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"accustomed" poems
Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water, You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands. You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed. Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes. The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I alone can contend against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Curl round me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes. Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your ******* smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans. My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. Until I even believe that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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315.3k
Pablo Neruda
Every Day You Play....
Every day you play with the light of the universe. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water, You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands. You are like nobody since I love you. Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed. Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish. Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. The rain takes off her clothes. The birds go by, fleeing. The wind. The wind. I alone can contend against the power of men. The storm whirls dark leaves and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. You are here. Oh, you do not run away. You will answer me to the last cry. Curl round me as though you were frightened. Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes. Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle, and even your ******* smell of it. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth. How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans. My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. Until I even believe that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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34
419 We grow accustomed to the Dark— When light is put away— As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Goodbye— A Moment—We uncertain step For newness of the night— Then—fit our Vision to the Dark— And meet the Road—erect— And so of larger—Darkness— Those Evenings of the Brain— When not a Moon disclose a sign— Or Star—come out—within— The Bravest—grope a little— And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead— But as they learn to see— Either the Darkness alters— Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight— And Life steps almost straight.
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22.3k
Emily Dickinson
We grow accustomed to the Dark
419 We grow accustomed to the Dark— When light is put away— As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Goodbye— A Moment—We uncertain step For newness of the night— Then—fit our Vision to the Dark— And meet the Road—erect— And so of larger—Darkness— Those Evenings of the Brain— When not a Moon disclose a sign— Or Star—come out—within— The Bravest—grope a little— And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead— But as they learn to see— Either the Darkness alters— Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight— And Life steps almost straight.
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21
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? I reply, the ocean knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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20.9k
Pablo Neruda
Enigmas
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? I reply, the ocean knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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38
When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark.
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18.6k
Edna St. Vincent Millay
When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face
When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark.
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14
I remember hiding under an old cherry wood dining table. I remember holding my baby sister, shielding her eyes, covering her and trying to tuck her away. Pulling her as close to me as possible, like I might be able to fold her skin into mine so she wouldn’t have to see what was happening around us. I can still hear her crying into my bony 7 year old shoulder and whaling amongst the chaos with the bitty 4 year old voice that she had at the time. I remember the heart stopping feeling of watching my mother get thrown into the wall and watching my brother, 11 years older than myself, hurtle the beautiful antique silver coffee *** that my grandmother left us- into the space near her head where it bludgeoned the wall. I remember barely being taller than the table myself and pulling my sister out when I saw a chance for us to escape the scene and run into another room.  I remember turning around and seeing my older sister, who was 10 at that time, running up and hitting and kicking my brother and getting shoved to the side. I’ve grown accustomed to the headaches I now get at the sight of flashing police lights.
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Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
pushthepulldoor
ptsd
I remember hiding under an old cherry wood dining table. I remember holding my baby sister, shielding her eyes, covering her and trying to tuck her away. Pulling her as close to me as possible, like I might be able to fold her skin into mine so she wouldn’t have to see what was happening around us. I can still hear her crying into my bony 7 year old shoulder and whaling amongst the chaos with the bitty 4 year old voice that she had at the time. I remember the heart stopping feeling of watching my mother get thrown into the wall and watching my brother, 11 years older than myself, hurtle the beautiful antique silver coffee *** that my grandmother left us- into the space near her head where it bludgeoned the wall. I remember barely being taller than the table myself and pulling my sister out when I saw a chance for us to escape the scene and run into another room.  I remember turning around and seeing my older sister, who was 10 at that time, running up and hitting and kicking my brother and getting shoved to the side. I’ve grown accustomed to the headaches I now get at the sight of flashing police lights.
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1
348 I dreaded that first Robin, so, But He is mastered, now, I’m accustomed to Him grown, He hurts a little, though— I thought If I could only live Till that first Shout got by— Not all Pianos in the Woods Had power to mangle me— I dared not meet the Daffodils— For fear their Yellow Gown Would pierce me with a fashion So foreign to my own— I wished the Grass would hurry— So—when ’twas time to see— He’d be too tall, the tallest one Could stretch—to look at me— I could not bear the Bees should come, I wished they’d stay away In those dim countries where they go, What word had they, for me? They’re here, though; not a creature failed— No Blossom stayed away In gentle deference to me— The Queen of Calvary— Each one salutes me, as he goes, And I, my childish Plumes, Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment Of their unthinking Drums—
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14.6k
Emily Dickinson
I dreaded that first Robin, so
348 I dreaded that first Robin, so, But He is mastered, now, I’m accustomed to Him grown, He hurts a little, though— I thought If I could only live Till that first Shout got by— Not all Pianos in the Woods Had power to mangle me— I dared not meet the Daffodils— For fear their Yellow Gown Would pierce me with a fashion So foreign to my own— I wished the Grass would hurry— So—when ’twas time to see— He’d be too tall, the tallest one Could stretch—to look at me— I could not bear the Bees should come, I wished they’d stay away In those dim countries where they go, What word had they, for me? They’re here, though; not a creature failed— No Blossom stayed away In gentle deference to me— The Queen of Calvary— Each one salutes me, as he goes, And I, my childish Plumes, Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment Of their unthinking Drums—
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29
I know why the caged bird sings. It's not because his song is as vibrant as his feathers, that he plucks away each day because he doesn't feel beautiful. It's not because of the majesty that exist in the freedom of being able to spread his wings though he knows he'll never rise to the occasion. He sings because he believes that this cage was made for a king because he has never tasted freedom with a side order of skies. He's never flown past the sun on a cool morning or hung with the moon on a warm night. He's only ever known the comfort of a prison that his thoughts have become accustomed to calling home. He would never venture beyond the "welcome" mat because what's beyond the threshold holds no promise the way these bars and metal locks do. He sings because he knows that no one is listening so if he makes a mistake he doesn't have to live with the regret or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note. The caged bird never believes that he's caged because behind these walls he's safe and he prefers it this way. I know why the caged bird sings.
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Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
MisterGranger
tHE cAGED bIRD
I know why the caged bird sings. It's not because his song is as vibrant as his feathers, that he plucks away each day because he doesn't feel beautiful. It's not because of the majesty that exist in the freedom of being able to spread his wings though he knows he'll never rise to the occasion. He sings because he believes that this cage was made for a king because he has never tasted freedom with a side order of skies. He's never flown past the sun on a cool morning or hung with the moon on a warm night. He's only ever known the comfort of a prison that his thoughts have become accustomed to calling home. He would never venture beyond the "welcome" mat because what's beyond the threshold holds no promise the way these bars and metal locks do. He sings because he knows that no one is listening so if he makes a mistake he doesn't have to live with the regret or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note. The caged bird never believes that he's caged because behind these walls he's safe and he prefers it this way. I know why the caged bird sings.
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41
came to visit me again last night seeping in when i was half asleep embracing me from the inside keeping me awake in his presence he's not a friend nor a foe we solely co-exist then i should probably get accustomed to his presence regardless how queasy and uneasy he makes me feel how he makes i small probably he cares about me i just need to      stop          him            *********** Stop.
0
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
emm
Anxiety
came to visit me again last night seeping in when i was half asleep embracing me from the inside keeping me awake in his presence he's not a friend nor a foe we solely co-exist then i should probably get accustomed to his presence regardless how queasy and uneasy he makes me feel how he makes i small probably he cares about me i just need to      stop          him            *********** Stop.
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16
Oh delirium, how much I have grown in-love with thee at this hour near morning twilight all hazy in the brain in deciding whether to see you or to drop my head asleep, accustomed to the bewitching time and longing to see that lingering daylight break, a dreamy state of thus, this moment wondering...
0
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
darciefitzpatrick
My twilight
Oh delirium, how much I have grown in-love with thee at this hour near morning twilight all hazy in the brain in deciding whether to see you or to drop my head asleep, accustomed to the bewitching time and longing to see that lingering daylight break, a dreamy state of thus, this moment wondering...
