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Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there were too many
wasted breaths
left unsent

Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled  pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets

Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long

A love once new,  and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu

We leave a lot behind,
fallen leaves in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;

atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament


jesse stillwater ... July 2018
feelings aren't right or wrong, they're just feelings ...

Thanks for stopping here
Penelope Winter May 2017
It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.

The self that:

Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.

it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self

the
self
tha
t

writes on ollld receipts,
   kicks the covers        off the bed
     ~lets my fingers play freely~
         not every sentence has an en-
            stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
               writes in mArGiNs to save time
                  not all rules need to be   f o l l o w e d
                    not all poems need to

                        sound the same

who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
I,
for one,
did not
.

- p. winter
Sammie wells Feb 2013
I'm still here where you left me
crumpled on the floor,
ripped an torn
with swirling thoughts
running through my head.

I'm still here where you left me
sore an bruised
can't seem to move.

I'm still here where you left me,
broken,
Sore,
Ripped
torn,
where you left me,
Laying in despair..

Defeated.

(SW)
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Waiting for spring to return this winter’s day.
Straining to touch warm breezes of the past.
Caught in this prison of gray and white.
Wishing to break these dark chains that hold me.

Remnants of fall, crumpled like brown paper on the ground.
Straws of pale brown growing up through the snow, ******* it dry.
Seeds and freeze dried fruit lay scattered about under trees.
Bare limbs and stalks drip with liquid glass.

Trees hanging bare, gray in lifelessness.
Winter birds call out, single in their pursuit of leftover meals.
Tracks of animals unknown dot the landscape with patchwork.
Waves of ridges etched in white lead off to nowhere.

Sparse, sun filled days bring brief glimpses of hope.
With the promise of warmth waiting to banish the cold
that holds me to my past and this existence;
waiting for spring to return and thaw this frozen heart.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Sofia Von Dec 2011
the laughing ***** shrieks on
a masculine bellow till dawn

the young girl fades
into the paint
to find a way out, before she faints

the almighty angel
is shot from the sky

she has alined with satin
the unbreakable tie

the blanket sits
crumpled up in a lap

shared with the many
and yet no claps

they all sit staring
at one another

the tension’s high
yet they all are brothers

they pretend to not care
it's what they know

but beneath all that
you feel it show

a tattoo of sarcasm
ripping them open,
from the inside out
so they can't keep quiet
they always shout

no one knows the scars it makes
no one wants to, they'd cry lakes

so the young girl sits
repeated back by the mirrors

she knows a secret,
and yet she fears

that if they knew,
she'd be gone

and still she whispers it
to herself
and tucks it away,
or puts it on the shelf

the single truth in the bag of lies

unnoticeably simple,
the surrounding eyes

it's just the cast away

the rotten apple

she's aflame with the pupils of loathing.
The passage of time, illusory some say,
is noted quite succinctly
by the ticking of the small electric
plastic clock sitting on the coffee table,
in front of the old couch.

Once in a great while, the battery,
tinier than my thumbnail, runs down,
depleted. The arms stop moving,
and the second hand only twitches,
forward and back again each second,
not making any progress.

My cat purring, perched contentedly, his face
near to mine, rests upon my upper torso.
Part of the couch is duct taped,
Where he’s shredded it over the years.

An emptied coffee cup, lid-half off,
contains a crumpled candy bar wrapper,
which I put in there, most probably,
so the cat would not devour it,
and later throw it up.

There are stacks of half-read books
(The Guns of August, Joan of Arc, Tom Jones, etc.),
an empty candlestick, a crusty dinner place mat.

I’m 45, nearing 46, staying
well, (well, more or less),
wearily waking from a weary nap,
after what was just another day
of so many, many days
of a humble life on earth.

Still, there are a couple hours left of light today.
Outside the big living room windows,
the evening sun shines green,
through the young spring leaves.
Make your time count.
Mortality looms, I tell myself.

So, right now, I will push off my cat,
(he wanders off, not meowing)
get up, dress, stretch,
force myself into the evening air,
before it gets too dark,
and run four miles furthermore.

