Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
We're usually as good
as our last piece of writing
just an observation
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
He says that he is broken
That he is Empty
He must not realize
That the moon
Does not have to be full
For it to be loved
I wish
    I knew
       how
To mend your
            heart
   So you could
Start
       Mending mine....

I wish
     I knew
         how
  To show you
      you're worth
    Loving
       So you could
Start
       Loving me...
Sometimes
        The
    Hardest
       Part
    Of *Life

             Is
    Never
    Knowing
       *Why
About break ups and friendships...  For a friend who's struggling...
Each
Person
Is important
To
Someone
Else
Even if they don't realize it
Do we even have chemistry
      Or has it faded away so suddenly
   b.c we should be loving each other
        Being true & open no secrets
I love waves.
I can touch them but I can't catch them.
Maybe that's why I love them, they are so touchable but so unreachable at the same time.
It's a crazy feeling you get when you love something like that,
something that's not concrete but it's not abstract,
something you can point to but you can't actually see.
Next page