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Jeni Feb 2016
I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Fourteen years old
I love you,
Called out,
A promise of returned affection
Timid, unsure
A response to
Insecurities.
Not true.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Fifteen years old
Distrustful
Cynical
Confused
Emotions flapping about like lost geese
Nothing like all the before’s
So this is what must be
True.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Sixteen years old,
That feeling
Tumultuous but calming
Broken yet whole
Lost but found
Your deep, beautiful eyes
Painful beyond belief, yet the best thing I’ve ever felt
Simply, it's true
I love you.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Seventeen years old,
It’s true
What is?
That
You’re my truth
And
I love you.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted yet
True.

Seventeen years old,
I love you
But…
I ****** up
I love you
But…
I kissed someone else
We never set boundaries
But….
I know I did wrong
I love you
But…
I truly can’t be with you right now.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.  

Seventeen years old,
You’re awesome
We’re so similar
So,
I love you?
No,
I realize that belongs to someone else,
But you think it's yours.
And that isn't true.
****.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Seventeen years old,
I hate myself
Because I’ve hurt you
Your pain is killing me
Though really, it’s me
Killing you
I love you,
It's true.
But,
How can you ever forgive me?

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old,
I love you
It’s true
But you’re broken still
And I wish I could heal the horror
I caused
For you.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.  

Eighteen years old,
I love you
Whispered gently
Deeply
Truly
I want to kiss you
I want to hold you
I want to be with you
Can we, please?

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old,
Yes. We can.
I love you too.
I still truly do.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old,
I love you
But…
Why are you doing this to me?
Why can’t you talk to me instead of hiding behind the texts?
What’s happening?
Please.
Don’t do it this way.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.  

Eighteen years old,
Tears
Broken
Mind exploding with assumptions
Intuition telling the worst of tales
Distrustful
Hurt
Why this pain?

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.  

Eighteen years old,
Bitter
Am I jealous?
This isn’t good…
What’s happened to me?
Helpless and
Still true
I love you
But...
Who knows why?

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old,
And here come apologies
A letter…. I love letters
And
I love you too
Still,
Somehow.
It's true.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old
I don’t know what’s wrong with me
Sad
Hurt
Insecure
Doubtful
Distrustful
Broken
Beyond belief
Empty.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old
And
I keep crying
I cried because you were so caring towards to me the other day
And it was so sweet.
I cried because you hugged me and let me cry on you
I cried because I love staring into your deep soulful eyes
I cried because I feel so much, all the time, for you
I cried because sometimes I truly hate how much
I love you.

I love you,
Goodnight
Every night, since forever ago
Rhythm
Routine
Family, friends
Taken for granted, yet
True.

Eighteen years old,
And goodnight dear one,
I still really do love you. 
And, I promise you 
All of this is true.
I was about to go to bed an hour ago. I had the light off and everything... But then I got this idea and I knew that if I went to sleep, it'd fade. Oh well, poetry is better than sleep anyways. Sometimes.

In the poem, I describe two kinds of love. That which I feel for family and friends, and that of romantic love, I guess, for lack of another description. I have only truly loved one person in the second manner, I think. I have said I love you, thinking I meant it at the time, only to realize later how far off I was.
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
20

Distrustful of the Gentian—
And just to turn away,
The fluttering of her fringes
Child my perfidy—
Weary for my—————
I will singing go—
I shall not feel the sleet—then—
I shall not fear the snow.

Flees so the phantom meadow
Before the breathless Bee—
So bubble brooks in deserts
On Ears that dying lie—
Burn so the Evening Spires
To Eyes that Closing go—
Hangs so distant Heaven—
To a hand below.
ugly men burning their bay leaves
in pots of static gardens
underneath all this cement
your past is looking at you indecently
so change the words around you
you can shift their meaning
its all a game and no-one's winning
your tired emotions accent your poetry
umbrellas are scars that carry symphonies in their hearts
you held my hand as we welcomed god back into our skylines
her face is as familiar as the stars
we originated from
with ulcers open in quiet hurting
your youth are wordless and distrustful of angst ridden authority
in unsuspecting situations love’s vacation is ending
her wedding gown got quite *****
since she literally spent her entire honeymoon
wandering idly into banks of muddy water
humanity is worthy of justice and sweaty romance
i breathe your flesh into my bottle
and we take boundless walks upon the clouds
that straddle mountains, graveyards and cemeteries
fresh from wading in the rice fields
i peeled you a ripe banana
under pressure your sweater came off
and revealed a perfect metric for us to emulate
your eye sockets are two umbilical chords
and your voice is a curved sword that cuts through fear
like the moon slices through the sky
i have held all of this inside for far too long
and now it comes shattering forth
spilling itself over every page
every letter an escapade almost as long
as an Eskimo's pilgrimage to safety
ConnectHook Sep 2015
†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
What's wrong? Too hard to LIKE me ?
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  