Be home in time for dinner,
my mother would have said.

What is it, I sometimes wonder,
that keeps me going
through all these days?

I believe, I suppose, that all this ordinary time,
(Le temps quotidien, the French might say)
will eventually lead
to something transcendent, sublime,
forgotten by design,
in the daily crush of work and worries.

I’ve been meaning to fill that candlestick for years,
and finish all those books.
But so far I never have.

And so alone I run away,
inevitably with age,
through the indifferent rhythm
of the seasons passing,
the world, my life, our lives.

And all of us grow more distant
in this passage,
one from another, somehow,
dwindling in each other’s lives,
as each passage narrows, separates,
further away, disappearing, sadly

like the faint and ancient galaxies,
too numerous to name, red-shifted,
infinitely distant,
now scattering their dying stars,
with unkept, dimming memories,
and elapsing towards
oblivion unknown, fading,
their swirling light a mystery,
even to themselves.
Written in Spring 2014, revised 2015-19.
em Jan 2016
A steady minded person might tell you that everything can be measured, calculated and converted into a language of black and white, solutions worked out with sharpened pencils.

How do I measure my heart breaking?

Tell me,at what rate did my heartstrings snap when he told me he was leaving?
How long until all of my broken bones turn into dust?
Calculate at what speed the tears rolled down my checks.
How many doctors will it take to sew my heart back together?
Was it when he crumpled me up like a wasted idea etched onto a piece of notebook paper that everything started to bleed?
What part of my brain did his gentle hands touch that woke my monsters from their slumber?
How many days until this aching in my swollen chest turns into a gentle throb?
When will I be okay again?

Takes this pain and your sharpened pencils and rip the numbers from the dead hands of his name. Do away with the emotion like he did away with me.
I'm temporary.
sophia Jan 4
Is sand called sand because it’s between sea and land?
Why do we park on driveways and drive on parkways?
A rainbow comes after a rainbow.
I see air, it looks invisible...
I want you on my team because
Really you are so creative and brilliant
Jk like... seriously...
Don’t take this the wrong way
I guess I need you more than you need me...
I wish that you would just understand
Hallo I’m your biggest fan.
Oooooooo ohhhh ahhoo oooo
I’m your biggest fan.
Oooooooo ohhhh ahhoo oooo
Your sunshine with sushi
If my life was a movie
You must be a main character
Everything about you is art
Diamond heart!!!
True fact...girls ****.
I’m turning into a potato in 3....2....1....
Potato potato
I like potatoes
Crumpled potato
Dancing potatoes
Kawaii potato
Baked potato!
I’m a potato!
Potato potato!
I want you on my team because
Really you are so creative and brilliant!
Hey!!! Hey, it’s ok.
Don’t take this the wrong way
Cuz I need you more than you need me...
I wish that you would just understand
God bless the potato man,
IM GAVEN’S BIGGEST FAN!
I decided to write a song for my ex Gaven....but... instead of my usual sad deep depressing stuff I decided to make something funny that will make people laugh out loud
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Crumpled on a ***** door mat,
left by the cats -
the owl is just a loose bag
of feathers now - empty talons curled,
and one fierce eye turned
over its shoulder.

"What soft flesh enticed you to the ground?"

Lifting the mat, I remember
waking at night to the trilling call – a silvery vein
wrapped in the dark energy of hunger.

“All things die and too soon...” I say aloud,
my own eye sinking into that inky well. The
vacant perch leaning over my shoulder.

"What is to become of my flesh, my soul?"

"It's the waking that counts," I think, "and the meeting."
For a moment I wake again - grateful for the living.