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1
you are like ****** the devils drug. one hit and i crave you. i crave that feeling of euphoria. you make me feel happy, good, mellow. but i grow accustomed to you, and i crave more. more interaction, more contact. i need more of you to give me that high. but my body aches, i cant sleep, and i get waves of nausea when i cannot have you. i go insane for another hit. “just one more.” but one turns into two, which becomes three, and they keep adding up. i cant stop wanting you. i am addicted to you. you are ******
0
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
maura
******
you are like ****** the devils drug. one hit and i crave you. i crave that feeling of euphoria. you make me feel happy, good, mellow. but i grow accustomed to you, and i crave more. more interaction, more contact. i need more of you to give me that high. but my body aches, i cant sleep, and i get waves of nausea when i cannot have you. i go insane for another hit. “just one more.” but one turns into two, which becomes three, and they keep adding up. i cant stop wanting you. i am addicted to you. you are ******
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20
rumour has it mirrors shatter at the thought of you having your fathers eyes I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye at the end of the night you'll find it wherever home is I know you hate the smell of smoke but cigarettes are all I know so I'm asking you to put up with it you have every reason to be furious but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see how calm they make my blood stream I only started smoking to ease the pain it was that or a needle to the vein a bullet to the brain too much going on up there anyways it all just needed cutting out so cigarettes just made sense I talk about them in the past tense but the one between my fingers seems to disagree open your eyes and see through all the smoke and mirrors lies me a double entendre for how things used to be and how they are currently the writing is on the wall in every ****** love song lies a promise to make the next one stronger and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer and all of a sudden the bands broken up and the symbol of love you used to **** to is broken like the bond of your parents love I love you is an apology forgiveness is given with every similar reply I love you means that I forgive you for being broken and for breaking me because picking you out in a crowded room is something I've become accustomed to god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes on that night in July with fireworks in the sky the last time I remember you saying goodbye because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes smoke and mirrors 06/22/14 9:10am j.s
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Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
moonboy
smoke and mirrors
rumour has it mirrors shatter at the thought of you having your fathers eyes I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye at the end of the night you'll find it wherever home is I know you hate the smell of smoke but cigarettes are all I know so I'm asking you to put up with it you have every reason to be furious but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see how calm they make my blood stream I only started smoking to ease the pain it was that or a needle to the vein a bullet to the brain too much going on up there anyways it all just needed cutting out so cigarettes just made sense I talk about them in the past tense but the one between my fingers seems to disagree open your eyes and see through all the smoke and mirrors lies me a double entendre for how things used to be and how they are currently the writing is on the wall in every ****** love song lies a promise to make the next one stronger and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer and all of a sudden the bands broken up and the symbol of love you used to **** to is broken like the bond of your parents love I love you is an apology forgiveness is given with every similar reply I love you means that I forgive you for being broken and for breaking me because picking you out in a crowded room is something I've become accustomed to god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes on that night in July with fireworks in the sky the last time I remember you saying goodbye because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes smoke and mirrors 06/22/14 9:10am j.s
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45
Am I attractive, hot, or **** Or just a forlorn idiot flexing In order to join the *** scene? I put a towel down And set up a picnic My head spins round From the dirt they kick On my meal To make me feel Scared and alone With nowhere to roam So I stay here laying in the sun On the other side of a Gatling gun I searched for a savior Who's willing to say words To me For free My search was fruitless My eyes turned youthless I grazed in the grass As time quickly passed After I finished my food And was left there to brood I became a floating satellite That was accustomed to night Because of my frights That reflected all light Now I see ants trying to feed on my crumbs They must think I'm pretty desperately dumb To not know they enforced my segregation When I had naively sought validation I waited there silently salivating They responded by not validating It's for that bitter reason During my new season I reflect my light on the approaching ants So I may thwart their encroaching dance My humble heart yearns As I watch bugs burn They wouldn't partake in my feast So I morphed into a brutish beast Now they're here to eat what's left If they can survive my dragon's breath They put out the fire in my heart But ignited my mind My useless humanity parts As I focus on time A time that keeps passing While signs keep flashing As burning bugs dying Or sad satellites flying My life was no peaceful picnic After they noticed my sickness And left me alone For that is my home When I don't need validation anymore I search for love Unfortunately I know what's in store A picnic in the mud
0
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
andrew-rueter
Picnic
Am I attractive, hot, or **** Or just a forlorn idiot flexing In order to join the *** scene? I put a towel down And set up a picnic My head spins round From the dirt they kick On my meal To make me feel Scared and alone With nowhere to roam So I stay here laying in the sun On the other side of a Gatling gun I searched for a savior Who's willing to say words To me For free My search was fruitless My eyes turned youthless I grazed in the grass As time quickly passed After I finished my food And was left there to brood I became a floating satellite That was accustomed to night Because of my frights That reflected all light Now I see ants trying to feed on my crumbs They must think I'm pretty desperately dumb To not know they enforced my segregation When I had naively sought validation I waited there silently salivating They responded by not validating It's for that bitter reason During my new season I reflect my light on the approaching ants So I may thwart their encroaching dance My humble heart yearns As I watch bugs burn They wouldn't partake in my feast So I morphed into a brutish beast Now they're here to eat what's left If they can survive my dragon's breath They put out the fire in my heart But ignited my mind My useless humanity parts As I focus on time A time that keeps passing While signs keep flashing As burning bugs dying Or sad satellites flying My life was no peaceful picnic After they noticed my sickness And left me alone For that is my home When I don't need validation anymore I search for love Unfortunately I know what's in store A picnic in the mud