         †           †           †
Oscar Mann Oct 2015
I will always think fondly
Of the park bench
Near the sad man’s statue
Whose beard of stone
Was sloppily painted
By a bunch of overenthusiastic pigeons

That silly park bench
Where we first kissed
And had our first public argument
About nothing at all
And at the same time
About everything we thought we had

At first our memories
Turned the grass greener
And the skies bluer
And sometimes it seemed
That sad man smiled
Though it might have been an malevolent grin

But soon it became tainted
A symbol of fleeting love
Of passion’s mortality
Its habit of swiftly disappearing
Like cagey, distrustful pigeons
And illusions fuelled by sentimentality

Now I understand the sad man
And consider his faith to be cruel
To want and crave and hope
Yet to be sentenced
His life writ in stone
Near an empty, broken bench
Hannah Apr 2015
Oh the irony
When we're young and innocent
Find someone we like and filled with joy
Next, everything falls and crashes

Years later, we meet others
But this time we question
Not them, not others, but
We question ourselves

Can never trust our own minds
Is it nothing more than an infatuation?
We will never know
Oh, the irony
Sky Jan 2016
Once upon a time,
a princess small and fair
sat in a simple wooden tower.
She spent her days
surrounded by stories and songs,
and let the whispers of tales
sing her softly to sleep.
But, one day, a curse fell across her mind,
sent by an unknown spellcrafter.
The curse shrouded the princess’s thoughts in darkness.
The princess grew fearful of every passing day,
distrustful of the ones she loved,
and her stories and songs
became her only remaining comfort.
The princess spent many years
tormented by this terrible curse,
a foul spell that forced her to
doubt her life
and draw her own blood.
She was trapped, frightened and alone,
in her cold wooden tower,
and her only company was the monsters who came
to feed on her fear.
One dark and rainy day,
the princess was startled to see
a pair of warm, brown eyes
peering through her window.
She gazed into those eyes,
and suddenly felt something stir in her chest.
It was a feeling that she hadn’t experienced
since the days before her curse:
Love, and trust.
The princess opened the window
and let the eyes’ owner climb in out of the rain.
The boy standing before her saw
the monsters in the princess’s room,
and he drew his sword.
The princess cried out, startled.
The young knight looked at her and said,
“Never fear, princess. I will always protect you, no matter the cost.
Your monsters cannot drive me away.”
To prove his point,
he ran his sword through the beasts one by one.
One monster managed to escape, scurrying out the window,
but the rest turned to dust on the knight’s shining blade.
The knight turned to the princess and fell to his knees,
taking her small, soft hand in his.
“My fair princess, I have been watching you, lonely in your tower,
and I have seen the curse’s power.
If you would allow it,
I would like to stay by your side,
to protect you from any monsters that may come your way,
and help you find a way to break the curse.”
The princess gazed down at the knight with shining eyes,
then knelt so her eyes were level with his.
“I will let you stay, knight, for I see loyalty and truth in your eyes...and I also see hope.
I feel that you will help me break the foul curse that has been placed upon me.”
The knight lifted a hand and gently rested it on her cheek.
“Then I vow to protect you until my dying breath, princess.
I swear I will never leave your side.”
The knight leaned in and sealed his vow with a gentle kiss,
and the princess gasped as the world around them suddenly brightened,
the tower’s icy chill faded into a pleasant warmth,
and the princess’s darkest thoughts faded away.
She knew that the curse was not broken,
but something had been changed,
and the change was wrought by the knight’s kiss.
She looked at the knight kneeling before her with wide eyes.
“You are meant to be my savior,” she whispered.
I know the story doesn’t really feel finished, but I purposely didn’t write a concrete ending for it because the story, the real story, isn’t finished yet. Like many of my stories and poems, this fairytale is inspired by real life.
I might post more of this story in parts as the real story continues. I already have a ton of ideas. :)
Let me know if you want to see more of the cursed princess and her knight!
Heather Nov 2013
You have taught me so many things

