Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I am starting to feel a little bit misled.
I wrote you a paragraph of how much we share and how much you mean to me and you only said you too.
You flirt with me and say all these pretty words about how I´m beautiful and I´m different.
But how does that compare to the heartbreak I feel when you didn´t say anything but those two words.
I pour my soul on words meant for you only to receive the most unenthusiastic response.
You asked me on a date yesterday after talking in quarantine for two months.
Does that mean you like me?
Or does it mean that you expect more from me than I am willing to give,
even when I told you I wanted that to be for someone special.
Is it different for you?
I know you've already given that to someone else, but do you expect to be mine?
And is that the only reason you're here?
I know I´ll never show you this as I write it close to midnight, but it hurts more than you´ll ever know.
You made me feel something after feeling numb for so long and am I expected to push those away when they´ve made me feel so human?
What should I do now?
With my broken heart and a text left on read?
How do I go about this now and not upset you?
It´s funny how I still don´t want to hurt you even after you've hurt me.
I will try to keep them at bay, but my walls are crumbling again and I just don't know what to do.
a little rant, sorry
A little bit of nothing can go a long way.

A little bit of quiet remembrance of the lovely past,
or perhaps a little bit of silent, spinning thoughts.

Maybe a little bit of everything that feels like nothing.
Could it be the little bit of music as we paint pictures on the canvas' of our minds?

Let's have a little bit of useless thinking to drown the white noise of our collective consciousnesses.
Indulge me in the little bit of pretty moments.

Perhaps we all need a little bit of nothing with just a touch of everything.
Stevie Nicks is known for being a witch.
She simply makes us curious.
Her vocals and lifestyle so rich,
shes truly glorious.

Lana Del Ray is, in fact, all the same.
She reminds us of a stormy coast.
She is an inspiring dame,
who always makes us feel the most.

Amy Winehouse was a true enchantress.
She sang chords of old times and new feelings.
A true soul huntress,
She gave us some great new meanings.

A little bit of witch,
can go a long way.
It can truly make us a devoted kitsch,
So let us begin to be mysterious and try to be our own way.
Just some admiration of a few wonderfully witchy ladies. Also sorry for the great gap in posts, I needed to work on myself for myself.  Also sorry for the kinda bad rhyming, I haven´t really tried rhyming before.
All I can give,
I've already given to you.
But our love isn't storybook, it's friendship, and a platonic one.
I know this may seem as a bit of a surprise and unorthodox,
but it is ours nonetheless.
I gave you my secrets in exchange for yours.
I gave you my ear for a hug.
I gave you my heart as a token of my favor towards you, and you gave the same.
We are each other's best friends, and that is bliss.
And though I may only show you this on your birthday, maybe, and I sit here writing this as you sit next to me in history, I know you feel the same.
I gave you all I could give,
and you gave me all I could ever want.
I love you Lily Elise Ivester and our friendship is very special.
A recent, heartbreaking conversation with my father has brought me to realize something.
We are who others perceive us.

If we are wary of the world and its people from our past experiences, we are seen as closed off and rude.
If we have ore friends of the opposite gender, we are flirty.
If we are smart and aiming to help, we are stuck up and a teacher's pet.
If we don't have many friends, we are weird and outcasts.

But these aren't true.
They are mere assumptions based on the superficials seeing's of our "superiors".

If we are wary of the world and its people from our past experiences, we are looking for more genuine people.
If we have ore friends of the opposite gender, we are just making friends with people we are comfortable around.
If we are smart and aiming to help, we are kind and supportive.
If we don't have many friends, we are seeing the truth behind the pretty lies.

We are not what others see us, we are who WE are and who WE want us to be.
I just think that everyone has felt this and someone needs to say something.
Though I never really knew you before, I knew of you.
The boy that was forbidden to me by a girl I no longer see.
You added me on a social media that I had no idea you had.
You called me cute and we started to talk more and more.
It made me quite curious, and you the same.
You asked me how my day was instead of for pictures.
You told me I was classically beautiful instead of just a normal pretty.
I didn´t know boys like you still existed.
And while you may never see this, I sit here and write to you as if you will.
I´m talking to you right now and you wonder what I´m doing.
I tell you nothing much, but this, this is everything to me right here, at this moment.
You make me feel infamous and I am quite enjoying this new person to talk to.
I thank you Thomas, you´ll never know it, but for the past few days,
I haven´t gone to sleep crying.
It was smiling.
You tell me you hope to see me as soon as this mess is over and I am so excited,    
I´m looking forward to something for the first time in a while.
You inspire me anew and make me feel that the person I use to be doesn´t matter.
I love that more than you´ll ever know.
Oh, look at that!
Another text, and one of you being ever so cute!
You feel the same way, and that is everything.
I am quite taken with you, my new person to talk to.
update: its currently October 5th and him and i are dating:)
sorry for not really being active lately, I've just been relaxing and trying not to feel the pressures of thw=e outside world while I drink coffee and watch the office all day.
It’s beautiful. The rhythm. The instruments

blending to construct a uniform of posse-

ssing noises. The voices cascading

   together to create a melody, one

     quite similar to sweet dew on

       flowers in the bright, early

        morning. It fills you until

           you feel the wonde-

             rful notes within

             your very being.

           The tones dance a-

          round you until you

        are nothing but that. T-

      he different feels of each

   individual song are incredible.

They can either make you feel as

if anything is possible, as if there is

no greater sadness than your own,

as if you are the best thing in the w-

orld to someone, as if you are not

  who you are but who you alwa-

   ys wish to be, or as if even th-

     e most substantial disadva-

      ntages can never lift the

       brilliant veil of the warm,

          fuzzy happy you are

                  drunk on.

                   It’s as if

                    in that

                   one mi-

                 niscule m-

              oment, you a-

           re free of everyth-

       ing and nothing could

   possibly be anything oth-

  er than jubilant. These chor-

ds remain in your head and you

can change them on will like a radio.

They give you a needed distraction, a

relief from the pressure, an ungodly am-

ount of confidence, or even just something

to center yourself around. The patterns make that overbearing uncertainty

melt from your mind to puddles of woe on the ground. The alluring collections of each portion make

an enchanting thing that will forever be commemorated

in the minds of others.
it's a structure poem
There are many things I find beautiful:

Boys who love flowers,

children laughing,

flower crowns.

Drawings on wrists,

shimmery eyeshadow,

dainty jewelry,

worn pictures,

hands covered in acrylic paint,

but all the while,
nothing can compare to you, love.
For you, are the greatest beauty of all.
Because I want to be a poet,
  I constantly look for beautiful things in the world.
  Whether it's a moment or a song or a person or even a moonlit scene.
Because I want to be a poet,
   I let my emotions flow freely through my work,
   anger, melancholy, wonderment, peace, true bliss.
Because I want to be a poet,
    I want to be truly genuine,
    to show that I am not just the ambivert girl who seems to always be

Because I want to be a poet,
    I encourage writing,
    the pouring of your soul spun into gentle words of compassion.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I only put my favorite writings out here,
    to show I might have some spark of Edgar or Abraham or Shel.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I continue to write,
    even though I sometimes don't even want to try and get up.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I thank you all for your kind words,
     they keep me writing.
❤thank you for all you all do for me❤
The biological makeup of all things fascinates me.
How can everyone look so different?
How can we judge people for that?
Is it not in our genes, something which we ourselves cannot control?
Our minds forged in the fires of societies views.
Why do our genes affect our different outcomes based solely on specific situations molded by other organisms?
Why do we get one thing from a parent or grandparent or aunt or uncle or whoever, but not the other?
Different genetic traits plucked from DNA strands so complex.
Is this why people are some complicated?
Biology is defined as the study of all living things.
Isn't this what we, as humans, do to others?
We study other people hoping to attain just some illusion of what we think they may contain within their pretty faces and perfect bodies.
We classify and organize and break down and try to understand those around us.
How fickle we are to think one thing is pretty and one is ugly.
It's like a dark day, a heavy weightlessness, a bright smoke, and blackened windows.
Biology is not as scientific as we might think at first glance.
What is "happy"?
                                                     Is it love?
                                                                                            Is it material things?
Love cannot be defined.
It is as fluid as water, but as solid as stone.

I thought I loved you.
Secretly, I still do.
If anyone asks, I will always say no.

I know you don't love me.
I wish you did.
                                                                      But I'm also happy that you don't.

Your "love", is not a genuine love.
                                                  It is a corrupt love.
                                                                                                       A toxic love.

A love that I
The cascades of rain fall silently outside my window.
The lights are off, music is playing, and it is peaceful.
I think back to the time I felt true peace.
When my mind was silent and my heart was full.

I believe I was a small child, around 5.
My grandmother was sewing in the little room at the back of the house.
I was coloring and writing stories of the future I wished to behold.
I had no further inclinations that she might fall into a deep sleep and never wake up.

I believed she was immortal because she never changed.
Though she wasn't societies idea of pretty, I found her captivatingly beautiful.
Her light blonde hair which I too possessed, was a gift only we shared.
Her luminescent blue eyes were the same for me as well.

We watched tales of princesses and their matching princes.
We performed plays that I wrote.
We sang along to Elvis and Sinatra.
We shared tales of school and her early life.

I wanted to live like that forever.
Always together and smiling.
Laughing and playing.
Loving each day as it was given to us.

I will never forget those days blanketed in warm sunshine, especially in the cascades of rain.
I often think about college
and the leering sense of doom I feel as I get closer and closer.
I am so scared
about failing
about disappointing further
of not having the true "college experience".
I often think about college.
i had no more ideas, sorry
I am a contradiction.
I hate and love myself.
I want to die but I love living.
I say I hate you, but I really love you.
Everything is too fast but also way too slow.
I hate eating healthy but wonder why I'm not thin.
I want to run away but I am so afraid.

I am a contradiction.
I want to be happy, yet I do things that make me so incredibly sad.
I hate popular people, but I want to be one.
I want to see better but I don't ever wear my glasses.
I say I'm pretty but also that I'm ugly.
I want you but I tell you I don't know hat you're talking about.
I love being weird but I also want to be just normal.

I am a contradiction
of the most unusual kind.
just a glimpse into my mind.
I do not know where I am going,
for I have no clue where I've truly been.
I  would like to see the world in its entirety,
but I am so scared of the unknown.
I want to be lost in the sea of people I know,
but I want to be exceptional.
I think of you,
but I know I will never have you.
I need security,
but I ruin what I have.
I write fickle things,
but I yearn to weave beautiful words about important issues.
I hate myself,
but I love being different.
         I always knew
         But I still wanted more
         And yet, you stick
         But it was fake
          Now, I'm ok again
Acrylic, watercolor, oil, pigment, ink, fresco.

The brushes gliding across the paper like Goblin King Jareth in the ballroom.

The colors are beautifully radiant, even more so than the sun.

The water blends with the paints, invoking a visually appealing swatch of color.

A shade placed with a tint, bringing forth a new and equally unique hue.

The colors spiral like Edgar’s mind.

Laying colors down to make a masterpiece,

leaving me at peace.

When the piece dries, it creates a whole new world.

If you’re lucky, your piece is presented to the world.

You feel like Picasso showing off how talented you are.

Then you start over fresh.

The new sketches that you hate,

you feel like a four-year-old scribbling.

The gestures, the movement, the eraser marks that are so prominent.

The marks stand out like the Berlin wall.  

You will try and try and try until you start over.

You give up for now,

until you start anew again.

A million blank pages pile over with your failures.

The failures are endless, so you give up.

Until tomorrow,

when you start again,

     and again,

            and again.
I love to dance among the wildflowers and hear their voices of beauty.
Their swaying in the wind as they dance alongside me
is quite inviting.
They weave in and out if the wind,
winding down into petals adrift.
I pick a few and feel the weight of a life on Earth taken by my hand.
So, in turn, I weave a crown of flowers, one of many colors.
I place them on my head and call out to the faeries and they Fea.
I hear giggles and feel their presence.
I scream to take me away, and they do.
But only in my mind do they come to me,
and then I open my eyes.
I'm not in a field of wildflowers,
but in a dream all my own.
It's the third day of my junior year and I am filled with an unchecked anxiety.
I feel the fire from my brain licking at my hands, so much so that they must fiddle with something.
I thought it had gotten better, but I am so afraid.
All the time.

But don't misunderstand,
I love school, very much.

But I still cannot get over the fear of the worst happening.
Thoughts eating away at my heart, intrusive as ever.  

Your hand holding mine calms me.
However, I cannot keep you with me all day.
Thoughts of you help,
how you called me pretty and how if I can just make it through this period,
I can see you after.

I hate being so dependent on someone,
it is so scary to think that you might change your mind and that you might not want my hand holding yours, but someone else's instead.
I push these fears deep down because I don't want to scare you with how crazy I really am.

When did I become like this?
Where all I can think about is what you would do or say?
I'm afraid, so very afraid.
a little rant, sorry
Little doodles on the sides of essays.
Tiny drawings on the cufflinks of jeans.
Light sketches on the soles of shoes.
Limited drafts on the insides of wrists and the ankles of many.

Flowers, crosses, words, names, dates, so many pretty designs.
All unique to its canvas of an owner.
Perfect ways to pass time in this boredom.
My favorite ways to express myself, with things drawn in my own style.

I love little doodles.
Aesthetic, harsh, bold, offensive, all of them.
Just doodles.
Roses drawn on hands, on arms, and on cuffs of jeans.
Stars encircle wrists,
like constellations.
Little quotes and lovers' names.
Small remembrances and inside jokes galore.
Vines, plant and meme alike.
But little drawn roses are my favorite.
You, whom I dreamed of and wanted for so long, is whom I have faithfully forgotten.
You, who no longer hound my thoughts with your words and pretty smiles.
I have taken back my mind and my heart and am ready to live for me and only me.
So to you, I say goodbye and farewell, because you have been faithfully forgotten.
The stars began to fall as I spoke to you.
They shattered and sprinkled downward, taking light from the world.
The aftermath of the forsaken far more beautiful than the solidarity of the perfect.

I want to forever capture this beautiful moment,
but I know I can only do so in my brain,
forever singular in this beauty.
This lovely little piece of the sky will be mine,
and mine alone.

But now I give it to you, dear reader.
To take from this slip of infinity to make your own,
to help inspire you and to let you wonderful poets see all the beauty there is to behold.
Here's my present to you,
to hold, forevermore.
I know it doesn't make sense.
As the stars get closer, I realize something.
They are not stars, but little memories of the times of childhood.
They glow like that due to the innocence surrounding them.
When they hit the rough earth,
they are torn apart by the expectations of our teenage years.
The blissful, sweet moments shared in close quarters are lost to the harmful hallways of high school.
Tears cascade across my cheeks as if running from the unknown.
Or worse, the ignored.
I want to reach out and touch them,
to hold the blinding beauty and never let it slip from my fingertips.
But I can't.
And it hurts, so bad that I can't breathe.
However, I don't fight the dark this time,
I let it take me slowly,
staring up at the memories,
and I float.
Fictional scenarios are a dangerous matter.
They warp the minds eye into a fake reality.
Giving false feelings or exaggerated real ones a sense of security.
A bit of feeling turns us all into dreamy-eyed wishers.
We let them take hold in a time of boredom, sadness, or as a form of escapism.
However, it is not a bad thing to be a wisher.
These scenarios have given us new meaning.
We see the potential and feel the intriguing ambrosia of what could be if we just try hard enough and take a chance.
Fictional scenarios are a work of our mindscape, but they don always have to be made up.
ivé been having weird dreams and got inspired.
I write about feeling empty a lot.
                  But I never write about happy days.

Days of depth-defying conversations trailing on the edges of unknown.
                  Days of wanderlust and the need to explore.
Days of beauty and grace and everything right with this industrialized world.
                  Days of all of these horrendous emotions cascaded into an oblivion so deep in my soul that I can no longer see nor feel it.
Days of happy tears and sad laughter.
                   The best days full of painting in the breeze with music floating endlessly above and around me.
My favorite lazy days bursting at the seams with ****** Toons re-runs, hot chocolate, comfy pants and soft light seeping through windows.
                    Those were the days.
As I finish the final exam of the year and wait to be released, I cannot help but wonder about the peculiar fluorescent lights.
How many things have these lights seen?
I know they've seen the wondering eyes of bored students, but what else?
Spilled secrets
Notes to cheat
Teary eyes
Little doodles
A birds-eye view of our whole world.
What would it be like, always shining and looking from beyond?
Is it lonely?
( we're all wondering it, do they see down girls shirts?)
I have not written in quite some time.
I have not jotted down my thoughts or committed to a rhyme.
But I think of poems each day,
of words spun with careful concentration.
I believe in the mind and its prowess,
and of the power I possess.
While I have taken a break,
I refuse to sit and stop,
for I am not done writing.
I have greatly missed this place and the people I have encountered. I have missed poetry.
Beyond the veil is a place to marvel,
where a dream can find a place.
With columns made from marble,
it´s like a slap to the face.

With pleasure as far as the eye can see,
and little nooks to behold.
A wonderous land of make-believe,
And where our minds and hearts never grow old.
I would like some feedback for this one please, it´s the first rhyming poem I´ve written
Good riddance,
to two people who hurt,
and hurt,
and hurt.
You were my best friend, and because you called my mom a 'stupid ***',
I got mad.
Then you got mad.
And you decided you were done.
You gave a letter to our friend stating "I'm just done with her ****."
Oh, alrighty then.
The next day you came to school.
You had a bag,
one which you handed to me.
One that contained everything I've ever made and/or given you.
Funny though, how it didn't contain items that I bought.
I cried and wrote you a letter.
Saying I was sorry when I did nothing wrong.
Our other friend, Ariana,
told our friend Hailey to "be there for me so I can be there for her."
I asked her about it, she said it was true and with her "condition", she couldn't be there for two people at once.
Yet she can do it any other day.
She moved her seat in class so she wouldn't sit with me, funny I thought best friends were supposed to be there forever.
Alright then, I won't cry over them anymore, seeing as they won't do so for me.
Good riddance then.
This is about my best friends.
The other friend is R-ee fyi.
We all have a little bit of historical context backing up our stories.

   It is what he did in the past the effects the present,
or it is what she said the controls how I think and feel.
It is past poems and songs and writings giving fuel to new ones,
it is the memories of people who only exist in our minds and hearts.

   There is truth to the stories told from both sides of the mirror.
There are intricately spun lies to help rather than hurt.
There is that little bit of peace and love that has shaped you and me and us.

But there is also no historical context at all.

   Maybe something is caused by nothing and it is rather unexpected.
Maybe a new friendship, a new place, a new feeling or maybe it is even a new person that invokes all listed above.

   There is an old past and a new present to each person and their own story, we just need to learn how to appreciate them.
How do we determine what is remembered of us?
How do we make it seem like we're kind?
How do we let our ghost linger for our loved ones?
How do we express ourselves on our tombstones?
How do we tell people new things we see?
How do you feel?
How is the rain going to sound and taste?
How do you let them move on without you?
How do we determine what is remembered of us?
i'm back:)
I am friends with my demons,
for they know me better than most.
Swirling black masses,
of contempt and understanding.

They know the pain,
and the places it takes me.
For they see,
the disdain.

I am friends with my demons,
for people are scarier.
I don't even know how to explain this.
It's most frustrating how you can do this,
how you can continue to make me blush and daydream of you,
even though you aren't even here.

I know it will never be,
but the young 13-year-old girl in me is positively excited by your presence.
And you alone make me happy.
I don't need to be saved.
From myself,
my perils,
or, you.

I don't need to be told I'm broken,
for I know that better than most.
I am aware I am hurting,
and that there are fake smiles that never reach my eyes.

However, I don't need a great love to be better.
Not romantically anyway.
Though it would be nice,
I value self-love above lust.

I am getting better, day by day.
By myself, for myself.
Though I still hurt and let tears run rampant,
I am me, and I believe that to be poetic of sorts.

I feel pretty with my makeup,
mysterious with my clothes,
experienced with my heartache,
and alluring with my inner demons.

I don't need to be saved, I need to do the saving.
I'm in a very good place right now, and I believe I can make it even better. I believe, truly, that each of us can find our own slip of happiness. As one who has struggled with depression and OCD, I know the full extent of the ain. You have all helped me through my pain by, loving the darkest parts. With deep regards and happiness, thank you. I believe we can ALL be the princess, the knight, and the dragon all at once.<3
I stand, but she doesn’t speak. It isn’t because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t.

She's “asleep”,

but I know that isn't it.

I know we came to this hospital because they couldn't “fix” her at the other one.

This is the fifth time her heart has seized, I know this is the last time I’ll see her “alive”, but I can't speak myself.

I'm embarrassed and awkward;

    And I hate myself for it.

I don't tell her I love her, I don't tell her it's okay if she leaves, I don't say goodbye.

    And I hate myself for it.

Mama says she can hear us, but I know she's trying to make it better. Jayden accepts her statement indifferently. I look at him and plead for him to say something first.

To say goodbye, to say anything because I don't want to be the first.

Mama asks if I don't speak because I'm heartbroken. I tell her that's it,

because if I do tell her, I will accept and acknowledge the fact that I hate myself for it.

I want to say something,

     I want her to hear me,

          I want to hear her laugh,

                I want to say something,

                     I want her to hug me and say it will be better tomorrow,

                           I want to say something.

But I can’t. And I hate myself for it.

Because I know her soul has left and this is an empty shell that is only “alive” because of that stupid machine that keeps talking.

That stupid machine that beeps.

     And beeps.

           And beeps.

It will forever be imprinted within me, with the smell of that bleak room, along with that hate and bitterness. That doesn’t even measure to that stupid soulless self-love of me.

That stupid hatred that bubbles like a bathtub overflowing if I even think of her and how brutally big-headed I was.

The problem is that I don’t hate her, I hate me and my elite mindset that is egotistical and so incredibly egocentric.

So vain, so incredibly vain I am.

I’m horrible.

      And I hate myself for it.

Then we leave and I didn’t even say goodbye!
listening to music with my friend Liam is cathartic.
I write poetry and he edits photos.
What the artistic pair we are.

We sing and laugh as we talk of hues of different edits.
We chill with my dog and we dance to the beat.
We sway and sway as the minute's pass, almost like they faded too fast.
We sing to popular songs, old songs,
love songs, getting over you songs.
The genre's as colorful as the sky in a midwestern state.
you name it, we listen to it.
I think we should all learn to  see the beauty in all genres of music and to realize
"It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over".
My brain used to explode with ideas at the thought of writing,
but now they come slow and take so much time to fully develop.
I have no more ideas, and those I do have,
I execute poorly.
The creative energy that used to come forth so easily and spilled over the top of my heart,
is just gone.
I just want to feel that fire inside reignite.
I want to feel like I can be great.
It's just,
I've got nothing else.
I've written so much just for the sake of writing something meaningful.
I still feel as if it isn't truly deep, just a mirage of what true, genuine feelings are.
I still feel like I'm playing pretend and that all the hurt I feel is just a child's game where your favorite character dies.
I just want to make something real, something worth remembering, something that I truly feel has impacted someone and stayed with them.
I am proud of my writing, yes, but I want it to be more.
    I want my writing to envoke so many emotions from the reader, but not your mainstream emotions of happy or sad or scared, but one that makes them feel like they're not alone in the world.
I want them to think "they're like me, they feel like me and they think like me."
Oh, how wonderful it would be. To make someone think something like that.
I feel like it would be something so substantial that they would repost it or just save it.
Maybe even take a picture of it.
That is my secret wish in a poetic world.
My poem's are greatly inspired by my experiences with family and friends. My intended effect of the poem's is to show people that the ones who smile the brightest, cry the hardest. I like to show the true nature of humanity in its raw forms. How I design my poem's is complicated, as is the process. First, I pick a topic that has impacted me in a substantial way. Next, I write a paragraph from raw emotions I experience. After that, I put it into a poetic structure and add pretty words and metaphors, similes, and other figurative language and devices. My process of writing doesn't take long at all. When I write, thoughts come fast and hit hard. I like writing, I especially love poetry, the genre allows you to be outlandish and mysterious. Another reason I love poems is the emotions that are evoked within each piece. They are expressions of beliefs and feelings, ones that we don't allow others to see. It is hard to imagine the people who are popular and "happy", often are depressed so they try to make others happier than they are themselves. My favorite pieces included "I Hate the Vanity", "Auditory Communication" and "My Incomparable Comrades". These pieces show the things that make me who I am in the biggest of ways. In "Auditory Communication", I spoke about music and it's beautiful aspects. In "I Hate the Vanity", I wrote about how I felt when my grandmother, the only person I truly opened up to, passed away. Also, in "My Incomparable Comrades", I showed the way my friends and I are connected. My style is dark and chock full of emotion. It is different because I am not afraid to open up to people, because I know everyone is struggling and hurting inside. I love poetry, and I want others to love its simplicity and its alluring qualities like I do.
it's stupid but whatever
The letters never sent are the hardest ones to write.
They burn on shelves where or they sit and radiate emotion from drawers.
We fill them with the things left unsaid or to clarify those opinions voiced.
We either cry or smile or feel fear as we pen them,
much like how we write our collective stories in poetry.

As we write, we are taken away.
We may be in a coffee shop,
or our rooms,
or like me, in the middle of school.
But when we display our feelings on paper things, we go into our mind-space.

Our letters never sent dripping in passion.
Saturated with our shared feelings and remembered embraces.
Of the feverish past and the heat-wrenching present.
They can be poetic and charming, but have a sharper edge of a fast mind and slow hand.

Our letters never sent are precious, so I think we should send them.
As we draw our little lines in the vast space of sand, we also step over others, worn away indentions.

We hurt and we break and we cry.
Then we rebuild and repeat.

Always keeping time and cutting ties.
We just keep crossing lines.

We just need to erase these lines in the sand
and wipe away to start again.
Listening to raindrops is oddly soothing.
The loud claps of thunder through a murky sky a melody from the gods.
Lightning a fast portrait of fire.
While I sit and listen to the lazy rain run to meet the thirsty ground,
I ponder aimlessly in my mindscape.

Thoughts of loved ones long gone and new crushes to caress.
I stare at the drawings on my hands and wrists and wonder if I might become something for art by art.
I write this and feel like I want to be a writer.

Then I fall back into my consciousness, and realize,
Raindrops brought new radicle and raking thoughts.
I or one, am grateful to the rain for letting me listen in on its raindrops and dewdrops.
As I near the inevitable end of summer break, I am filled with excitement at a new school year..... but I also feel dread at the reminders of student life.
Although I love the poetic justices of 80's movies occupants and their school life, I cannot help but feel cheated.
Watching Molly Ringwald have rad adventures with Anthony Michael Hall, I couldn't help but think that I, too, would get to experience a magical birthday or fall in love or have a wacky adventure.

  I wished to be Andie in Pretty in Pink, or Claire in The Breakfast Club, or Sam in Sixteen Candles.
I longed for the friends who were as weird, or even more so than me.
To have the beautiful boy fall for me in that cliche way we all love.
To be a different kind of unusual beauty in a plastic world.

   I would still love all of these things, HOWEVER, I love my life.
I would not trade my current comrades for Duckie, or ******, or even Sara Baker.
I wish not to change the circumstances or a crush or a mutual liking that may never happen.
I can't, unfortunately, say that I love my natural beauty.

   Even as I long to live like Molly, I long to live like me.
How rad would it be to have Jake, Duckie, ******, and Sara though?!?!
I have begun to be uninspired.
Little pieces of poems with a blank, surrounding screen.
I do not remember when writers block set in.
I do feel, however, that I can escape this listless typing.
With a little help and a lot of research on new words,
I can become un uninspired and unlost.
While I cannot say that I have experienced a "true", once in a lifetime love, I do believe that I know what love is.
Love, to me, is not just an emotion, but also a thing or a person or a memory or a place.  

Love can be a memory or moment.
Love can be the blissful lazy Sundays spent with your favorite people after a long night.
Love can be the family meal with sudden, abrupt laughter that just bubbles up from your throat.
Love can be the hugs you never knew you needed and the words you thought you'd never hear.
Love can be that favorite song that makes you want to scream its lyrics until your voice is hoarse.

Love can be a thing.
Love can be the last gift your grandmother gave you.
Love can be a picture of your best friend right after you did the flamingo challenge.
Love can be a book of poems that gave you the start you desperately wanted.

Love can be any place.
Love can be a library that gives you an endless amount of worlds to choose from.
Love can be the school cafeteria where you spend your favorite minutes of every day with the people who make you laugh and not care about how you may be perceived by others.
Love can be the small space in the back of the house where you paint and listen to the rain.

Love can be anything or everything or both.
It can be life, and it can be warmth, and it can be the good standing hand in hand with the bad, and it can be what makes you happiest.

I do not believe that you have to have a significant other to have love, I believe that you can be fulfilled by others and by the things you enjoy.

Love is just, love.
these are just my feelings, they may differ from yours
How lovely you are,
in your isolated state,
away from differing opinions,
of judging eyes and prideful flaunting.

How lovely we were,
only us,
only laughter and happy midnight tears,
only the truth we let each other see, no lies.

How lovely the way we fell apart.
Next page