Tom Spencer © 2017
with gratitude for Mary Oliver
Sister and I loved to play, to run and twirl and roll in grass all day. Momma gets mad when we go too far but our yard is massive we live on a farm! Running on rolling fields of prairie, singing and laughing and acting merry, shot right through the tree line that marks our abode, slid across the rocks on Old Joser Road, saw an old lady who walked with crumpled toes and spoke too and listened too a pack of crows, plucking weeds and picking a thorny flower she called out to us that fateful hour;

  “Oh my and how lovely, two twins so cute! I had thought no one lived so far out here, away from the town and its charming cheer? Why don’t you come over and meet my pet crows and I’ll show you two a trick that nobody knows!”

  I leaned down to consult with sister you see, she being younger she’s littler than me, I told her to stay close while we watched the show, then we’d be off and away we’d go;

  “Okay old lady my name is Tim and this here’s Tam and this place you’re in, is our family farm and that guy in the field, well that’s our Dad, and if you mess with us he gets real mad, so no funny business in this game and we’ll be nice to you just the same.”

  “Agreed indeed you little man and I can’t wait to see you in my pan!”

  Now I had to think on this real hard. Did that mean something about being able to see or was she talking about eating me? No matter, no problems and boy those crows, did they sure put on some funny shows and acted like they had lots of smarts and seemed just like pets and warmed our hearts;

  “Thanks old lady we gotta go we’re almost late for dinner you know?”

  She moved too fast and came right up and pulled out an odd-looking wooden cup;

“Wait there dearies, not so quick, about that dinner and my sweet shtick, you see you owe me a trick too, two coins I’m asking there of you, you bring them up to my cabin on that hill and I’ll teach you some magic and give you a thrill!”

  “Okay lady!”

  I agreed as we ran, if we don’t get home soon it’s gonna be my can! ‘Cause I know my pops he’ll beat my **** and I’ll be sent upstairs with nothing to eat, so I told little sister to move those feet!

caesura

  Whisk you down the road of boiled toad, and singeing hair, of whispered things and fires' flare, of evil looks from open books, pigeon’s toes and a chicken gizzard, while around your legs it crawls and creeps, my hungry lizard that never sleeps! You gawk! You stare! My wrinkly-face, the dank rank air in my dingy place, the dusty shelves a-lined in books and creepy crawlies in every nook, cobwebs and spiders at every corner, piggies run squealing while the chickens banterer, ravens caw at strange green light from lantern but back to all those shadow corners where little bad things spy and salivate, thinking on what they had last ate, and there you are shaking, nervous, trembling; a porky little piece of meat and something we all want to eat!

  “Oh don’t be scared my little one, I’m kidding, teasing, just having fun. Hand me the coins I asked for earlier, when we crossed paths along Old Joser, draw near to me, come here, come a bit closer!”

  Be careful will I not to bare my teeth, or lick my lips or stare too deep, for one is easy, two a dangerous feat and I so want to have my little porky piece of meat! I stood on a ladder with little Tam on my shoulder, so she could see the *** as it smoked and it smoldered, I directed little Tim over there to a seat and he saw me lick my lips as I thought about their meat.

  “Aha ha ha ha ha!”

  I laughed out loud as I cast in the dust and the billows changed color and kiddies made a fuss, but then the sparkly things popped and shimmered in their eyes, while both of them let out marvelous sighs, bewildered, bemused and tricked by my lie, I threw Tammy in to my cauldron to die!

  “Nooooooo!”

  Little Tim, little Tim did he let me in and punished will he be for that little sin, I whispered a spell and took up my broom and zapped a hole in the floor out in the room, where Tim was running and dropped him in a hole, down a tunnel he went that saved his soul, for out he shot back on Old Joser Road, no wiser no worse for the trick I showed!

Now listen up children or this is your lot,

For I’m out there always lurking with my ***,

I’m always hungry and so are my crows,

We’ll eat you up all the way to your toes,

“Jimson and sassafras, morning glory, woodrose seed,”

“A ***** of my finger, lock of my hair, a thimble and tweed,”

“Two coins, a cauldron, my cunning and your breed,”

“Whenever I’m hungry that’s all that I need!”
(Joser: Joe-Sir) rhymed with (Closer)
This is a retelling of the Sumerian story of Tim-Tam which is the origin of Hansel and Gretel. This entire piece came to me in a dream and I wrote it down in one sitting over ten minutes. Grimm's Fairy Tales are about warnings to small children...warnings that not ALL adults are good people and sometimes starving old people in the woods use trickery to eat kids. The phrase 'two twins' is a reference to the dual nature of myth as both actual events and cosmic. Gemini and the two earthly children.