You taught me:
how easily a stranger can become an acquaintance that brightens your day, a co-worker that makes work a little more exciting
how abrupt that pang of disappointment can be when I didn't see your face
how maddening it is to keep your feelings to yourself
how rewarding it is to get those feelings off your chest, because you felt the same way
how crazy butterflies can be - when my stomach would turn in anticipation of seeing you
how childishly young I can feel, giddy with hopes of hanging out with you or getting a text
how both electrifying, and paralyzing, a first kiss can be
that love can grow seemingly overnight and that your whole life becomes consumed with thoughts of the other
that hearing "I love you" whispered from your dear one's arms is what would probably be described as Heaven
that I deserve to feel special, and beautiful, and wanted, and happy
that holding someone's hand or cuddling can instantly make you forget a bad day
how heart-wrenching leaving you miles away could be (even if we were only apart for two weeks)
what the first hug and kiss after getting off the plane should feel like
how nice it is to feel stable, comfortable, and make plans for the future

How quickly everything can change
that sometimes people won't include you, even if you're there for them and even if they love you
how drifting apart can make time stand still
how many tears a single person can cry
that wondering what the other one is doing can drive you into a form of depression
how realizing he's not ever going to be the perfect boyfriend again can hurt
that doubting everything you ever did isn't healthy, because it's not your fault
how not being a priority can make you the angriest you've ever felt
how distrustful I become of believing those words...I love you
that I still feel crazy about you
how it's possible to be upset and mad at someone and still want to fix all their problems and give them everything they want
how hard it is to let go
that sitting at home isn't going to help anything
that thinking about the golden days, when I knew you loved me so much that it was unbelievable even to me, isn't going to bring us back together
that you have a lot of growing up to do and things to work on
that my wonderful prince isn't always wonderful
that I also have growing up to do, and much more to learn
that a few months with you were some of the best of my life and I've never felt more special
how a real relationship should feel - and even though it wasn't perfect, I still feel like it was

And finally:
you won't be the one I have that relationship with, but you taught me what to look for when I'm ready

And for that I'll always be grateful
Rebel Heart Aug 2017
You say I'm running from myself
I guess you're right
Maybe I am
All I know is that the reason
I hear my heartbeat so clearly
Is because my chest is hollow

I am made up of layers
Too many layers
As if my skin
Was preparing to survive
Out in dead winter at the South Pole

I'm annoying
  I'm distrustful

    I'm stubborn
       And I'm doubtful

           And secretive

Maybe downright manipulative

   But most of all I'm exhausted

Exhausted of the nothingness
   That I float around in
Exhausted of everything
  That comes and goes
    Ensuring chaos
Exhausted of everything and nothing
  And all things in between
         Exhausted of
                     **living
Too tired to live too important to die, guess the story keeps repeating doesn't it?
(Front page 8/14/17)
BECAUSE there is safety in derision
I talked about an apparition,
I took no trouble to convince,
Or seem plausible to a man of sense.
Distrustful of thar popular eye
Whether it be bold or sly.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.

I have found nothing half so good
As my long-planned half solitude,
Where I can sit up half the night
With some friend that has the wit
Not to allow his looks to tell
When I am unintelligible.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.

When a man grows old his joy
Grows more deep day after day,
His empty heart is full at length,
But he has need of all that strength
Because of the increasing Night
That opens her mystery and fright.
Fifteen apparitions have I seen;
The worst a coat upon a coat-hanger.
thinklef Jul 2013
U gave me that leaf, & said u were never gonna leave, Cause we were meant to live, now I have to Outlive & conceive the pain of grieve,

Who are u to tell me when to meditate? Please go your way and don't dictate, I have been born to innovate, Learn from me and don't aggravate,

Why dig into my past just to excavate things and deliberate , Yet you imitate and commentate and say it irritates, Never hesitate to prostate, Cause it elevate and motivates my innovative.

Even if your silences grieve so loud in my ears, I will never freeze, I will always leave, Because I never lived, I am never relief, I can't be pleased, Even when u sneeze. It only aggravates my pain when I eat, Dats the reason I refused to breath.

How can you call me fake When that's what you are, What you are is what I say , What I have seen is what am saying..

Fake, fake, fake, Fake u are like fanta Colorful yet distrustful Great pleasure Hidden smile, Full of Fantasy, deceitful u are.

