across the sky.
My soul shall follow her,
where'er she will be.

**iamthe_avatar ©2017
A poem for love.
Made with Creative Writer app.
Maria Etre Mar 2017
Talk me into
hypnosis

Walk me into
dreams

Take me into
your world

For mine
exists on paper
and yours...
I plea
to see
Writers get involved and dissolved in their own worlds- it's interesting to see other people's minds and how they perceive it.. and then write it in their own words.
Isha Natsu Mar 2017
My poetic senses will grow stale
The words escaping me each and every time
For I know what it’s like
To be immortalized
In love and heartbreak
To be worshiped
In song and in ode
To be penned
Too many times until you lose all meaning
This is not you
You are not ideal
You are as surreal as hurt
We are as casual as fiction
I will not romanticize you to the point of lucidity
And the tides will not turn when you arrive
The stars will not fall when you leave
The world will not stop for us
The words of love will not come
All because I will not love you like a writer
Sophia Lynne Mar 2017
I picture you in a coffee shop. sipping on something hot. You're occupied on your laptop, there's a little book right next to it with a pencil (not mechanical). You seem very at peace but... concentrated. You look like you know what you're doing. Maybe you're writing an essay for school. Maybe you're a writer like me.

Whenever I see you in my head, I'm never involved. I'm watching you from a distance and I don't think you notice me. I don't think you ever will. It's up to me to make the first move. It's up to me to say something intriguing enough to peek your interest. By the time I meet you, I wont be so worried about what you may think of me (unless I happen to remember this moment, that is). I'll be sure of myself. I'll know who I am by then.
sls
Raquel E Mar 2017
The intensive care unit of a library
is straight down the hallway. The
hallway is connected to the Limited
Editions
cabinet. The cabinet covers
the window partially. The Limited
Editions
section is also referred as
the Limited Light cabinet.

What a writer is doing in the intensive care unit:

Squeezing ink out of a culture-tube.
Containing the pulse of a page.
Salvaging the last drops of ink.

Metaphor to explain that the pen of the writer
is running out of ink:

He needs to run out to save the blood of another
story.


Rhetoric to explain something as simple as the redundant fact that the writer is writing in a library:

Refilling the page with the cadence of life
and all the lives he’ll live through this chapter


Antithesis and paradoxes to enrich the narrative in
whose the writer runs out of ink (still):

Reflecting on the beauty of the discomfort.
To live you must accept to come to an end.

The following is just a series of allegorical ways in which
a lady justifies what by now has become voyeurism:

I agonize reading the line that ties your eyes together
in perfect symmetry


Your eyes are parallel to
the pages you are holding.


pulled\apart\and\back\together\get it

I install myself
into your city
that template
where I hold
my book
I see you
the words
go blurry

Every guy
holding a book
ever
o
Lord
someone
save me
This poem is literally a draft. I am working on it.
P  erhaps it’s time to scribble down a word or two,
E  ven though I have nothing cogent to proclaim.
N  evertheless the urge is one that must be answered to.

O  nce a long, long time ago the words poured forth, but
N  ow the well has seemingly gone dark and dry.

P  ossibly the act of touching pen to empty pages-
A  s an act of penance for strangling the muse of
P  oesy in a knotted, convoluted scarf of dreariness- will
E  nable what was meaningful so long ago to finally
R  ecover and deliver something worthwhile once again.
                                                          ­  ljm
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