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Rebekah Lamb May 2014
If I kiss a woman, I am a lesbian
If I kiss a man, I am straight
I have this illogical need to scream at the heavens from atop a cliff
To scream I’m here in this world; I exist!
To say I am just bisexual is wrong
To say that certain aspect of me is the most oppressed is wrong
I am a woman, I am bisexual, I have tourettes, I have depression
I could go on for hours saying I ams
Saying statements that describe me
I am oppressed and stereotyped by the society I live in
So why is being bisexual the one I defend the most?
I asked myself this daily
Until I found the answer
Every other fact about me is undeniable;
I have a ******
I have diagnoses
That is tangible evidence
I have no sheet of paper with a signature of some fancy M.D.
Nor do I have some body part that labels me as bisexual
There is no definite way to tell if I am bisexual
Which makes it easier for people to say You’re just confused or It’s just a phase
And no matter how often I say it’s not; they won’t believe me
They don’t believe me because I don’t have the evidence they want
I don’t have an M.D.’s signature
I don’t have that ‘bisexual bodypart’
All I have is my own knowledge
And I don’t give a **** if that’s not good enough for you
Because I do exist
And I am here to stay
This is an old poem that I wrote quite a while ago. I think some people may enjoy it.
Haley Valentine Mar 2011
Your first position of power
Feeling you don't get the respect
You think you deserve
I almost pity you

Treating us like dogs
But with a guise of politeness
"Ma'ams" and "pleases" can't hide your contempt
Your patronizing tone washes it all away

Doctors bark at you, you say?
Patients don't respect you?
Poor you, you deserve the world
Right, try being us for a day

Your lying mouth never stops
Complaining, explaining
As if we're completely ignorant
As if we can fix your problems

Your favorite activity
The one at which I roll my eyes
Is telling us how much you hate
The profession YOU chose

Perhaps you're just upset
That all our young minds
Can change our paths
Nothing for us is set in stone

Condescending, you sneer
"I am your boss"
*****, you've been here
Less time than I have

What gives you the right
To judge these people?
Sure, they're self-entitled
Demanding and belittling

But have you looked in the mirror lately?
Chanel McCartney Feb 2012
It all kinda seemed like yesterday that I began to unpack my car full of my things and headed in Vic Hall for the first time...
- And it all felt like yesterday when Sara was attacked by the creepy purple people in kilts and chains...
- And it was like yesterday when we met Simon and Dana and offered them a fridge...
- And it seems like yesterday when I was covered head to toe in peat moss and shaving cream in navy blue coveralls...
- And it was yesterday when we all took our first jump in the Lake off the pier
- And I could have sworn that it was yesterday when I went to my first class scared stiff just to find out that my profs were the coolest people..
- And it feels like yesterday that I met Margaret for the first time, and she thought I lived on her floor which I didn't...
- And yesterday I almost failed my first assignment and felt the tears rolling down my face, worried that I wasn't going to pass..
- And I will swear that it was Homecoming yesterday...
- And it was soo definately yesterday that Mariah, Sara and I conquered the BEHEMOTH!!!! Wonderland!
- And it definately was yesterday when Drama 100 went on their roadtrip to Gannanoque :P
- And it could have been yesterday when we went out for our first of many fire alarms in Vic...
- And it might have been yesterday when I realised that my calender is my new best friend..
- And it feels much like yesterday when my cousins came to see me and show me the best places in K-town...
- And it all went down yesterday that I wrote my first midterm...
- And alas it was yesterday that I found a boy and left him..
- And it must have been yesterday that I found out how much talent was in Drama 100's fall presentations...(especially Lab F... :P)
- And it feels just like yesterday that QMT astounded me with Jekyll and Hyde..
- And it could have been yesterday that I joined the Hip Hop class..
- And, of course, yesterday I helped organise Ale with the Profs for English DSC..
- And, yes, it was yesterday the I voted for AMS president...
- And then there was yesterday when I went to my first Hillel Dinner and loved it..
- And it was most definately yesterday when I discovered my hatred for chemistry...
- And yesterday, I went out for my room mates birthday...
- And then, yesterday, I figured out how much I love Indigo books... and Starbucks coffee..
- And yesterday I found out that people actually live in Stauffer Library.. sleep on couches...
- And it really was yesterday that I found out I was going to be a Gael and met Chris Mitchell aka our OC!! and my future Gael FAM!!!!
- And it was yesterday that I joined the costume crew for Man of la Mancha and learned how to use a sewing machine... sorry Julia :P
- And then yesterday, I went to see Ted in Anne Frank.. he was really great!
- And yesterday, I found out that Drama 100 was way more talented in their Winter Presentations...
- And it seems like yesterday that it was my last day of classes... but somehow I still had projects due..
- And it was sooo yesterday that I finished my last essay of the year...
- And it feels soo much like yesterday when I met to whole cast and crew and went to the somewhat and the gala night and closing night (the strike and cast party)!!! You guys are fantastic..
- And yesterday I began my first of many finals...
- And then yesterday I said goodbye to my lucky friends who finished before me and going home for the summer...