You said u were my friend, then why stab me twice and expect me to talk once, U have twined &twisted; me, Enough of the Glossy bossy, mischievous in motivation, Malicious in thought,

Why judge when you can settle to be a judge in a jungle Stop been unjustly, & learn to be justifiable,

Now it's time for u to leave , superstitiously I have lived suspicious u have been, Dangerous you have become, Unpredictable you are , You're definitely a *******. You're never my friend
Meaghan G Sep 2012
For years I’ve had marbles tucked in my mouth,

Different colored weights that pulled on my glands, on secret saliva.

For years I’ve had marbles in my mouth and I forgot to spit them out or hide them away so I let them become permanent placements in my always-cavities; soon they even slipped so easy into my bloodstream.

The black ones made me say yes too often.

The reds made me want to bleed.

The blues made me cry, obviously. They stood guard on my tear ducts, deciding when and how to show emotion. They didn’t let me cry that night. They didn’t let me cry for months. Now I am crying almost everyday, and I am shooting those blue marbles straight to the moon; I’ve had it with avoiding emotion every day of my life.

The yellows made me want to forgive you, made me want to **** on sunshine, made me want to clamber into your mother’s arms, let her know that it wasn’t your fault. The yellows are *******.

The cat eyes have me avoiding eyes with every man on the street, so sure they will spit out words that they expect me to lap up like milk with an easy grin, tail twitching for attention. The cat eyes have me distrustful, have me always knowing it could happen again.

The rainbows loosened my tongue, had me admit secret sexualities, let me march in parades and kiss girls, had me falling over myself tripping into love.

I’m not sure who this poem is for anymore, or what it’s even about. The doctors say I have the cleanest bloodwork they’ve seen in a while, I don’t ask them about the marbles. They refer to some of them as disordered.

I’m not sure if they’re marbles anymore, I think they’re just me,

and I’m sorry I’m getting off-track, the marble in my hand right now is glitter and sparkle and confusion and I’m trying so hard to stay put.

Give me the orange ones, the fire, ones that looks like Mars

or Jupiter.

Give me two moons, or maybe sixty-six.

Give me a giant ladder.

This is about running away.

This is about playing with your marbles

and learning everything about them

and staying put.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2013
It's quite odd how the average man will not commit to run
With any issues challenging his personal smoking gun.
With issues that confound in discomfort’s naked face
Or adopt a stance of reticence when confronted here apace.
Won’t lend a ready helping hand for fear of being held
Accountable for consequence imagined or dispelled,
Distrustful of the outcome in involvement’s disrepair
Would much prefer retreat to accountability there.
A quotient disappointment to the greater human race
Are the spineless who refuse to look directly to my face.

Marshalg
9 October 2013
A L Davies Apr 2012
the
castillo alhambra            a
watchful brown *****
on  the hill
smiling crenellated un
                                       der grey-silk skirts of cloud &
in wicker chairs mouths
—open (talkin’ bout last night’s walk home from vogue)
—close (swallow morsels of tapas: paella)
                                      
                                       & lips shut ‘round cigarettes.

          …

          … past inactive fountain where children play their various jeugos next to the riverwall and distrustful, rail-thin cats peer from brickwall dens to watch flitting finches bounce on vines & budding branches. it is very warm; the air is heavy as is the ground. man is stuck between like a roach ‘twixt two ***** mattresses // three girls looking at me writing smoking drinking beer eating that paella don’t know what to think.
saturday afternoon in granada/RE-WORKED
jeffrey robin Mar 2014
|
|~|
|
Thru the fiction
Of
High school corridors

Ghost-like children
Stumble in their solitude


Older than their elders are
Stripped of their innocence

Hardly even human anymore


Images of dying
Images of stunted growth

Distrustful of the reality
Of truth's essential
Powers

Merely vague appearance
Lost in worlds unseemly

Stumbling down the corridors
Lost in nightmare's dreaming

••
Poetry of lovelessness
Disguised as love

••
Thus the world created
Is truly dying

The world created
Is surely dying



In the loveless madness
Of the high school corridors

Where the demons of society
Control human destiny

And we just stumble on
Thru the corridors
A bursting

Into flames
Lee Dec 2013
Looking in the mirror tonight

I am 24 years old

I don't know what to make of myself
Pointed chin, seashell ears, hair wet and arcing
forwards from my shower