Two coins to pay the boatman who takes your soul across the river Styx.
Izzy Apr 2017
I don't think in linear paths
I think in images, not words.
I think through what I see
                       what I hear
                       what I feel

For instance, that night,
I found my sisters body
I saw her lifeless body hanging there
I saw my mother fall to the ground, a strangled mix between a scream and a gasp escaping her lips
I saw the red eyes of my father
I had never seen them before and I've seen them too many times since
I saw the strongest people I've ever known fall to their knees in the rubble of my family
I saw my family fragment, break and stumble under the weight of our grief
But I also saw my family stand up, rise, fight and pull the ripping seams together with our knuckles turning white

I heard my father's panic
I heard my mother's cries
I heard my own disconnected voice as my body and brain worked separately
I heard the voice of the 911 operator in my ear
I heard the sirens
      the ones that now echo in my ears
I hear an unknown voice say "I'm sorry, we couldn't revive her. She's gone," as my mother crumpled into my father.


I felt my blood racing through my veins
I felt my heart pounding in my chest
I felt my muscles moving and tearing and ripping as I ran, fueled by adrenaline
I felt the loss
I felt the icy numbness blanketing my family

I saw a life end that night and dozens of others permanently altered

Her life ended that night and ours changed and came crashing to a halt but we got back up
I got back up

I only hope that wherever she is, she's finally happy

Happier than she was here
angele Dec 2018
i miss him. everything about him. his hands on me.
his kisses.
at least i can remember the last time we kissed
the last time we hugged
and it all makes me wanna cry.

i want him. i want all of him. his love and affection. looking at his face and into his beautiful beautiful eyes. the lull of the silence which was so perfect.

i want to be his again.
i want him to be mine
but he already belongs to another.

i keep replaying it in my mind, over and over and over.
i didn’t know it was the last time.
did he know it would be the last time?
it was a thought stuffed into the back of his mind- always there-like the crumpled up pieces of gum wrappers you stuff in your pockets.
or maybe he didn’t.
i don’t know
it doesn’t matter now
i just miss it.

i miss you.
em Mar 2016
My eyelids seem
to be the strongest part of me.
When the rest of my body
falls
into the ocean
of blankets they
float open upon the white water
atop
the waves of sleep.
This is when you come back.
In this mattress I am a piece
of clay and I can still feel the deep indentations of where your fingers
wrapped themselves like Ivy around my hips.
Hips, that stuck out like white flags of surrender and
fell to the ground in a straight line.
I can still hear
you.
I am a broken record,
and your whispers are the only track that plays at this hour.
“You are fat”
“Look at how flat you are Emma, no boy will ever look at you.”
“You are ****.”
These are the nights when I can
feel the spiderwebs your words wrapped around my ribs and
listen to the way my heart beats constricted
in its cage, your hand still clenched around it.
Can’t you see me bleeding?
Safety lies
beneath my eyelids but you pull them open
I can feel
your icy touch behind my eyes as I stare
coldly at the ceiling.
you demand to be heard.
Did you mean to put your words
in my pocket when you reached in to steal the sleep that was nestled there like crumpled dollar bills?
Do you realize that you stayed with me?
Can you take your stolen midnight hours back and place them on your pillowcase?
Will your eyelids close?
Or can you still hear my cries of protest as your soundtrack plays into the night?
I don't understand?
Did you think it wouldn't hurt me?
Or did you want to live forever,so you put your
fingerprints where you knew they wouldn't fade.
This is almost the completed version of a poem I am submitting to a contest. Please please please leave feedback and suggestions. I really want this to go somewhere. I believe it is a message that people need to hear.
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