But it was today, as I was packing my things and talking to my parents, that they asked,"How does it feel to be finished your first of four years of university?" and I said, "It all seemed like yesterday."
what is that college readmissions essay supposed to tell you?

i was depressed, but you don't acknowledge mental health as anything but a lazy made up excuse to not work as hard as the people whose shoulders i stood on did.

"what have you learned, and how will you apply that as a student at our university?"

how do you define growth?

i'm going back to school, and that's what i want to talk about, but i can't help but focus on why i left. i can hear myself and others, battling the war in our heads called "pragmatics vs empathy".

i can't tell who's losing.
i can only tell who's participating in yuppie culture, i can only draft so many letters to my parents, and the congruence of my academic self and every other version of myself.

what does a gap year mean (to my family)? what about two?

i've had this stand alone identity, and it's cost me a lot.

i miss learning.

there are so many barriers, so much omission.
do i only make one-year commitments out of fear for anything longer?

i'm jumping into a lot of different identities, with their own different paths, but we ultimately come back together as one, as me. it's meiosis. only one of them has to eat or sleep. i could keep working and running forever. parts of me are really and only good at that.

how do i fulfill the expectation of living up to what my parents see?
how do i get recognized for "growth" and how do i identify areas for it?

i'm sorry, dad. this was a really long voicemail. i'll talk to you later.
These nights are what I hope these years would have been,
Laughing away until the early morn when I speak my way into your dreams,
The time we have here is but our only time upon this earth,
And every choice we make will be sealed in the fate that is called time,
For we cannot go backwards or forwards only one direction which is now,
Streaking campus, shoving food in to our mouth only to gag and make our friends laugh,
I know it sounds stupid to most of you,

But these memories are my years and months and days, these memories are the semesters of hard work and hours, of blood and sweat and toil which has driven me insane,

I am finally having the fun I was promised when I was given this gift called life, and you do not dare take that away from me.
Marly Mar 2014
i am beautiful
                                                                                      but i am not breathtaking.
i am smart
                                                                                           but i am not ingenious.
i am kind
                                                                                                 but i am not cordial.
i am a person.
                                                                                                  i am not perfection.
M Sanchez May 2017
You do not get to hurt my feelings and call it "art"
I will not gift you in that way
You own all the credit but I refuse to give you fame
This is not a poem
If it were it'd be titled with your name
Details about how the clouds couldn't compete with me but instead,
I am feeling that feeling with no name
And that's why
This is not a poem
As I'm lying on this bed
I will sign it and hide it within my drawer labeled 12 AMs
Because you are not an artist
They create beauty from their own pain
But you have used mine
You will never know what it said
I still love you
But I must remind you,

that this is not a poem.
Ernestine Sep 2015
In this vast Universe of ours;
That is made-up of I ams

There is an I am looking for you
like a beautiful colorful balloon
It whispers softly; I am you

It is gentle, it is kind, it is loving
and wise, all it ever says is I am you.

The day you give a name to it and make it
your own, that is the day you step into the
wonderful unknown
fray narte Jul 2019
my nights have stopped becoming all about you.

they have stopped becoming about
voids that smell a little
like your perfume;
they have stopped becoming about
your eyes, and how they show clips
of you,
leaving.
they have stopped becoming about
broken clocks forever set to 11:11
wishing
for your return.

they have become about
a sea of black out poetries
and classic movies
my younger self
never dreamed of watching.
they have become about
songs I have never heard before.