I'm wondering about my 25th year;
will it be a year of wonders, a golden year?
My left eye says no

It's distrustful, mirrored and shuttered
so all you get back is yourself
endlessly

There's a siren and a dog howling counterpoint:
seems omenish

My right eye looks more hopeful,
like it'll wink conspirationally at any moment

Better to have a star for an eye than the moon,
anyday.
TR Takoda May 2013
I am a disappointment to my mother.
I don’t call when I’ll be coming home late. My room is wreck. I’m not in school, and I work two dead end jobs at places that don’t matter one iota to anyone in my family.
I curse. I smoke. I drink.
I’m a foul mouthed little child that can’t lose weight and sleeps around and never does what she’s told.
I’m a disappointment to my mother,
Despite the years of good behaviour. The good grades, the chaste life, the driven nature that took me half way around the world just to see if I could do it.
I stand in front of her today, still 6 inches shorter. Still rounder, still brunette. Still foul mouthed and still rebellious.
I still hug her tightly as if she’s all I’ve ever had. As if she is the only stability I’ve ever known. As if all those boyfriends who claimed they’d never leave either of us, as if all of those friends she had that I grew to love, and the pets we abandoned, and the apartments we called home, as if all of those things never mattered, or shaped me to be the distrustful little being I am today.
I still look at her like she’s all I have left. I never talk to her about stuff like that because I know it will only make her mad. Her hormonal short temper and her distrust of my judgement. I know I’m young, Mom, that’s why you should let me make my mistakes now, instead of in ten years when I’m married with children and never got to taste what being wrong in every way felt like.
I’m a disappointment to my mother. I want to have bad times. And hard times. I want to be knocked on my *** by life and barely able to get back up. She doesn’t get it.
She never will. I love her. With all that I am I will always love her but that trust that was once only reserved the only person who never left me, never deserted me and never gave up on me, that trust needs to be placed in me.
I am a disappointment to my mother because I grew up, and now I need to be a disappointment to me.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2014
There was never a time
that he could not love,
only long periods of years,
decayed decades,
when the could
could not,
for he had forgot
from lack of practice,
daily vitamins taken of soured love,
which is a polite way of saying
sneering hate, distrustful makes,
and hard calluses and body armor
make any human tin man rusted and
cowardly lion afraid

and later,
after loneliness turned him
sweet and sorry,
when many wanted him,
to love them for
why not!
he was a desirable object,
in possession of a fast red jaguar car,
a job that left him money for gas
and summer trysts,
a ruggedly handsome face,
which he shaved daily,
and the right kind of patience
in things that woman love,
like Joni and kissing
head to toes,
on a
round trip ticket
with unlimited stops in between

and

using words that seduced,
that were intended to ******,
though he did not intend to
make them love him more than more,
yet they did....

he appreciated them,
with kind and cherish,
and just happy gave just enough of him for them
to take as their own,
and they loved him for that...
but it was hollow bridge in spaces that
needed filling, denying completion,
or safe passage

gave them gifts unasked,
jewels and poems unique,
valued them in the ways
they so wanted,
and deserved,
but could not love them
free and clear,
which is all they wanted -

for he was not
free and clear
of broken memories...

one by one,
they left,
no one to blame,
broken is broken,
Oz was a bridge too far
for him to cross

years later,
muses buzz like flies
around his head
asking buzzy questions,
demanding poems of clarification,
apologies of sorts for his inabilities,
dissatisfied with rationalizations,
payment for adoration given
and taken but inequality in love
is still a crime of sorts

and he tenders this in consideration,
years too late,
not an apology, but a thank you,
for those who said you are a
good sort, worthy of love,
and restored him in ways
that gave me the confidence
to let the whole later be filled in....

