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Quettevio Oct 2016
there's this girl, her name is felicia,
and she is not afraid to love with all she might,
to fall over and over again,
to get hurt and to be misunderstood,
to be pushed away by the circumstances she is not aware.
i tell her she is stupid, wasting her time, and that she deserves better;
but still the only time she cries is because he cries.

there's this guy, his name is derio,
tells me he knows nothing about love, or how to win a girl heart,
but i witness him giving his drink to her,
pats her back after their group presentation,
shows me what he writes and how i notice he engraves
every single thing about her in words,
how he makes a playlist contains songs about her
and how she makes him feel.

there's this girl, her name is nadya,
her love is the love that is so pure and innocent,
that even when he is miles away she tells me she senses his presence.
she draws him paintings, consist of pastel colors, and i ask her why;
she says it brings calmness to every storm.
i will look up at her history chat, being a protective friend that i am;
and i notice how fast she responds,
showering him with the attention he never have.

there's this guy, his name is andre,
and the way he talks about her, i assure you,
even the star constellations will envy the spark in his eyes.
his wallpaper is green, and i joke a lot about it;
how it shows that he is a capitalist, how it looks like he just puke on it,
but he shrugs it all off; tells me it is her favorite color.

there's this girl, her name is clara,
never going anywhere without a book in her hand,
sometimes she will surprise me with midnight chats
contains her crying over a fictional character and how unfair the ending is,
she has this web-page where she writes the unsent letters
to every character she is in love with.
she has a personal blog where she makes each of them
another story, another ending.

there's this guy, his name is elliot,
a head division of an event i am contributed in,
and between the meetings that goes almost overnight,
he insists to walk her to the train station even if she never ask to.
he tells me it is not because he think she is weak and can't protect herself,
he says it is because she is precious.

and then there is me;
a witness,
a learner,
a note-taker,
of all kind of love they show,
of all kind of love they grow,
for sometimes it is easy to love
but hard to remember
how beautiful and endearing it is.
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
Many of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,

but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,

without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,

it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,

I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,

as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,

and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”

I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,

as lovers or friends,

either way I am here,

and I’m open,
completely,
devoted,
and cleanly,
unfolded,
and ready,
high voltage,
but steady,
I told ya,
I’m ready,
I noticed,
already,
that you noticed,
me so deeply,
that I broke open easy,
as our emotions,
became confetti,
I told you I told you,
I’ve already been ready already,
and we’re in a storm,
and we’re lost at sea,
but we’re almost to shore,
so please just hold steady,

steady,
steady,
breathe,
steady,

steady hand writes the words,
before fingers become spaghetti and I can write no more,

because honestly I feel like I’m losing all control,
and honestly experiencing strange things then staring at screens doesn’t help,

help,

this is a cry for help,
I’m not scared to admit I’m scared,
I actually have only one fear,
I’m only scared of one thing and nothing else,

being alone.

I am alone.

You are alone.

But we can be alone together.

I told you before I’m totally open,
I told you before I’ve already been ready already,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as possible as I wait for you,
and that’s why I wear these sunglasses so that the EMFs don’t extra affect me,

many,

of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,

but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,

it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,

I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,

as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,

and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”

I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,

as lovers or friends,

either way I am here,

wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Bring back The '80's...
Hannah Rose Oct 2016
"I don't
understand free verse
poetry."
looking at him
I try to decide whether
or not
he just doesn't understand my
poetry.
"why doesn't it rhyme?"
I laugh
while confused faces
stare.

my poetry is free verse,
because
I like to be
unlimited
in the ways that I express
who I am.
Hannah Rose Oct 2016
nothing ceases my creativity like doubt.
it is a black hole that
devours
anything I write.
I am not one to care of what others think,
yet
my mind is hindered
because my poem didn't get a like.
there is something so immature
within that thought.
just because no one
saw
doesn't make it any less
of what it is.
it is my soul
and even though
doubt makes it hard
I will share every thought
that my fingers will allow.
Inspiration throbbing in my brain
None of that makes sense I'll try again.
Words knock knock knock but I can't get them out;
Cracking my skull in nose bleeds of doubt.
How can I let them know what I mean?
I just have to let it out but I'm too choked up to scream.
The worst thing about being an artist is:
Nothing can truly express the essence that is this
Julia Mae Oct 2016
sometimes i hate being a poet, because i write about everyone but no one writes about me. i am the one spilling my heart out with ink; suffering, quietly, crying, and aching. why does my mind feel the need to empty itself and write? my words don't always heal this ache, they just make my chest bleed even more. why can't i be an empty person, who can let go and doesn't let their fingers fly with passion and remorse and spite? sometimes i hate being a writer, because all of these cries feel futile, they just keep reminding me that no one is listening to me.
Emery Cade Oct 2016
Before, i was scared
Of talking
Of speaking
As if the words i utter
Were acid pouring from my lips
Toxic to anyone would here them
So i stayed silent
Subservient
To other people
But words , words dont just give up
They want to heard
To be listened
Some words go out
But i always take them back
Why would people want to hear
Words that arent even good?
Arent even right?
But they need to be let out.
So i wrote them down
On napkins, on blackboards
On the sides of my textbooks
On anywhere that can be written with ink or lead or chalk or anything that can be written down
So words filled the sides
Filling them with nouns
Adjectives , similes, metaphors,
, until the sides couldnt take it anymore
They need a blank page
But u wrote on top of the words , on the right, the left
So the words overflowed
But not as i thought
They flowed on the other side
On the front page
I tried to stop them ,
Prevent them from going there
Because someelses words were already there
But i couldnt
when they hit , they didnt clash
fight  , didnt
But they greeted each other like they were old friends
I was behind them
The words
And someone was behind them
There was a person
I said sorry, apologized
But he just smiled, and said , i was waiting for you to make that mistake
Late night writings 2015...
McDonald tsiie Oct 2016
Words emerge like birds

But this feeling can't be put into simpler words
Absurd

Let's fly away and never look back
You a writer or a poet
Lets do whatever we good at

Like catnap
I am a cool cat
Let me tell you something
Without you I'm a soulless with nothing

I close my eyes
That's the only time we kiss

Poetry or writing
One of you is my other piece

No limits allowed
No limits exists

I'm smart we can never part
My question is...
Who's got the other piece of my heart

Golden child, one of a kind
Send me risqué pictures
I am a typical person I don't mind

Sei bellissima, Te amo

I'll tell you again till the end of time

Got my pen bleeding with love
No lust
Just feelings required

A figment of my brains imagination
Poetry be the one

A beauty within thoughts of thy nation
Writing resembling none

I should just intertwine poetry with my writings
Like how I made love & hate siblings
Julia Mae Oct 2016
.
why do i continue writing when absolutely no one is listening to me?
Maria Imran Oct 2016
My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.

Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me

My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt

I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words
you get me?
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