1 ams have stopped becoming about
getting hit by
and chasing storms
named after you.
2 ams have stopped becoming
all about poems
written about you;
it’s about time
i write
about myself.
3 ams have stopped becoming
all about
shaking in pain
at the thought of
daylights worse than
midnights
and waking up as an empty shell.

they have become about
changing the color
of the sunsets and the rains,
and hugging silk pillows
and praying for strangers
a thousand miles away.

who can ever say
i’ll know what praying is like again?

my nights have stopped becoming all about you.

now, they’re all about
me,
and my growth,
and my happiness,
and my existential crises
if they insist on coming along.

so, leave, you’re long
overdue;
leave, you don’t belong here anymore.

my nights don’t belong
to you
anymore;

i don’t
belong
to you
anymore.
Charlie Chirico Sep 2012
In a few words,
I could do so much.

Now here comes the tricky part:
What to write.
What to express.
Thoughts that collide,
as I get them off my chest.

Not knowing whether to rhyme,
or to keep open structure.
A free verse;
open, then converse.
Many ideas to disperse.

Shakespearean sonnet please!
Something to state on bent knees.
Beautiful words I create.
I ams what I ams.
I sees what I sees.

In a few words,
I could do so much.
Maybe enlighten a few souls,
with words and such.
But this isn't my only outlet.
This isn't my crutch.
little moon Apr 2014
little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.
i guess in hindsight, this can sort of be seen as a prequel to 'the park'. i definitely had this in mind while i was writing 'the park' but as you can read that poem evolved into something else entirely. i wrote this some 2 am last summer
Julianna Eisner Mar 2014
..
Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and
dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of
nowhere
and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my
reptilian cortex, but I
pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds
              harder
                        than an
                                    addict discharged
                                                    fr­om
                                                        forest-y­ methadone clinics
                                                        i­n downtown cores
                                                        pop­pin' Hilfiger blue collars
                                                        y­ackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or
                                                        D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or
                                                        Little­ Tim,
                                                        buri­ed from ******* back too much hillbilly
                                                       ­ ******, while
                                                        col­lege girls sleep in their Sahara beds,
                                                        sav­ing up to buy bouncy trampolines with
                                                        boun­cy cheques,
                                                        ­listening to lullaby coos of pimps and ******
                                                        on­ the downstairs couch,
                                                        ga­zing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to
                                                        nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee
                                                        canyoudropmeoff?
                                             ­           outside of the seventh-story window of
                                                        million dollar saloons,
                                                        ­wearing blings and rings,
                                                        purchase­d by wealthy husbands and
                                                        travelin­g yuppies for their wives' veneer,
                                                        eating breakfast cereals that go
                                                        Snap! Crackle! Pop!
                                                        for three square meals,
                                                        re­furbishing plastic containers
                                                        on foot-stained broadloom,
                                                        with cage and cagey roommates,
                                                        throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in
                                                        Great Lakes
                                                        for the price of a debt,
                                                        recalling waffling road trips,
                                                        visiting one-man tents behind billowing
                                                        smokestacks;
                                                        I blew my brains out in an air duct,
                                                        lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,
                                                        climbing out of basement windows,
                                                        while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke
                                                        nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,
                                                        20 notes off-key,
                                                        harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted
                                                        out Grand Ams,
                                                        making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,
                                                        dressed in leprechaun fatigue,
                                                        driving like England at midnight,
                                                        I spoke to a faceless man,
                                                        whom I'll never get a chance to send a
                                                                ­               thank you
                                                       card...
                                                       as for me? I never touched the stuff