He was abused, but never a user...
now, clear and clearer yet,
his poorer faults were later his greatest riches
once gained, easy shared,
yet
here he is years later,
tinged with regrets and mea culpa's
and asking himself
for forgiveness of those for whom,
he
could not be enough

did not know what to title this,
for it is an explanation and a plea,
a thank you note written on bended knee,
many titles came and went,
some with guilty, never and could not,
prominent in their bookends

but then it was instant clarity
for it was a tale of how,
he rebirthed an ability to love a
woman true and total,
and thereby
himself,
thus celebrating those who gave their teaching trust
which he cannot ever properly
repay
except to note that it is 3:00am years later and
I
write of thee,
and how you taught me to speak
a language glorious
jenna elizabeth Jan 2016
i hate cars
i hate driving them
i hate riding in them
for some reason, other people enjoy cars
i don’t understand those other people
for me, cars are evil
cars take people away
away and you’ll never see them again
i wasn’t always distrustful of cars
once upon a time, i used to enjoy them
the family would go on road trips
see the state and find new adventures
i was six then
i was naive
there’s a reason i’m so distrustful of cars
i don’t have a phobia
i simply hate them
my psychologist says there’s nothing wrong with them
i disagree
cars hurt
they **** and destroy
they take away love and replace it with pain, tears, and grief
and flowers
there’s always flowers
hundreds of flowers, filling the house and suffocating you
slowly killing you
cars are dangerous
i don’t see why most people don’t realize that
i hate them for one reason
they take away and never give back
it happened a year ago
it was an accident
my mother died
there was a drunk driver
he hit her at an intersection
he was fine
she died instantly
she didn’t feel the pain of the crash
the rest of us did
we felt the pain of the crash
the crash that destroyed our lives
we all had our own personal demons after that
my father buried my mother
he then buried himself in work and scotch
my oldest brother locked out the crash
he then locked himself in his bedroom
my other brother never found closure
he then was never found at home
i lost my mother
i then lost myself
we were all broken
this happened for months
until i...
i said ‘enough’
i ran away
that’s all i am
a runaway
a scared child who couldn’t return home because...
she was being suffocated
she couldn’t breathe
she couldn’t live
i
i couldn’t live
it was an accident
i wasn’t as careful as i should have been
it was dark and rainy
the anniversary of the first accident
the anniversary of my mother’s death
i was it by a car
my oldest brother was driving
he was looking for me
it had only been a week
a week since i left
i almost died that night
or so i’m told
i almost died
i should have died
these days, we’re doing better
there’s still a hole in our hearts
there always will be a hole
but it’s less painful now
my father has stopped drowning in alcohol
my oldest brother has stopped staying in
my other brother has stopped staying out
and for me?
i’m still lost
but not as lost as i once was
Classy J Jun 2016
Going through the dark side, looking at my heart why? Feeling hatred, can't escape it, so i accept it. Inner demons condemn me, heaven where art thee, i've been searching but my pride must have blinded me. Classy j living day to day, depressed and suicidal man, and i love tupac but i don't there will be a heaven for a g, i just want to fly away though just like peter pan. Neverland, never will I land, cause once i do i know i be taken again, regret and the pain of guilt tied to me like a chain that keep me contained. Man some will never know the struggle, to keep on trudging through all this ****, just hoping to eventually get through all of it.

Maybe i missed something along the way, my brain is foggy and my knees are weak, just got caught up in the rain, just hoping that i be able to see a brighter day. So gone and so distrustful, as rigamortis makes my body degrade and buckle, i try to fight but it's a struggle. The dark side has abducted me, now light is evil, now i can only see through the darkness, why does darkness have so seductful and deceitful. My flesh is so weak, and my soul is so grim, feeling so feeble hoping life would just through me a limb. All eyes on me like a contagious disease, wondering why all this have to keep happening to me. Got suicidal tendencies, never had to many friends there for me, so I sit alone feeling sorry for me. Pity party, don't get my started, all my life people said i was ******* *******.

Inspirational and innocent, I was such a nice kid, then the world showed it's true colours, yeah it starred at me with it's third eye lid. Ancestral spirits clinging onto me, keeping me stuck, witch craft man has been passed on and given the future generations bad luck. I don't know man, maybe it's all one big horrible gag, I used to love life until it betrayed me and threw my body in a concealed bag. Horsing around, being myself was what I would do, until people made fun of me, and so I faked myself and hid my real self away in my room inside a shoe. This is the opposite of the taming of the shrew, maybe it was my choices, or maybe it's all because of voodoo. I don't know man, the dark side has creeped up on me, used to have nightmares every night, pulling me further under the sea. Gasping up for air, so stubborn and in so much denial, believing the lie's that nobody cares, and that i'm to late for a revival.

