#capslock - Hello Poetry

I AM SO TIRED OF FAILING AT THE BOTTOM NIGHT AFTER NIGHT SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I TRY SO HARD I CAN'T SEEM TO GET IT RIGHT I **** EVERYTHING UP ONE WAY OR ANOTHER EXCEPT FOR WHEN I WRITE

0

Jan 26, 2020

Jan 26, 2020 at 9:14 AM UTC

AmandaKayBurke

Oops

I AM SO TIRED OF FAILING AT THE BOTTOM NIGHT AFTER NIGHT SOMETIMES I WONDER WHY I TRY SO HARD I CAN'T SEEM TO GET IT RIGHT I **** EVERYTHING UP ONE WAY OR ANOTHER EXCEPT FOR WHEN I WRITE

6

CAPS LOCK IS BROKEN. I DON'T CARE. I AM WRITING POETRY. WHILE SOUNDING VERY ANGRY.

0

Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC

CrackJack

CAPS LOCK IS BROKEN.

CAPS LOCK IS BROKEN. I DON'T CARE. I AM WRITING POETRY. WHILE SOUNDING VERY ANGRY.

4

YOU NEVER INITIATE CONVERSATION UNLESS YOU NEED ME FOR SOMETHING AND OUR FRIENDSHIP IS BUILT ON YOUR MENTAL HEALTH ALONE. ONCE YOU RECOVER I WILL BE NOTHING TO YOU UNTIL YOU RELAPSE BECAUSE ALL I AM TO YOU IS SOMEONE WHO CAN TELL YOU HOW TO BREATHE. MAYBE IT'S GOOD THAT YOU LIKE TO TELL ME ABOUT HOW I'VE BEEN KEEPING YOU ALIVE BUT I'VE JUST BEEN PUTTING YOUR OXYGEN MASK ON YOU BEFORE PUTTING ON MY OWN YET YOU NEVER ASKED ME IF I COULD HOLD MY BREATH THAT LONG. YOU NEVER ASKED IF I CAN BREATHE LIKE I TELL YOU TO. YOU NEVER ASK HOW I'M DOING UNLESS IT'S LEADING UP TO ME SAVING YOU. I'M SO SICK OF IT BUT I CAN'T JUST DROP YOU OR ELSE YOU MIGHT DIE AND I'M SO ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED OF BEING CITED AS THE CAUSE OF ANOTHER DOWNWARD SPIRAL THAT I'LL JUST KEEP SUFFOCATING MYSELF FOR YOU. IT'S FINE.

0

Aug 5, 2015

Aug 5, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC

hutchinson

O2

YOU NEVER INITIATE CONVERSATION UNLESS YOU NEED ME FOR SOMETHING AND OUR FRIENDSHIP IS BUILT ON YOUR MENTAL HEALTH ALONE. ONCE YOU RECOVER I WILL BE NOTHING TO YOU UNTIL YOU RELAPSE BECAUSE ALL I AM TO YOU IS SOMEONE WHO CAN TELL YOU HOW TO BREATHE. MAYBE IT'S GOOD THAT YOU LIKE TO TELL ME ABOUT HOW I'VE BEEN KEEPING YOU ALIVE BUT I'VE JUST BEEN PUTTING YOUR OXYGEN MASK ON YOU BEFORE PUTTING ON MY OWN YET YOU NEVER ASKED ME IF I COULD HOLD MY BREATH THAT LONG. YOU NEVER ASKED IF I CAN BREATHE LIKE I TELL YOU TO. YOU NEVER ASK HOW I'M DOING UNLESS IT'S LEADING UP TO ME SAVING YOU. I'M SO SICK OF IT BUT I CAN'T JUST DROP YOU OR ELSE YOU MIGHT DIE AND I'M SO ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED OF BEING CITED AS THE CAUSE OF ANOTHER DOWNWARD SPIRAL THAT I'LL JUST KEEP SUFFOCATING MYSELF FOR YOU. IT'S FINE.

9

EVERY TIME YOU FEEL LOVE IT WILL BE SO DIFFERENT

0

Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC

sierra-scanlan

11:30 P.M.

EVERY TIME YOU FEEL LOVE IT WILL BE SO DIFFERENT

1

I NEVER BELONGED HERE ALOT OF US NEVER DID OUR FACES AREN'T REAL THEY'RE WALLS WE HIDE BEHIND WE DON'T BELONG HERE WE JUST WATCH THE REST OBSERVE TO SEE HOW TO ACT WE DON'T BELONG HERE BUT YOU WOULD NEVER GUESS HOW MANY OF US WALK AMONG YOU

0

Feb 13, 2015

Feb 13, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC

Triple

I NEVER BELONG

I NEVER BELONGED HERE ALOT OF US NEVER DID OUR FACES AREN'T REAL THEY'RE WALLS WE HIDE BEHIND WE DON'T BELONG HERE WE JUST WATCH THE REST OBSERVE TO SEE HOW TO ACT WE DON'T BELONG HERE BUT YOU WOULD NEVER GUESS HOW MANY OF US WALK AMONG YOU

10

I DON'T REMEMBER HOW TO FEEL LOVE WITHOUT FEAR

0

Dec 4, 2014

Dec 4, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC

maelstromhead

words left waiting (3/?)

I DON'T REMEMBER HOW TO FEEL LOVE WITHOUT FEAR

2

BEING THE AIR IN MY LUNGS IS NOT YOUR BURDEN TO BEAR

0

Dec 2, 2014

Dec 2, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC

maelstromhead

words left waiting (2/?)

BEING THE AIR IN MY LUNGS IS NOT YOUR BURDEN TO BEAR

2

EVERYONE LEAVES EVENTUALLY SO I WILL HURT YOU BEFORE YOU HURT ME

0

Nov 30, 2014

Nov 30, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC

maelstromhead

words left waiting (1/?)

EVERYONE LEAVES EVENTUALLY SO I WILL HURT YOU BEFORE YOU HURT ME

2

YOU CAN SEE THE PAIN ETCHED INTO HER SKIN THE SORROW BURNED INTO HER CORE MOURN AND LOSS OVER YOUR CORPSE YOU DIDN'T THINK TWICE MAYBE I WONT EITHER.

0

Oct 10, 2014

Oct 10, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC

alyssa-rogers

59 days

YOU CAN SEE THE PAIN ETCHED INTO HER SKIN THE SORROW BURNED INTO HER CORE MOURN AND LOSS OVER YOUR CORPSE YOU DIDN'T THINK TWICE MAYBE I WONT EITHER.

7

Memory is the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship, I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground. Relief is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you. I see how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro. I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your ******* red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write. Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence. A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda. Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send. They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

0

May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC

martin-narrod

Cancel; Rewrite

Memory is the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship, I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground. Relief is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you. I see how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro. I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your ******* red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write. Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence. A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda. Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send. They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.

13