but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until
An e.ch-o-y sound in my
left  ear
I turned my head,
slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,
        the testa bursts open.
..
Dear A, you shine brighter than all the moons and stars together,
That light evened out with the darkness in me,
Dear B, I never noticed how sad you were,
Never noticed you were falling apart,
The absence of your voice would ruin the chorus,
Please don't leave me,
Dear C, You loved someone other than me,
and I never learned how to turn that into poetry,
Dear D, you showed me the best kinds of songs when you were sad,
When you were reminded of how much you missed her,
You found a girl with gentle hands and a want to love you now,
I miss you sometimes,
Dear E, I still hear you singing in every park I go to,
I still love you on 2:01 AMs,
Dear F, your ******* stories about loving me never fouled me,
I fell anyways,
Dear G, you talked of planting a garden with me,
But a past love held my seed,
In between bruises and cuts,
Dear H, you helped my skin remember the miracle of itself,
Dear I, I like to consider you my first love,
Your lips tasted like cigarette butts and addiction,
and your skin on mine remind me of depression and mid night demons,
Dear J, I loved you with all my soul,
and that love was the most precious thing,
I carry it always,
Dear K, I thought you were it,
But the the alphabet doesn't end at k,
Dear L, we talked about our dads inbetween thrusts,
I've never wanted to hate him so much,
Dear M, You were my 5 foot promise but your hands couldn't hold the secrets I lent,
Yet if I could I would nail these hands to the edges of compromise,
Dear N, my parents have never been in love,
But if it wasn't for them ******* in the back seat of a car I wouldn't have felt you pressed upon my skin,
Dear O, Sitting next to you at that lake in the middle of spring made me want to take a 7 hour drive up north just to see the leaves change colors,
and I fell like an autumn afternoon,
Dear P, your hands had touched more of the world than I could ever imagine while mine lined up with horizontal cuts,
Dear Q, I spent too much time imagining your fingers and how they move while you played that guitar,
I miss the way those same hands felt on my waist,
Dear R, we weren't a lesbian couple,
we were just two people who were very much in love with each other,
Dear S, I wrote a million poems trying to give it a name,
trying to get you closer to me,
but the lick stained corners of the pages were never embodied in you,
Dear T, I have all the butterflies I've ever felt for you in a box, somewhere deep in my closet,
Dear U, when I asked you if you loved me,
your lips curled up at the sides and I only saw me in between all the cracks
Dear V, Instead of you showing up, the rain did,
Dear W, Sometimes I remember how much I loved you and I want to cut up my body I'm no poet, not really,
Dear X, I spoke you into everything I did and loving you was the only thing I had ever felt good at,
Dear Y, my love stuttered more than it should've,
My love tripped over things,
My love said things that shouldn't have been said far too often,
Dear Z, I haven't met you yet
Dawnstar Oct 2018
Calais was a small disappointment,
And Ams-too-**** good to be true,
So while the red orb is yet to set,
I'll clear out my debt,
And try to forget,
And gather fresh hope on the morrow new.

Vesoul, that was my destination:
I gave up Quebec and Madrid!
Gladly forsaking old
Constantinople, for
Paris awaited my trip.

But I can't make a living in Bangkok,
With poncy jazzmen such as these.
The coffers of kings are busted and broke,
And my heart craves more
Than ashes and smoke,
So tour Guatemal', if you please.

Goodbye to pretty Latakia,
I turn from your shore with such sorrow.
Your flowery air I long to breathe,
Instead of standing alone in the street;
I want to return in a golden-fringed dream...
And gather fresh hope on the morrow.
entropiK Nov 2010
i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.
if you don't get it, i don't even know!!!!!!
Changu Baeletse Nov 2014
a kiss ....
in the rain
by a sunset
between covers
withing a drunken haze

is fixated on my imagination . For experience i aint got none

a stare
be it coy
outrageously flirty
borderline lets sleep together

is lost in my imagination. For confidence i aint got none

Touch
soft caresses
hasty grabs
playful smacks

are attemptedly felt in my imagination . For a partner i aint got one

Conversations
at 3 ams
over a stupid fight
lame attempt at flirting

are actually

one sided
witty in my head
and don't reveal any details

for trust i aint got none
My stimulus is the couples that surrounded me at prom.
Qynn Jan 2014
I write too many "I ams"
I I I
me me me
and yet, I'm trying to talk about you.
The way you make me feel when I am all alone
wrapped in blankets and thoughts
sometimes music, sometimes not
mostly your prerecorded thoughts on repeat before I go to sleep.

And look at me now.
Trying to write pretty "poetry"
to appease the goddess in my mind.
your face and your hair are one in her
one in the same in my happiness and pain.

I want to sing to you every night
and scream your sorrows away
oh my god, how I would fight for you
but my tears are pointless today.
I'm not really your type.