Forgive me for  throwing my life at you, but rapping helps me vent out everything, thats probably why i still go to counselling, so that hopefully someday i will get a breakthrough. I need a breath of fresh air, need to get into my rocket ship and just blast out of here. Got a talent, got my mom and some friends to help me out, letting me know it's ok to scream and shout. It's not healthy to keep in all the darkness, because if you never let it out, eventually you'll become heartless. So I constantly battle this unseeable threat, not even breaking a sweat, got support so even if I fall I know I have a safety net. Real rhymes man, this is real rap, I will never sell out man, this a new day in hip-hop time to dump out all those rappers that are crap. Real life man, yeah these are my real experiences, classy j signing off, sorry for be real man but there is time for spitting fire and time for rhyming about serious experiences.
Kripi Nov 2012
Fields of threshing
Workers and farmers
elegance has slept waken
Have to make a new world

Sultans of gifts
Distrustful of humans
Could not have come to arbitrary
Have to make a new world

Mountain plains
Mines and quarries
Write a new story
Have to make a new world

Covered buried dreams
Hail to our knowledge
Honors on the earth's
If you have youth
Have to make a new world
Poetic T Mar 2021
This is mostly based on the true-ish happenings of
Beth Huges was born in the 80s, her parents
called her Lizzy for short well that would explain
a few things. Her upbringing was more in the 70s
then the 80s. Her parents were new-age hippies but
with the chemical abuse of the 80s.

They were vegans, nothing on land was to be sacrificed
for the fulfillment of their needing only organic substitutes.
  They'd eat from the Ocean as that was the well of life
and always giving and in a continuous replenishment cycle.

Not knowing, she was repeatedly dosed with LSD.
to open the spiritual aspects. But Daddy had a bad trip.
            And wore mummies face saying she was
talking through him.

The cops didn't see that way and vented his body with
                           at least nine new breathing holes...
She was still high as daddies blood spayed over her and
she finger painted on the floor.

She'd lived with relatives but this didn't last long as they
were meat-eaters and she had a vast disdain for all who
murdered and disfigured the life of the land.
   Her auntie was a vegan, so realized the pressures.
   But as she got into her older years having episodes.
of repressed trips. Glaring at the walls and painting in
her own blood.
It hit a moment in her twenties when she caught
her auntie giving head to her new boyfriend..

She was disgusted as she heard her call it "the meat,
             distrustful of her auntie and she'd desecrated
the law of her body, after she pleaded no meat.

While her auntie was being contaminated she put
sleeping tablets into their drinks after the *****
inducing acts had finished and she came out of
the room wiping her mouth.

                     "Here guys I made you a drink,

She played it cool reading a book until they
fell unconscious. She was reprehensible that
                   what was being done was right.
Pulling down his joggers she got some
scissors and grabbed it, momentary she put
it in her mouth, it was soft and she felt a sturring
and gagged... with one fatal swipe she cut it off.
throwing this maggot in the fire, Burn filth...
Her auntie lied there silent, her breath deep.

"How could you,

Even though she has momentarily engaged in
                pleasures of the flesh.

She went into the cupboard and found a cleaner,
             the warning on the side said corrosive
wear gloves.

She stroked her aunties hair and then tipped the
entire bottle down her throat to clean the desecration
from her.
All that was heard was a curdling and then froth
expelling from her nostrils and mouth...
She got a cloth and wiped her mouth, even though
doing this had murdered her auntie, she still loved her.
Now she was clean from the manmade contamination.
    Pure once more, the acid mixed with her stomach acid
creating a pungent smell as it was eating through her side.

A pool of blood and partly digested food bubbled
on the floor, it started to eat through the laminate flooring.
At that very moment, she heard screaming incoming on
her kneeled position.
As she turned she saw the half-naked bleeding profusely boyfriend. In his anger, he never saw the pool of corrosive remanence of his departed girlfriend.

Scissors raised and ready for vengeance, he lurched
losing his balance and landed face down in the
bubbling maroon stench.
Lizy scrambled to her feet, ready to run.
Instead, she screamed as he got up and turned around.
The flesh was peeling off, as he grabbed at his now dissolving
features. The shock was too much as she passed out.
A while had passed and as she awoke she went to move
but the scissors were interred in her hair.
Her scalp felt wet, as she touched the area, red liquid coated
shaking hands. She put her fingers in her mouth and tasted,
yes, it was her blood. she pulled at the scissors and they
wouldn't dislodge as they were firmly embedded in the
laminate flooring.

She had no other option but to yank her hair out,
******* that hurt, she had a blad patch where
the hair follicles had pulled away.
Her head spinning, but as she turned around there
he was still, his face no more just white, with patches
of blood his hands around his throat.

