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IL Mare May 2015
A friend once asked me
What ambition will I let the teachers put
In our high school yearbook
For everyone to see
And I said I'm afraid I do not have one
And he said that how would I succeed in life
If I don't have any ambition
And I've thought about this for awhile
And to justify my answer, I replied that
You need not to have any ambition
To succeed in life
I said you just needed to be happy and
Maybe I should let them put "To become happy" in the yearbook and you know what?
It ocurred to me that I never even give a single ****
About what the other students might think or what their parents might think
Except for what my parents might think
But usually, they don't care as long as it's who I am and what I want
And I'm thankful for that

But I've always wondered
Why I never had one
Never thought of becoming anything
Now that I'm in my senior year which is a crucial part
Of my career orientation
And I'm scared so much
I'm scared that before
I wanted everything
Yet now I end up wanting nothing
And I wondered so much
On how I changed so gradually
From being a ball of blazing fire to a godforsaken blackhole
Though I know change is inevitable,
I didn’t expect to lose my heart in the process

Once, I've always dreamed to become a doctor
Because I wanted to heal scars and unspoken miseries and no
I'm not just after using scalpels or stethoscopes or syringes
Or cutting off people's brains
I wanted to fix the broken
Rip my being into shreds to keep them whole
I wanted sacrifice and salvation

And I've always dreamed to become a soldier
I don’t care how silly it sounds
I wanted to protect people and wanted to taste the bitterness
Of war and blood and death
I wanted to know death and see all the worst
And be exposed to them
That I wouldn't have any choice
But to be brave for myself and the others
Because death? It could be sweeter this way
To die for a cause, to die for somebody
I wanted sacrifice and salvation

And I've always dreamed to become a teacher
Beacuse I wanted to influence someone's life
Give them power to stand up for themselves
Watch a bud blossom into a beautiful flower
And then I would make thousands of memories
Because at the same time
I'm learning through connections and bonds and warmth
And that, would be one of the greatest things
I will cherish in my life forever
I wanted sacrifice and salvation

And then I aspired to be a lawyer,
To serve and give way to justice because that's all we have to know
And I realized defending a criminial would be unavoidable
And I've always sworn to myself
That if that happens, I'd rather burn myself to death
Because I should only send the right people in jail
Those people who deserve to rot in the cells and cling to metal bars
I wanted sacrifice and salvation

And I watched the conversation end
And feel my heart pound in my ears
And I cried so much that night
That I realized I seldom cry
Because I thought I was better
And I was terrified because
Nothing hurts more than not knowing
What you could actually want in this sad world
Because that means you might as well be nothing

A hollow
A ******* void
And I don't want to be like that
Nobody does
So i think and think and think
What do I actually want?

And the wind blew
Leaves fell onto the ground
People wheezed and laughed and breathed through their noses
And it slapped me in the face
I've never been stable in my life
I've concealed my greed up until now
I dreamed so much that I denied reality
Each day, making myself believe
That I wanted nothing but I actually
Wanted THE power to be everything

Be everything in a world I was bound to craft
I wanted to create moons and stars and storms and unicorns
And wars and tides that tell "Hey, humans can actually create worlds."
I wanted to be out of my control
I didn’t want to settle on a skin I was enclosed in, I was held captive by
So I changed whatever's written to
The paper I had submitted for the yearbook
And wrote "To be a Writer" and nothing else
This was supposed to be a slam poem but I don't have that talent to be so raw in front of an audience so I let the words scream at the paper instead. Hehe.
Steven A Mckeown May 2015
She holds his body by her bough,
where ghosts have hung him like a puppet.
Swinging slowly, shadow dancing
above a “sacred” cross of flame

Raven dark her shattered darling,
black as bruises, light as smoke.
Hollow spinning boy in blue jeans
held aloft by mother’s limb.

Swollen eyes and tongue extended
to taste the warm Biloxi rain
Suspended high enough to witness
where his mother lay in tears.

Mississippi lepidoptera.
Shedding chrysalis of sorrow.
Ascending far above the reach
of bayou dragons and men of prayer.
Lily McLaughlin May 2015
I can't speak.
Writing is the only way I can truly communicate.
I mess up my words, I say too much at one time.
The chaos that is forced out of my mouth never seems to come out right.
When my pen hits the paper, or my fingers hit the keys.
I am finally at peace.
The words pour out of me.
Maybe this is what it feels like to finally be free.
Even when I text, my words morph into a confusing mess, but when I write.
I finally won the war against myself.
Against my greatest fear.
Telling the world what I really want them to hear.
-Lily P. McLaughlin-
what is it about writers
we put words to emotions
to experience
to life

life others are afraid to acknowledge
maybe

experience others may have had
Or have not had
maybe

emotions others have equally laid with
possibly more
maybe

words are vehicles

writers speak not of the contraption that brings about motion
a writer speaks of the navigator that discerns direction

©Christopher F. Brown 2015
Rebecca Gismondi May 2015
I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets

II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant

III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.

IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while

V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.
Matthew Randell May 2015
Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë

Earnest as Hemmingway
Skarlet May 2015
I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.

As I sit in this coffee shop and my ears are consumed with guitar strums and voices I've never heard, I realize how unfortunate it must have been for you to fall in love with a writer. I've written you into so many pages of my notebook and even if I set every sheet to flames, my words would still exist in this atmosphere. They will not die when I withdraw. They will not fade when you disappear. You are dangerously out of reach, but you are almost tangible within every heartbroken expression I offer to the air. You will exist throughout every website where I mistakenly proclaimed my love for you. You will occur every time a girl faces her first heartbreak and seeks comfort in my art. You want to die, but you will prevail in every retweet, reblog and share. I know you want to be forgotten just as badly as I do, and I should consider myself lucky that I won't live in the creases of every journal you own.

I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.
Lily McLaughlin Apr 2015
When my temptation is trying to rip me a part at my seams.

I stop to think is it really worth it?

To give it all away?  To someone who isn't even going to stay?

No, it's not.

Now, I tend to pick up a pen and paper, and let my frustration out in the words I scream into the empty lines of my journal.

It helps.
It takes my mind away to another place, far from the strangers face.

I am learning to save myself from my own mistakes.

-Lily P. McLaughlin-
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