So.
What's my narcissistic word count for this one?
How selfish am I in longing
for the gold I could spin from your hair
and like a dragon I would hoard you
my gem, my crown jewel
and selfishly keep you away.
Nicole May 2014
We were driving
away from home
the rain pouring down
the windowshield
while we sing along
to our favorite song
as usual, my voice cracked
at the high tones
and the car was filled
with our laughter
then it struck me
that i can be myself around you again
and maybe i learnt to trust again
i knew i will not ever rue that moment
for in those minutes
i realized that no matter
what happens
i will always come back
to you;
and you will welcome me with both
ams open every time
Home is not always a structure
sometimes, you found it in those
moments spent with the ones
who love you as much a you love them.
Louis Brown May 2012
I think
Therefore, I am
The Frenchman said
But am I a hero
A *******
A do-gooder
A ne'er do well
I know it's up to me
Up to my own volition
To come to that
And it's amazing
How that plays out
In other I ams
Like murderers
Philanthropists
Hoboes
And does God
In some way
Tell us which one to be
He knows me
He is my essence
How could a dark thought come in
Satan is no equal
But it's his hand
That gets the credit
For evil men
But I don't understand
An iota of that
I just do
What my Creator
Put in me to do
And if I hate
Did He put it on my plate
The way to go
Is hard to comprehend
Do I consciously make the choices
I am what I am
But how much of that
Is me
Star Gazer Jun 2016
I stay up at night, late into the AMs riddled with guilt
Over how I grew too fond of one petal plucked flower
Watched it slowly rotted,decaying praying not to wilt
As I admired what once were stems in a indelible vase.

I hear of the ambience, lit up in a different hazy smoke,
Forced to let what I feel cascade into obvious oblivion,
Keeping clear calmness behind a messed mask that chokes
As the days drew long and the nights drew even longer.

Sunrise doesn't rise soon enough, and sunset sets too soon,
For fiery shadows built a furnace from my cold walls,
And before I could awake to the moon, I awoke to noon,
As you held every bit of a different burning candle light.

I'm sorry that I paved the pebbled pathway that you walked,
If I could reverse the sands, unsift across my hands,
Or captured every droplet of grain, wishing it wasn't caulked,
But I made the road that you tread on with you feet.

I'm sorry that every step you took only led you further,
And though I know you didn't want to be near after time taken,
I had hoped I could watch you stay afloat on a life preserver,
Rather than watch you drown, taking nothing but yourself.

I'm sorry that the days drawn out a different tale,
If I could bend time and stick it back together,
Just to make things better and watch as things unflail,
I'll always know I tried my best to give you my shoulders.

I set fire to your life, watched the smouldering ashes cast away into the air,
And for that I am sorry.
Michelle Garcia Jun 2015
We center our lives around hands that circle around endlessly, from three to twelve and nine to eleven. Day and night, it dances to its own heartbeat of rushed harmonies and hollow clicks. We are only given a specific amount of time with each other, limited revolutions around the sun- and it is never certain. That’s the terrifying thing about it, that time is never guaranteed.
We cannot control what will happen between five and six. We will never know how the next sunrise will look but we expect it anyway, in its radiant magenta hue of six AMs that can never be reincarnated.
Each day, life begins a new cycle of magic, the melody of pink-faced newborn babies screaming shrill cries of disapproval and utter confusion. Life will also cease to exist in the same day. Gray wrinkles and hands that have created and lived and thrived will morph into the hands of the clock they once lived by. And time will end, their hearts beating in sync with the monotone ticking of diminishing time. It is an unexplainable, powerful enigma that we will not ever begin to understand. Time is our only mystery, the substance that fills the gaps between life and death in order to conquer beauty and the power of it.
It is uncertain,
it is terrifying,
brilliant, dissolving and irreplaceable.
Today, someone will fight back waves of tsunami tears, eyes watering as they watch their bright-eyed blushing daughter walk down the aisle in her dream wedding dress. Someone will take their last breath on earth and exhale a life of both regret and contentment. Someone will take their first, inhaling hope and promises that will only swell and envelope them over time.
Someone has just tasted the sickeningly sweet taste of first love, with fingertips like bolts of lightning and a heart like a frightened alley cat, unsure and vulnerably afraid. And just around the corner, someone has just watched love fade away with empty arms and a burnt tongue, watching it disappear slowly- the way sugar dissolves into water and becomes absolutely nothing at all.
This morning, someone will hold their innocent baby boy swaddled in blue hospital garments- and blink- only to find him walking proudly across the stage, towering over everyone in his indigo cap and gown. A child will gaze up at their loving, sprightly mother only to lose track of time and suddenly will find themselves staring down at a platform resting in lonely cemetery grass.
Time is an insane concept, of waiting and rushing and the routine hum of life while we hope for a reality better than this. In times of crisis and in times of unbreakable power, time is the only insane concept that has ever possessed the capability to keep us sane.
Time is not infinite, nor is it fleeting, but with each thump, click, and tick, we are given chance after chance to shed the skin of the past and become brand new all over again.
We are only given a specific amount of minutes. To laugh. To cry. To kiss. To smile.
What will you do with yours?
little moon Apr 2014
you can find my head in the clouds if you look up the residences of bored angels who have made us pawns in their games

