#heather
"happy heather day!" I say and smile
but deep inside I wanted my own sweater to be hers
I wanted to be that "heather" so bad
even if that heather wasn't her true love
the feeling that someone else was laying on her
for temporary comfort made me sick
its not like I could stop her
I know she loves me
at least I hope
but sometimes I wished that temporary "heather"
that you pretended was me
wouldnt take you away from me
Dec 3, 2025
Dec 3, 2025 at 12:53 PM UTC
Sweaters,
Are they made to make us sweat?
Or to look cool on a sunny day?
Maybe just a lazy fit for a lazy mood.
Maybe for comfort. That soft, cosy shield against the cold.
Or maybe.. just maybe..
they’re a quiet symbol of admiration
for someone on the 3rd of December.
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 9:22 PM UTC
I want her hair
wanna steal what she wears
wanna smell like her perfume
do everything like her
cause isn't she perfect
the lipstick on her lips
I wish I could kiss her
to know why you love her
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 10:25 PM UTC
The third of December is tomorrow,
And all I can think about is you, her, and where my sweater could’ve possibly vanished to.
I think of you because I liked what we had going on,
I liked the jokes, our conversations, the glances, and the implications.
I liked your beautiful brown orbs that belonged behind frames you refused to showcase them in, and the curls that hid them like curtains.
I think of her because that should be me.
What was between us should’ve landed me in her place,
And I think of my sweater.
My heather sweater that I’ve worn every third of December since 2020, because it’s cold out, and it’s sweater weather.
Heather has your sweater when I should be its “owner,”
Heather holds your heart when it should be in my hands,
And Heather is the mesmerizing sight that soothes your sore eyes,
While I stand to the side, and watch her pull the smile from you that I like to see.
Why would you ever implicate the thought of you and me?
Lead me to believe that you would pick me when Heather was the choice from the very beginning?
Now she has you, and the sweater that would always and forever be given to Heather,
It may be polyester, but **** I wish I was Heather.
Dec 3, 2024
Dec 3, 2024 at 4:21 AM UTC
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑜𝑢𝑟 '𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒' 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 '𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔' 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡!!
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 11:17 AM UTC
heather is a feminine body
in a suede chair under charcoal ceilings
perry is wearing
sweaters to evening dinners
katie is a black light poster
in newspaper print
alex is an origami sailboat
spoon feed yourself some more cathleen,
the cats are waiting
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 4:07 PM UTC
When Cheryl Blossom said,
"Her
name was Heather,"
No one else heard
The silent emphasis,
but it rang in my ears.
A persistent stinging in the back of my throat,
tearing at my eyes
pouring from my mouth,
coating my tongue in a thick,
black and red
vicious drink of liars.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 1:14 PM UTC
You were an amazing band mom.
You were stern:
“Come back here and pick up your uniform!”
You were kind:
“I packed you a lunch for your long day.”
You were an incredible principal.
You were stern:
“You really need to start turning in your homework.”
You were kind:
“If you come to my office after school, I will help you.”
You were a wonderful mother.
You were stern:
“Come here right now and put your clothes away!”
You were kind and loving:
“If you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here.”
Even though you were taken
So suddenly from us yesterday,
No one will forget you and
How you influenced everybody in your circle and
Beyond.
Today is one of those gloomy rainy days,
And I know why.
It’s because even the heavens are crying for you.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
where does heather grow?
in the north
blossoming; under late summer skies.
it is the fire
as told in old norse
like it was spoken from the gods,
in mere whispers,
too afraid of the spark.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
Home.
He whispered.
I felt the warmth slide down the smooth skin just behind my ear.
Home.
His lips pressed gently upon my forehead.
Come home.
This time louder.
Harsher.
Come home darling.
His accent thick and broad.
Aren't you tired?
Come rest by my side. Come drift in the heather high on the moors.
Come home to me.
Aren't you weary from the fight shield maiden?
Lay down your broad sword, remove your boiled leather let the ravens report your homecoming.
Come home.
Then his lips are on mine and they taste of the earth, of the dirt, of the mist, and that land of mine.
Home.
My eyes open and I see my ghost.
I knew it was you. Must it always be ?
Must it always be you who awakens me, who calls me home.
Just send me the mist. Just send me the moors. Just send me the piercing chill of the harbor in December. Wake me with the ancient call of gulls. Enough of the tortured remnants of the past we must both hide. Enough of this my love. Enough of this, goodbye.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
a flagrant lie slid by;
then another,
then another;
from a whistle to a clamor
of 'blood and soil';
soon they were marching
on The Lawn;
over our parched preamble
and a general
perched high on his gelding gray
stared in stoic silence
silence
silence
can you hear the truth
in the din of silence?
can you?
can you see the lies
through glazed eyes?
can you?
can you find your voice
in a maze of hate…
and take a stand
as flames of bigotry
sear the conscience of a nation?
heather did.
~ Pablo
(8/17/2017)
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 6:20 AM UTC
we held hands behind the Black Lives Matter banner.
we took to the streets in solidarity with Heather Heyer
opposing white supremacy and every vestige of bigotry.
the cops stood idle while racists circled
the park like sharks to shake our resolve.
but we carry a new world in our head and hearts.
we marched down Kennedy and Ashley
no badge or gun could hope to stop us hundreds.
we mourned and wept and rose like lions.
*no justice, no peace! no racist police!
1-2-3-4, this is ******* class war!
5-6-7-8, organize to smash the State!*
i cannot find the rhythm and beat amidst this misery.
but, in her memory, we will drive the fascists out.
from Tampa Bay, FL to Charlottesville, VA: ¡No pasaran!
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
Blue bubble
Blue bubble
Flower
Green
Stick freshly planted
Plant an entrance to a secret level
Mario
Cactus
Christmas tree
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC
To lose myself in a foggy drug
And cut a misty dream
To blister from the heat between
The love that is as seems
I taste a little bitter
Salty brows of work prolonged
Don't lead me forth on glaciers cold
If you have no heart I wronged.
Shout forthly from the rooftops
And we'll sing like cats together
For you and I we own the moon
And on it planted fields of heather.
For each other for ourselves
Take me out
To explore
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
Happy Birthday Heather
I will not state your age
If people want to know it
They can go visit your page
You run a band of poets
A band of Lunatics at heart
But, you saw something in us
And you saw it from the start
We all write different styles
Some are funny, some morose
Some of us have stories
And sometimes, we get gross
But, Heather, you're our leader
And on behalf of all us vandals
Don't put the fire brigade to work
....so don't light your ****** candles!!!
Happy Birthday Hev! Best wishes
We share more than just a last name in my book.
All the love
Roger and Megan Turner
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
man
bench
sun
Facts are not
a life.
Details.
old man
park bench
hot sun
Better,
but not enough.
An old man
on a green park bench
baking in the hot sun.
Closer,
but not the truth.
An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.
Closer still, yet missing...
An old man,
still boyish,
sitting on a
green park bench
baking in the hot sun
remembering
that strange young girl
wearing
a paisley scarf,
red and blue silk,
standing like Venus
poised above
blue Aegean water
on the deck
of a white steamer,
her black hair flowing,
four decades past.
He smiles,
considering
her hot breath,
her long sighs,
her silken thighs:
she lives again.
The poem at the confluence
of memory and imagination
engenders the stories
which render meaning.
Stories about stories;
all we can know of life,
yet enough.
-mce
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
The purple haze
of heather had
dwindled in the sunshine.
Bluebells were breaking too,
their florets a flutter.
Smoggy incense rolls in
off the horizon smoking
over the crumbled mountaintops,
their peaks unable to break the surf.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC