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Vanessa Grace Mar 2022
Don't you want me to love me?

Then stop saying the things you say,
Doing the things you do,
Handing out ambitions like they are candies,
am I sweet enough for you?

Don't you want me to love me?

Then stop placating me with dreams,
Dreams of what cannot be,
Pretending as though they are mutual,
what epiphanies do you see?

Don't you want me to love me?

Then do not speak on my behalf,
Words of false affirmation,
Silencing my sharp, jagged tongue
can you hear my trepidation?

Don't you want me to love me?

Then feel these feelings as I do!
Feel the callous of my heart,
Separating the person from the enigma,
do you feel me come apart?

Don't you want me to love me?

How can I love what you don't know?
Or love what was never real,
Reaching out for who I'll never be,
do you understand my ordeal?

Don't you want me to love me?

Don't you want me to love me?

Don't you want me to love me?

Don't you—
Vanessa Grace Apr 2018
I'm so nostalgic these days
and I know you've heard that all before
the whole "I'm listening to old songs on repeat
and re-reading the broken stories I keep
to find myself again" thing—but hear me out.
No, this time I really mean it
Nostalgia is not a dark cloud lingering above my head
but a thunderstorm rumbling below my feet
and every moment of every day I'm tumbling through it
and trying to pretend I don't see concrete
hurdling towards me
like it has some twisted sense of vengeance,
some sort of hunger for my life.
And occasionally perhaps I can forget how broken I feel, and be content with what this is.
But this is a small life and it's an even smaller smile
when laughing at your jokes but turning up a noise-dial
in my head
so that I don't have to hear myself think
let alone breathe
over the chatter about how unremarkable I've become.

There's no sanctity to my mind,
no peace in my heart,
and no rest for my spirit.

So I'm nostalgic,
and yes, I mean it.
I'm listening to old songs on repeat.
Combing through ancient poems and pictures;
staring at a face that once upon a time, shared my likeness—
but now she mirrors my demons.
v.g

Sometimes I read this and it makes sense. Sometimes I read this and it's nowhere truthful enough.
Dec 2017 · 701
Malignant
Vanessa Grace Dec 2017
I've not held a pen in many months,
for fear of seeing your face
in the belly of my words.
I know how thick
the effect of you is,
how you pervade every work of mine
with a foul, haughty stench;
you always told me
I'd be the one to never forget you.
And how could I,
when you've made me so weak?
My mind is your residence,
and you've proclaimed it your own;
hovering over each stanza
with involuntary tremors
and disheartening convulsions,
begging me to notice you,
begging me to come inside.
But with every turn of phrase
I'm reminded of your nature
one that's malignant,
unyielding—
for you are just as much my muse
as you are
my cancer.
v.g

Relates always to my wonder, "if your words had a face, who would you see?"

And also, why is it that sometimes the most harmful people/things within our lives end up being the most memorable, and inspiring?
Dec 2017 · 677
You Let Them Go
Vanessa Grace Dec 2017
'I love you, you know that?'
I say as I
brush his hair
behind his ear,
tear my gaze
from his own,
take two steps back,
don't look back,
         and finally let him go
v.g
Dec 2017 · 524
Starvation
Vanessa Grace Dec 2017
Today I will put my words on a diet.
Maybe with a bit of time, we'll finally shed the weight of you
that which was held over our heads
for so many years.
v.g
Nov 2017 · 326
Youth
Vanessa Grace Nov 2017
my heart beats
  heavily,
in my frame
whilst melancholy
  tingles,
at my brain
the memories of a younger life
  seize me
and take me far
away,
where innocence was
becoming,
and I was not
to blame
v.g

Another birthday has come and gone. Adulthood is not all it seems.
Oct 2017 · 291
Disrepair
Vanessa Grace Oct 2017
When he came around
I thought perhaps he would
Fill in
My sunken spots,
The hallow parts of my being
That had kept me from standing
Upright

But he was no builder
And our love was no
plaster
And so I resolved to crumple
Like ash upon his frame,
Until it was just him standing there
With the memories that remained.
v.g

Halfway between a thought and a dream.
Mar 2017 · 469
untitled
Vanessa Grace Mar 2017
God blessed the world when He made Man,
and I feel I know both of them
when I hold onto this one's hand
He sleeps like a child upon my chest
soft breath sending shivers
up and down my neck,
and I marvel,
and marvel, and
marvel
at a creature such as this.

He fits me, he suites me, he truly does—
in an instant, with just a glance at him,
I come a bit more undone.
His skin a sheen beneath moonlight
where I can truly see veins,
a blue network beneath his forearm,
holding me gently to his frame;

I would have never even considered
how it could fit with mine
or how we could even begin to claim
such a space between us.

And yet, here we are— and yet, here I am
tiny and misshapen,
cuddling a man who has taken my heart to a place,
in this tiny little bed,
where I know love resides.

The futon creaks, the fan swivels on,
and the icon candle burns brightly
in the corner.

... and here I am with a Man
who holds me so delicately in his sleep
that he would actually have you believe
that I'm the precious one.
v.g

Okay, so wow.
It's been a long while since I've sat down to write anything, mainly because of graduation deadlines and wedding planning, but I did it anyway. Huzzah!
I see a lot of areas where I could potentially build and improve upon this poem, but as for now, I simply want to remember how it felt that night to hold my fiance  (or rather, how he held me,) before he had to return across the country for a few months to work [#navylife]. That week was probably the most blissful time of my life... but then again, so is every visit with him.
Oct 2016 · 769
Migrate
Vanessa Grace Oct 2016
There are words, swimming in her head
           an aquarium of emotion
some words are nice, but others fight,
           and cause a stir within the ocean

There are words, soaring through her head
           headed north now and then
They escape dark skies, and flee her mind,
          and hope to make it home again
v.g
Aug 2016 · 1.0k
You, Me, and Poetry
Vanessa Grace Aug 2016
Sometimes I'll read great literature and think:
that perhaps, poetry is a theatrical
(but necessary) byproduct
of our excess emotion—
created by broken people
who simply feel too much,
in too little of a space.
From the largest and grandest of stanzas
to the petite one-liners,
we pour our feelings into words
and our words into emotion,
and give them the context
to take on a brand new meaning.
We  adorn our anguish in sweet, silken lines,
our passion in soft, breathy rhymes;
our anger shows in scribbles
and taut similes,
our joy in the personification
of the very things we wish
could come alive.
From all corners of all nations we grow
knowing, quite profoundly,
that our feelings are meant to mean something:
Poetry is not tissue in our lives
to be used and tossed away;
rather, poems mark the seasons of ourselves
that are to be remembered and enjoyed.
Written on notepads and parchment,
from wide open spaces to
that dingy apartment,
our words lie in wait for us
so that at our lowest point,
our words may help remind us
to be *human
v.g
Aug 2016 · 1.1k
Wanna Play Pretend?
Vanessa Grace Aug 2016
I can make you love me
this is something I can swear
all I need is a moment here
to run my fingers through your hair
I can laugh
at all your cheesy
jokes
the ones a little ******,
the ones a little
old
I can lean against your shoulder,
take turns as we blow
smoke
up, up above our heads
and past the giant
oaks
I can be charming
and kiss you before I
leave—
kiss you until your weak
and shaken in the
knees
I may not be beautiful
but I've got a trick
up my
sleeve;
a trick that involves assuming
love is quite naive

*and in that case,
so are you.
v.g
Jul 2016 · 851
s e p a r a te
Vanessa Grace Jul 2016
Separation does weird things to the body
causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
This divide-- it causes doubt
and it distorts three truths
for three lies.
It shifts a millimeter each moment
till one day, there's been an earthquake
and you no longer can tell fantasy from reality
due to the irrevocable damage.
You realize
the memories aren't really memories--
they are perceptions of events gone wrong
and this cataclysm of love allows it.
You see, the sweetness of words whispered
now have an underlining bitterness
now have a certain edge
that makes you wonder if they were ever true
And now you notice, far too early,
the warmth from their embrace
just... leaves, too quickly.
they just don't hold on like they used to.
its ever so subtle, but ever so notable,
and its enough to make you worry
about the things you see.
And finally, you both begin to see...
.... that separation
does weird things to the body.
It causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
and the realization that there's no healing
when you're miles and miles apart.
v.g
Jul 2016 · 720
2:30AM
Vanessa Grace Jul 2016
propped up against my windowsill
with a slice of cold pizza
watching the cars below
play
green
     light
          go

and wishing my thoughts
would stop playing too
v.g
Jul 2016 · 373
Loneliness Loves
Vanessa Grace Jul 2016
Loneliness is the entity
that follows you
to your bed
and reverberates
in your sheets,
warm and freezing
as you settle in.
It is Loneliness who
serenades you
as sobs piece the night,
whose promises of tomorrow
become less and less
reassuring,
and more and more
**bleak.
v.g

... to feast on us.
Jul 2016 · 1.8k
I am Saturday
Vanessa Grace Jul 2016
She would rather be a Sunday love,
the one that makes you think of picnics
and church-bells,
and gives you hope
after Saturday's disastrous spell.
She imagines herself an entity of love,
in which she is
the dragonfly skirting the pond,
or a gentle, cooling breeze,
creating art upon your skin
to linger briefly in your mind.
Like her, I myself would much prefer
the subtle grace of Sunday;
but sadly, I am Saturday,

and I have a ways to go.
v.g
Apr 2016 · 734
Ship Wreck
Vanessa Grace Apr 2016
this heart
is
palpitating
within its cage

this breath
has
lost
all its might

I am
swept
up
in thunderstorms

cast away
like
he
never even
loved me
at all
v.g
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
Guitarist
Vanessa Grace Mar 2016
His fingers tickle
nylon strings, as they gift him
joyful harmonies.


*v.g
A Haiku for Monday.
Mar 2016 · 4.5k
China Doll
Vanessa Grace Mar 2016
Sometimes I feel like that broken china doll
you found lying in a garage sale last summer.
Blackened eyes, busted lip,
and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.
I oftentimes struggle to remind myself,
it's not my fault I ended up this way—
—for even the most avid of admirers
will occasionally drop their toys.
v.g
Dec 2015 · 1.4k
Hoarder
Vanessa Grace Dec 2015
I will re-decorate
the space in my mind
for you;
the space that cries
save
and the chains that scream
h o a r d
I hoard memories.
Nov 2015 · 836
The River and the Solider
Vanessa Grace Nov 2015
Leave me here beneath the willow,
beneath the setting skies:
Now that I finally have a moment alone,
I can learn to drown my cries.
The water here is cool
as if from fall's frostbitten lips,
and I long for some revival
in her ever gentle kiss.
It is the seasons and I
who have missed you the most;
February and its fears.
But it is this willow tree that will coax
out from within me all these tears.
What if you never come back to me?
Whatever will I do?
To whom will I give my love,
when this wood has rotted through?
This willow will cease to dance,
and I'll refuse to sing
A song of how you left us both
for a war that fateful spring.
v.g
I wrote this on my cracked little phone screen through some weepy tears, so I'll have to edit it and proofread it later.
Oct 2015 · 1.0k
First Kiss (12w)
Vanessa Grace Oct 2015
and I've waited three years
for you to
kiss me
like
that
A moment worth savoring.
Oct 2015 · 591
Ghost Form
Vanessa Grace Oct 2015
draw near unto me
lonely creature of the night
and kindle sweet dreams
v.g
Oct 2015 · 1.7k
Reminiscent
Vanessa Grace Oct 2015
I am tingling with the thoughts
that my body simply
cannot
articulate
v.g
Oct 2015 · 1.5k
Fire bird
Vanessa Grace Oct 2015
She is a phoenix
bathed in crimson and light,
but within the company of crows.
They are content,
whereas she pines for the feathers
that lack a certain glow.


*v.g
For a dearest friend of mine. Don't you dare wilt!
Sep 2015 · 1.8k
Unspoken
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
Because I am terrible at using my words,
I often intervene with body language.
But I will never be able to say through an embrace
"I love you,"
"don't leave me,"
and
“won't you please stay?”
if all you do is continuously silence me
each time you pull away.


*v.g
Actions do have the tendency to speak louder than words.
Sep 2015 · 1.7k
Playing Neutral (18w)
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
i am too tired to play Switzerland
when the matters of my own heart
i no longer understand.
v.g

I'm finding the world to be full of grey, and I'm not quite sure I like that.
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Stoner Queen
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
My great aunt would always caution,
"Whatever gets your high,
will always bring you down,"
in her attempt to scare me away
from ever smoking ***.
And yet, I can't help thinking that
applies way too **** well to boys
after just a bit of thought.
v.g
But that's what makes them fun, right?
Sep 2015 · 900
Jolene
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
sometimes I wish broken hearts
could be seen with the naked eye,
like how you see flesh wounds and plaster.
Maybe if her pain was visible,
he could finally see that he is without excuse
for all the damage he caused her.

*v.g
For my dearest friend.
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
lately i have begun to wonder
whether two poets may fall in love.
do they live in the afterthought,
or what the moment’s made of?


lately i have begun to ponder
how two poets could co-exist.
do their worlds blur together,
or prefer not to mix?

how could they possibly
take everything in stride?
knowing that every silky word
was a well thought of line?

how could they stand it
being someone’s muse?
isn’t it intimidating enough
walking in your own shoes?

now, excuse me if
i’m coming off strong.
its just, i loved a poet once
and we fit together all wrong.
v.g
Sep 2015 · 654
literary catastrophe.
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
Four months ago,
I told you to treat me gently,
and that I had a fragile binding.
and yet,
you were incessant on studying me,
burning with curiosity at my intro.

Three months ago,
I reminded you to take it slow,
and that there was no need to rush.
but instead,
you wanted to tear through my pages,
and skip what was a beautiful rising action.

Two months ago,
I pleaded with you that I was strange,
full of plot holes and bleak mysteries.
rather than return me,
you became fixated on my next chapter,
yearning deeply for the ******.


You were disappointed.


A month ago,
I tried my hardest to become your fairy tale,
and move past our disagreements.
But despite that,
you were consumed with regrets of me,
ignoring my falling constitution.


So as of yesterday,
I finally became the tragedy
you wanted of me.
a disastrous novel,
you finally found the end you were searching for...
              
                              ... that is, my own.
v.g
Sep 2015 · 801
Jungle Eyes
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
His eyes might as well be vines.

Such a variety, they reach out to ensnare me—
in different shades of jade
that always stem from his soul.
They reach for radiance and reason,
and instead they find me,
struck in the beauty that is him.

You might think me stupid,
but his soul is much more dangerous
than the gamut of light that hides it.
The gold sheds clarity on hidden things,
like dust particles, stricken on a bright day.
They ignite my world when I can’t see,
and moreover, they blind me when I can.

Is it funny to say that I
saw the shades of myself in his gaze?
For a moment I was captured,
and I wanted nothing more than another glance from him,
knowing full well it'd send me to an early grave.

But he was more startled than I,
though I could scarcely tell.
Precision became dazed.
The windows shut, the jungle wilted,
and I was left forgotten,
stuck and eyeless,
in the remnants I dared to call love.
v.g.
Sep 2015 · 645
daresay, autumn
Vanessa Grace Sep 2015
and his smile,
like crystals,
did not
appease her
until November’s
excited cheers.
(There were other crystals that interested her, you know; and she thought them beautiful. They hung above their heads on Thanksgiving, brightening the eyes that regarded her so fondly. Had autumn heard her prayers for love?)

and his words,
like shivers,
did not
grace her
until Winter
drew near.
(There were shivers that overcame her, too; and she thought them ironic. For something meant to warm her, she became colder than stone. Perhaps the seasons did not hear her.)

and his absence,
like caverns,
did not
rouse her
until April’s
many tears.
 (There were tears that fell from her, too; and she thought them ******. For where rain gave new life, the sobbing took hers away.)

and his love,
like air,
did not
scare her
until Summer
was seared.
(There was a time when air seemed irrelevant; and she believed she could live life off a little. Imagine her alarm when the air was no longer hers to breathe, having been a gift to another.)

and it,
like time,
did not
distress her
until rejection
was clear.
   (And it was then when she was swaying there beneath the chandeliers, teeth chattering so loud they overpowered the thump of her broken heart, and her eyes were so dry she could no longer weep, or even breathe through the emotion that threatened to clog her throat; she realized—)

that he,
like autumn,
did not love her
enough
to tolerate
another
year

v.g
Autumn is always a hard time of year for me.

— The End —