you can find my heart under the faucet, i've rinsed it already and it's nearly done drying if not for the occasional drip here and there,
but hush your mouth because it's progress, it's migrated from the hamper where you tossed your sweater after you realized you wanted to get "that piece of dirt" off your sleeve

you can find my soul when you shut your eyes and take a walk through the city in your mind, tracing our ghostly footsteps,
the pedometer refuses to start on the grounds of how impossible that number seems

you can find the rest of me every time you break off eye contact because you don't really want to have that tedious conversation,
in old letters
in music
in lonely 2 ams
in frustrations
in the leftover spaces your distractions and routines don't quite fill.

it's ok because i'm sure i'll reach out for you too somehow,
there has to be a yellowpages lying around my house somewhere.
but let's be real you can probably holla at me in a chipotle
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oz_-VaTHpc8&feature;=kp
GC Dec 2013
I am gentle. I am weak.
I am 3 AMs and lunch breaks.

You lust for me. You crave me.
You might leave me for a while, believing I'm the only hiccup.
But you'll soon realize there is more,
(that your wife didn't stop ******* you just because
you came home with my perfume on your clothes,
and your kids didn't stop smiling at you just because
they knew my name) and you will make your return.

I am not proud that I have you wrapped around my finger,
yours wrapped around me. Or that you can hold my slender
body, only to look away when I fill the space around
you: taking me in, letting me go.

I do not last. I am eternally temporary.
I am a one night stand of sorts.

You tell your friends you hate me.
You tell your wife you think I'm ugly.
You throw me to the cracks in the pavement,
again and again and again and again,
only to ask for more. I am not proud, but

I will adhere to you always, because I long to
fill the space created by the separation of your lips.
Alicia Oct 2015
all of the worst things are compared to broken glass
so when my cup of tea shattered in every metaphorical way possible, I was not startled that you
"glued me back together "
when my life flew off the handle
because it simply got too hot
I did not burn my fingers, I just dropped the mug
every verse of poetry that contained the "I AMs" I related to the
I AM sad, lost, lonely, just holding ons
because now words were my constant flow, like a river
or any other clichè
I carried on to an ocean of possibility with you by my side
or just in sight
A God amongst men, like Janus appearing and opening the door to opportunity, to new love, to the precise definition of moving forward
because within each ray of your sunshine, was another freckle scattered on my smiling cheeks
no rhyme nor reason; (okay maybe there's a reason)
A Lopez Mar 2016
Buenos días American virtuoso doyen's.
Buenos días English poet's between and around london.
Buenos días African designer's of the untamed poesía,
Buenos días Asian wordsmith's all over new and old Asia.
Buenos días Spaniard men and women of spicy descent
Buenos días to the rich, young, old, poor, to those who don't make rent.
Buenos días to the Arab's in dusty sand's, also those not Arab, just middle-easterners with a pen.
Buenos días to people's not discovered, lost-clans unknown to men, though with their pencil markings on walls- we will discover.
Buenos días to you who are in agony, may that agony leave.
Buenos días to those who smile, continue to be happy.
Buenos días to the hip hoppers and rappees. Freestyle for me.
Buenos días to the country music makers, play the acoustic please. Buenos días to the rock stars, drum a verse and sonnet,
Buenos días to the jazzy's play a saxophone so **** I can't forget.
Buenos días to the bluesies, drop a baseline of the fifties.
Buenos días to the poets in big, large, tall, small, or no cities.
Buenos días to those country, with that southern honey charm.
Buenos días to the east coast, York-jersey-maine-all around, where the city lights take away Your stars.
Buenos días to the Midwest, heart of the land-
Buenos días to the west coast, Washington, Oregon, Arizona, Nevada, Colorado, all of you, especially the cali-forn-i-ams.
Buenos días to all of you, and a Buenos días for the next day.
Buenos días for the world of poetry as a whole.
Buenos días I'll say.
lynette eastman Dec 2010
They say that,
"Disney the happeist place on earth"
Not everyones been in,
your ams.
In my eyes,
That's the happeist place,
On earth.
Michelle Garcia Nov 2014
"i'm sorry,"
you muttered
with a solemn glance