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59
Paris The city of light Having its darkest night Since World War Two. Lebanon Double the body bags, Yet no media hags Turn their heads. Normal For there they say But for Paris nay And so we pay attention. Kenya Syria Iraq Libia A suicide bomb Over here, Two hundred dead, we overhear Wrapped into our daily news. We pay it Almost no heed As the blood drips down to feed The list of the dead. We say It is because we have grown Accustomed, yet we have flown Over the Coocoo's best to believe this. The truth is, Both for here And there, A white life is worth far more. It is worth 10 Black American lives, 16 Hispanic or Asian lives, 27 Arab lives, 35 African lives, These numbers Straight from CNN And the New York Times. Do we not bleed the same blood? Have we forgotten what it is to smile Such that we cannot see ours are all the same? What has happened to this world, Once so gold and bright, Now a darkened, saddened grey As it weeps it's tears Upon the red river That runs through the valley of fears.
0
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
isaac-huston
Paris
Paris The city of light Having its darkest night Since World War Two. Lebanon Double the body bags, Yet no media hags Turn their heads. Normal For there they say But for Paris nay And so we pay attention. Kenya Syria Iraq Libia A suicide bomb Over here, Two hundred dead, we overhear Wrapped into our daily news. We pay it Almost no heed As the blood drips down to feed The list of the dead. We say It is because we have grown Accustomed, yet we have flown Over the Coocoo's best to believe this. The truth is, Both for here And there, A white life is worth far more. It is worth 10 Black American lives, 16 Hispanic or Asian lives, 27 Arab lives, 35 African lives, These numbers Straight from CNN And the New York Times. Do we not bleed the same blood? Have we forgotten what it is to smile Such that we cannot see ours are all the same? What has happened to this world, Once so gold and bright, Now a darkened, saddened grey As it weeps it's tears Upon the red river That runs through the valley of fears.
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49
I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand, And they had nailed the boards above her face, The peasants of that land, Wondering to lay her in that solitude, And raised above her mound A cross they had made out of two bits of wood, And planted cypress round; And left her to the indifferent stars above Until I carved these words: She was more beautiful than thy first love, But now lies under boards.
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6.9k
William Butler Yeats
A Dream Of Death
I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place Near no accustomed hand, And they had nailed the boards above her face, The peasants of that land, Wondering to lay her in that solitude, And raised above her mound A cross they had made out of two bits of wood, And planted cypress round; And left her to the indifferent stars above Until I carved these words: She was more beautiful than thy first love, But now lies under boards.
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12
We all bear scars in one way or other. Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for. Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons. Some we are but some we are not so proud of. I have scars all over my body. All over my mind and all over my soul. I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet. I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of. I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships. I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth. I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals. I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age. I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start. I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times. I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then. I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met. I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home. I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth. I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life. I have all these scars. All of them. And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times. They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become. They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now. A survivor.
0
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
missfabulous
Scarred for Life
We all bear scars in one way or other. Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for. Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons. Some we are but some we are not so proud of. I have scars all over my body. All over my mind and all over my soul. I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet. I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of. I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships. I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth. I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals. I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age. I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start. I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times. I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then. I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met. I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home. I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth. I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life. I have all these scars. All of them. And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times. They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become. They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now. A survivor.
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24
I have not grown accustomed to the sound of your messages. Their presence did little to assure, nor did their absence cause unsettling. Today, however, I must admit that I have waited for that bell. My heart salivated at the sound of passing bicycles, hoping finally it was you remembering the love you have left waiting. I wonder: How could you have conditioned me to anticipate something that has never been constant anyway? for j.e. 013115
0
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
thegirlwhowrites
Did Pavlov's dog ever wait for that bell?
I have not grown accustomed to the sound of your messages. Their presence did little to assure, nor did their absence cause unsettling. Today, however, I must admit that I have waited for that bell. My heart salivated at the sound of passing bicycles, hoping finally it was you remembering the love you have left waiting. I wonder: How could you have conditioned me to anticipate something that has never been constant anyway? for j.e. 013115
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18
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing. He was as good as he had always been. But half way through, a woman appeared, Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage. Entering the ring of bright spot light near him. Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck, Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs, Reflecting the light. Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress, Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day. Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin, Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend. Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting. The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message Only they understood.  Then starting slow and low, The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin. The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed, In summer breeze, began to gently sway, Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty, The voice of both her Instrument and from within she, Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall. With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made, As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords. Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings. For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone. Her actions of body, hands and head in concert, To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said. The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there. The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage. I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted, I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made. Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless, Little black dress. It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again, I know not, even her name. And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell. Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web. With me sitting, third row, isle seat left, Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty, Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking Blond woman in the black dress.
0
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
stephen-e-yocum
The Woman In a Black Dress
We had come to see him, the aging Tenor sing. He was as good as he had always been. But half way through, a woman appeared, Moving gracefully in bare feet upon the stage. Entering the ring of bright spot light near him. Long blond hair, falling loose around her neck, Held back both sides by Turtle Shell combs, Reflecting the light. Adorned in but a simple, low cut black dress, Her with a face beautiful as a new spring day. Held in her left hand an ebony hued violin, Touched fondly, like a well accustomed old friend. Her right hand holding a bow, ready and waiting. The Tenor’s and her eyes met and conveyed a message Only they understood.  Then starting slow and low, The full Orchestra commenced. The woman in black Brought instrument up to her chin, lovingly resting her face upon it, as if comforted by it's touch to skin. The fetching violinist, like a graceful reed, In summer breeze, began to gently sway, Laid Bow to strings and a transcended beauty, The voice of both her Instrument and from within she, Emerged through her fingers, completely filling the hall. With eyes closed, the slight movements of expression On her face registering the feelings the musical notes made, As if those gestures too, guided the bow's musical cords. Slender precise fingers lovingly caressing the strings. For nearly a minute, she and her violin played alone. Her actions of body, hands and head in concert, To her music, unavoidably hypnotic it could be said. The Tenor started to sing, and yet my eyes stayed Locked on her, as if no one else in the room was there. The blond woman in the black dress owned the stage. I have no idea how long that piece of music lasted, I could not attest to what contribution the Tenor made. Fully my attention and eventually my heart belonged To that lovely, evocative young woman in the backless, Little black dress. It’s true that I may never see or hear her play again, I know not, even her name. And yet, I’m sure that I will never forget those Few minutes mesmerized by her magical spell. Hopelessly caught in her enchanting web. With me sitting, third row, isle seat left, Worshiping as I did, at her so pretty, Slightly ***** naked feet, the striking Blond woman in the black dress.
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47
Swirling spiral of anti-matter Cascading down an endless ladder In non-corporeal states Spirits search for their soul mates One taste and we miss our goal And cling to a second-hand role One state that we all share Bittersweet and unaware Feed on life, consumed to death We devour the world with every breath Forged by chance, nurtured in deceit We glimpse the truth and quickly retreat Our description becomes indescribable Our delusions become undeniable You were once mine for a moment in time I embraced your accustomed wounds Used and abused, starving for love You shone like a Samhain Moon Yet love is alive, not a lie Not a manifestation of will Not a statue of god or paradise façade Nor some unholy devil’s deal I was once young with mind undone Chasing a somber moon Yet time has devoured Those dead flowers Upon that empty tomb
0
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 3:20 AM UTC
TravelerTim
SOMBER MOON
Swirling spiral of anti-matter Cascading down an endless ladder In non-corporeal states Spirits search for their soul mates One taste and we miss our goal And cling to a second-hand role One state that we all share Bittersweet and unaware Feed on life, consumed to death We devour the world with every breath Forged by chance, nurtured in deceit We glimpse the truth and quickly retreat Our description becomes indescribable Our delusions become undeniable You were once mine for a moment in time I embraced your accustomed wounds Used and abused, starving for love You shone like a Samhain Moon Yet love is alive, not a lie Not a manifestation of will Not a statue of god or paradise façade Nor some unholy devil’s deal I was once young with mind undone Chasing a somber moon Yet time has devoured Those dead flowers Upon that empty tomb
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27
your stars hung in pairs against the accustomed singularity of celestial bodies your stars held the promise of enlightenment and i sought you the way kings did hunting you down in the endeavor of navigation pinned down and ****** until man left the stars for devices of their own and when the stars followed humanity stardust resurrecting in the arrangement of atoms constellations manifesting in wombs nebulae shattering for the genesis the universe destroyed itself for you oh gemini boy the cosmos are not kind to boys who are destined to be halves on an eternal voyage for missing fragments in a lover's touch and a child's laugh the world is not kind to boys who look into your eyes and only see their reflection but you were kind to me oh gemini boy this is an apology to a mortal born from the immortality of twins whose love bore the gods' mercy to rest among the stars not knowing that stars die just as the children born from them do just as you oh gemini boy maybe i should have known better than to love a boy always searching for himself i mistook you for a cosmic collision meant for the dawn of a new heaven and maybe i fell in love with your destruction as i navigated you the way ancients looked to your stars for salvation oh gemini boy my stars hang in the silhouette of the unknown isolated from the promise of deliverance man was once told we are born from different stars our fates moving in parallel precision never meeting again after our stardust once laid prints upon our astral anatomy and because we are not stars but the echoes of seraphic wars meant to traverse desolate lands in search for completion oh gemini boy i forgive you you just wanted to be whole
0
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:19 AM UTC
sofiasays
gemini boy
your stars hung in pairs against the accustomed singularity of celestial bodies your stars held the promise of enlightenment and i sought you the way kings did hunting you down in the endeavor of navigation pinned down and ****** until man left the stars for devices of their own and when the stars followed humanity stardust resurrecting in the arrangement of atoms constellations manifesting in wombs nebulae shattering for the genesis the universe destroyed itself for you oh gemini boy the cosmos are not kind to boys who are destined to be halves on an eternal voyage for missing fragments in a lover's touch and a child's laugh the world is not kind to boys who look into your eyes and only see their reflection but you were kind to me oh gemini boy this is an apology to a mortal born from the immortality of twins whose love bore the gods' mercy to rest among the stars not knowing that stars die just as the children born from them do just as you oh gemini boy maybe i should have known better than to love a boy always searching for himself i mistook you for a cosmic collision meant for the dawn of a new heaven and maybe i fell in love with your destruction as i navigated you the way ancients looked to your stars for salvation oh gemini boy my stars hang in the silhouette of the unknown isolated from the promise of deliverance man was once told we are born from different stars our fates moving in parallel precision never meeting again after our stardust once laid prints upon our astral anatomy and because we are not stars but the echoes of seraphic wars meant to traverse desolate lands in search for completion oh gemini boy i forgive you you just wanted to be whole
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52
Lone walker, In the midst of the crowd his heart was always alone. Sank into the belly of tribulations, Unlike the missionary journey of Jonah he was vomited into more woes. Like how a beautiful mountain in a wilderness thirst for tourist So his heart was hungry for love. If loneliness is synonymous to poverty then he deserved this cross. Lone walker, He lonely walked on thorns, struggled with everything, sweated blood. He lived a life of trapped miners in a cave miles below fresh air. Lone walker, Rain of respite barely shower on his path. Sun bit his skin, dews often united with his tears, For there was no even a free den for him to rest his head. His days were worse than the trials of Job, For he had not even a wife to encourage him to curse God and give up the ghost. Like an eaglet without a falcon, he was accustomed to crying for his dying talents that was hidden too deep for any scout to discover. To him the world was empty and void of helpers Until a moment came when he decided to abort his worries, fears and his ugly past. In a flash he recalled the parable of the talents, In a speed of lightning he stood and put his hidden gift into use. I key my mind into the eyes of the reader of his biography, As I stood in the midst of his children offspring in his burial ceremony fit for kings, With the assurance that he is not walking alone to heaven or hell indeed And surely his once lonely heart would be filled with merriment and peace.
0
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
victor-ernest-osong
Lone Walker.
Lone walker, In the midst of the crowd his heart was always alone. Sank into the belly of tribulations, Unlike the missionary journey of Jonah he was vomited into more woes. Like how a beautiful mountain in a wilderness thirst for tourist So his heart was hungry for love. If loneliness is synonymous to poverty then he deserved this cross. Lone walker, He lonely walked on thorns, struggled with everything, sweated blood. He lived a life of trapped miners in a cave miles below fresh air. Lone walker, Rain of respite barely shower on his path. Sun bit his skin, dews often united with his tears, For there was no even a free den for him to rest his head. His days were worse than the trials of Job, For he had not even a wife to encourage him to curse God and give up the ghost. Like an eaglet without a falcon, he was accustomed to crying for his dying talents that was hidden too deep for any scout to discover. To him the world was empty and void of helpers Until a moment came when he decided to abort his worries, fears and his ugly past. In a flash he recalled the parable of the talents, In a speed of lightning he stood and put his hidden gift into use. I key my mind into the eyes of the reader of his biography, As I stood in the midst of his children offspring in his burial ceremony fit for kings, With the assurance that he is not walking alone to heaven or hell indeed And surely his once lonely heart would be filled with merriment and peace.
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26
coffee breath, 9:42, violet pigment under eyes, tiresome sighs. three hours and forty- one minutes of sleep, my mind says no,no,no,no my eyes are heavy and so is my mood heart sunken deep as eye bags wondering if you actually care. those blue-green eyes, are they analyzing my feelings, or algebra? i just want you to feel the same way, which is a way i have never felt before mushy, gushy, stupid poems, hopeless, delicate Juliet searching for Romeo in her peripherals little Juliet, wake up, wake up, go be the lioness you're accustomed to be
0
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:01 AM UTC
dafne
algebra two
coffee breath, 9:42, violet pigment under eyes, tiresome sighs. three hours and forty- one minutes of sleep, my mind says no,no,no,no my eyes are heavy and so is my mood heart sunken deep as eye bags wondering if you actually care. those blue-green eyes, are they analyzing my feelings, or algebra? i just want you to feel the same way, which is a way i have never felt before mushy, gushy, stupid poems, hopeless, delicate Juliet searching for Romeo in her peripherals little Juliet, wake up, wake up, go be the lioness you're accustomed to be
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19
My love for you Can not prosper Without a love for me. What's left in me Is cold and dark And it rests in my heart. It influences my actions It influences my choices And blindly steals my happiness From right in front of me Leaving me hopeless. What have I done To deserve this madness? I've let evil distort my view Of love And I view that evil As a knife That I have turned upon myself If I have gone crazy That is for you to decide. I give you my wrongs Because I can no longer hide So this is my heartbreak suicide. I've ****** up With all the women I've met. Either I cheated, lied Or left. Now I am alone and stressed Hurt and depressed Because it's like I ripped my ****** heart Right out of my chest. Yeah, these are My heartbreak suicides And how I've killed myself On the inside. Because love is blind And I've been chasing That blind ************ For some time. With this gaping cavity In my chest Stumbling over lust And wasting time. Losing my ****** mind More and more each time. Love is suppose to be Patient. Love is suppose to be Kind. What they didn't tell us Is that love is Transparent. When we chase and search It only leaves us more hurt. We fall and refuse to get up And we forget our self worth. Committing atrocities to Feel less hurt. When in reality Each atrocious act Has only set us back. What do we do? Do we keep up the pursuit? Of something we can only feel And only look through? Or do we wait? Until it unexpectedly drops on us And make our souls shake. I guess I should go with the latter Because I'm tired of feeling Bruised and battered. I've made the choices That have led me here And my heart is shattered From the falls. I am reaching in And pulling out the fragments. Piecing it back together With no sadness. Praying to God that he never again Let this happen. Who am I to decide If I've lost my mind. I'm just not accustomed To change and what comes with time. I've set my anger loose on the inside And this is my Heartbreak suicide.
0
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:38 PM UTC
Klvshp0et
"Heartbreak Suicide"
My love for you Can not prosper Without a love for me. What's left in me Is cold and dark And it rests in my heart. It influences my actions It influences my choices And blindly steals my happiness From right in front of me Leaving me hopeless. What have I done To deserve this madness? I've let evil distort my view Of love And I view that evil As a knife That I have turned upon myself If I have gone crazy That is for you to decide. I give you my wrongs Because I can no longer hide So this is my heartbreak suicide. I've ****** up With all the women I've met. Either I cheated, lied Or left. Now I am alone and stressed Hurt and depressed Because it's like I ripped my ****** heart Right out of my chest. Yeah, these are My heartbreak suicides And how I've killed myself On the inside. Because love is blind And I've been chasing That blind ************ For some time. With this gaping cavity In my chest Stumbling over lust And wasting time. Losing my ****** mind More and more each time. Love is suppose to be Patient. Love is suppose to be Kind. What they didn't tell us Is that love is Transparent. When we chase and search It only leaves us more hurt. We fall and refuse to get up And we forget our self worth. Committing atrocities to Feel less hurt. When in reality Each atrocious act Has only set us back. What do we do? Do we keep up the pursuit? Of something we can only feel And only look through? Or do we wait? Until it unexpectedly drops on us And make our souls shake. I guess I should go with the latter Because I'm tired of feeling Bruised and battered. I've made the choices That have led me here And my heart is shattered From the falls. I am reaching in And pulling out the fragments. Piecing it back together With no sadness. Praying to God that he never again Let this happen. Who am I to decide If I've lost my mind. I'm just not accustomed To change and what comes with time. I've set my anger loose on the inside And this is my Heartbreak suicide.
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89
You and I are like summertime; You are the warm breeze that brushes the hair across my back, tickling. I return the favor by tickling you with silly faces and sarcastic remarks. You are the stars that come out late at night, twinkling against the navy sky. I am the pair of eyes that light up when they meet your own. You are the butterflies that have found a home in the depths of my stomach, like the same ones I watch flutter around so beautifully innocent. You are the sand that becomes so accustomed to being kissed by my salty waves, and then.. Then, low tide arrives. The warm breezes turn chilled, leaving behind goosebumps instead of laughter. Stars that once shone so bright become blurred into overcast skies All good things must come to an end, and they do just that.
0
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 9:29 PM UTC
brighterendofdark
All Good Things.
You and I are like summertime; You are the warm breeze that brushes the hair across my back, tickling. I return the favor by tickling you with silly faces and sarcastic remarks. You are the stars that come out late at night, twinkling against the navy sky. I am the pair of eyes that light up when they meet your own. You are the butterflies that have found a home in the depths of my stomach, like the same ones I watch flutter around so beautifully innocent. You are the sand that becomes so accustomed to being kissed by my salty waves, and then.. Then, low tide arrives. The warm breezes turn chilled, leaving behind goosebumps instead of laughter. Stars that once shone so bright become blurred into overcast skies All good things must come to an end, and they do just that.
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12
Tipping point reached, one final breath Let the waves of inertia crash, contaminate .... Alone in complexity, machinery, and everything Perfectly formed human being Slowly turning sour by the minute Stale air, only growing in its bitter taste as Seconds that feel like hours, add to feel like years All the plans i made All the plans i planned to make Gone, but not forgotten But then they were gone Truer statement never read then What i read on the back of the final bit found Within my reach Filtered through a layer of sediment settled over my vision Sanitized as life had been But my shelter having been breached To seep much longer... Too accustomed, but it doesn't help Found lacking in the company I had hoped to keep A poor atonement, sinking further Or, it kept rising I was nearly covered. ..... They stepped a little closer And left appalled by what they found Rotting in the dark, silently Defensive at the outset, shaking at the sound Sounding incomplete Face down this Eventual ending For me
0
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:12 AM UTC
Boggy
Shelter
Tipping point reached, one final breath Let the waves of inertia crash, contaminate .... Alone in complexity, machinery, and everything Perfectly formed human being Slowly turning sour by the minute Stale air, only growing in its bitter taste as Seconds that feel like hours, add to feel like years All the plans i made All the plans i planned to make Gone, but not forgotten But then they were gone Truer statement never read then What i read on the back of the final bit found Within my reach Filtered through a layer of sediment settled over my vision Sanitized as life had been But my shelter having been breached To seep much longer... Too accustomed, but it doesn't help Found lacking in the company I had hoped to keep A poor atonement, sinking further Or, it kept rising I was nearly covered. ..... They stepped a little closer And left appalled by what they found Rotting in the dark, silently Defensive at the outset, shaking at the sound Sounding incomplete Face down this Eventual ending For me
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34