but sorry does not make up for
tear-stained pillows,
3 AMs spent wide awake,
fluttering butterflies
that always led to
disappointment

it does not make up for
midnight anxiety,
conflicted thoughts,
the hopes that rose
only to fall

an abundance of stale apologies
do not make up for
the countless times i needed you,
only to be greeted by
a familiar sense of lonely
Wuji Sep 2014
Nothing has happened but everything has changed,
Today was easier than I planned.
Lay in bed with my studies, music cheering me on,
I've dropped the crutches, I wanted to stand.  

Keep making friends, keep jamming in names,
Remembering jokes and information day by day.
Always smiling and being friendly,
Never being too tired to play.

Fool all my friends to think that I'm cool,
Waving to people while playing bass late at night.
They offer me all kinds of things,
Guess I'm just not about that life.

Eye contact with strangers,
I've got that bounce in my step.
8 AMs, whatever man,
Don't want to dull my optimistic rep.

People ask what I'm on,
Question how I can believe.
I turn to them and simply answer,
"I really like to breathe."
Highway to Easy Street
fray narte Sep 2019
So you tell yourself,

don't write about your sadness;
bottle it in
like the forgotten pills
in a medicine kit.
Bury yourself
underneath a bunch of blankets
and hope that the land mines inside you
stay hidden,
just as your scars stay hidden
beneath those bands.

Instead,

write the prettiest, emptiest,
make-believe poems —
nothing about the eclipse
constantly obscuring the sun.
Nothing about the random break downs
that no longer wait
for midnights and 3 ams.
Nothing about the aimless walks
and the piles of books
you can't read
because reading is exhausting
and everything is exhausting.

You tell yourself,

don't write about it, otherwise,
you'll be forced to trade places
with all kinds of sadness
you've secretly been hosting
all this time,
and they'll cut their way out
through the fresh stitches on your chest.
And you'll have to bleed
all over again,
and not just on your wrists,
but on your eyes
and on your legs
and your thighs,
down,
down,
dripping to these words.

So again, you tell yourself,
don't write about your sadness, darling —
don't write about it.

But then,
how do you stop writing about sadness
when you never run out of it
to write about?
Katie Rudnicki Jul 2012
My body is itching for the touch of your fingertips.
If only I knew how to make you miss me
And everything we once knew.
When I’m alone in the silence of midnights and 3 AMs,
I am reliving all of the firsts and the lasts and the where-I-went-wrongs.
Greta Wocheski Jul 2016
i'm back again, i'm sad again
but i'll still do anything i want [again].

i heard wasabi takes away the pain
i'm still drowning, please don't say my name with such delight

these walls are so hollow
i need some privacy for me and my sorrow
we like to stay up til the AMs and suffocate each other.
idk this is okay, haven't written in ages.
softcomponent Nov 2013
say
2 AM and I just wanna mention that the glass still clears a reflection and I think there's something strange going on. The flammable liquid of your smile and the list upon a life upon a mescal high fix it fix it fix it. There's not much to say, except who hasn't seen the world glow? Who hasn't seen the world burn? Who hasn't seen the world purr all soft cat smiles and friendly "yesma'ams"? We need an often-presence, so take what you will.
Dear ex-lover, ex-friend,
our mug still sits on my kitchen counter
my father still brings you up
my mother still asks about you
and every night when she serves me tea
it's in
our mug
when I'm having my 3 ams
our mug comforts me like you never could
when I need to remember how you almost loved me
I bring it down, dust it off and kiss its lips with mine
I wish I would stop doing that
I wish you would come back
you said that wherever we were going
we were going together
but the sun set and the moon took its place
and now I have left is your mug

— The End —