She got a hand towel and threw it over his featureless
remanence, and then saw the disemboweled auntie.
If it wasn't for the middle missing dissolved all over the
floor, you'd think she was sleeping.

Lizzy had to think fast, how could she get out of this?
But it was easy, she'd heard shouting and saw her
auntie come out with scissors, soon after her boyfriend
came out blooded, she saw me and told me to hide.
As I watched he grabbed her dragging her to the
cupboard unscrewing a bottle with his mouth,
then pouring it down the struggling auties mouth
at that moment I ran at him pushing him away as her  
auntie convulsing. We struggled but he was too strong.

It was at that moment he grabbed the scissors lifting me up,
he lost his balance and that the last I remember before waking
up with my hair pinned to the floor by the scissors.

The flashing lights were so bright in the darkness as I was huddling it to the waiting ambulance.
Crocodile tears poured from my eyes.
I told my story, it was worthy of an Oscar.
There on the stage, thanking the gullible audience.

As I walked from the courthouse, tears flowing thanking
everyone for their condolences and wishing me well.

I looked in the mirror as I saw my aunties face,
wearing it like my daddy wore mummies.
sprinting at the policeman at the door I got him
in the neck. Shots echoing out into the dark night.

They must have been alerted by the screaming,
can't people just die quietly? I ran into the night.
Not been found yet, but I kept the scissors.

I go after men now, I'm quite pretty for being so
crazy. I offer them ****** favours for drinks,
I always make sure they have a car, that's a must.
My favourite trick is getting them to drive to a secluded
spot offering them head-on their bonnet.
somewhere we will not be disturbed.

It's amazing how gullible men are when they think with
there meat instead of there brain.
I found this awesome pen that's a tasar, telling them
I'm leaving my signature and number, so if they liked it
they knew where to look if they wanted more fun.
Its quite funny the gurgling scream they make when
you zap their ball bags, they crumble like wet paper.

Kind of pathetic really.  Now we alone and there quite,
snip, snip some do take two chops you know.
Then into the woods or the dirt side of the road.
But I learnt from my first time, cut the femoral attire
in the leg, that way they stay down some did come to
but a was driving away by then I heard their
screams and I smiled. Of to the next town now I think
Driving while its dark is better I sell their belongings
in a pawn shop to raise money the dead cant report
their belongings stolen after all. I just tell them there
my ex. They don't really care about where it came from.

I like my new  hobby, at last count I'd snipped fourteen
of them and I still have my auntie with me I wear her
sometimes just to feel close to her.
her pa
Zoe Byrd Oct 2017
A girl with an eating disorder
With a monster trapped inside her
Drowning in a world of
Scales
Diet Pills
Alcohol
And perfection
Trying to reach out
And find the help that she so desperately needs
But instead she is met with
Disbelieving, supportive parents
Distrustful, but sometimes helpful staff
And anorexic, bulimic girls
Just like her
Girls along the same journey she is
On the road to recovery
Some get better
Some give up
Because you can not help a person
who does not want to be helped
It is not easy
Will never be easy
But she must push through the pain and suffering
Just like you and I have to
wrote this for a reading challenge at my school. inspired by J. J. Johnson's Believarexic (such a good book def recommend)
Linnea Wilson Feb 2014
For it was in your love
you taught me
to love.
and wrap my branches around
another human's body
and heart.
and let my tense and
distrustful roots
breathe out a sigh
and relax their muscles.
The gentleness of your love
made me smile, blush,
and feel planted
just where the heavens
made me to be.
Your softness whispered
to me.
and told me
I am brave
and strong
and beautiful.
And your fingers
Would lightly brush my leaves,
making my eyes close
and see the most beautiful
future before us.
For it was in your love
that came a stirring
inside my heart to love,
too.
It opened my pores
and made me
believe that love can
cause any creature
in our world to come to life.
January 30, 2014
modelb0nes Dec 2013
your eyelashes showed interest,
your lips showed courage, with a little bit of lust outlining the curve. they've always been distrustful. but nothing was more dishonest than the snow that frosted and layed on the trees, each branch looking like a frozen chocolate Popsicle.

(the branches were dismembered fingers that always reached for something. love, hope, I don't know.
they cracked and crumbled, to their death, to the ground, whatever in reach falling with them.)

I loved talking to you. you didn't think like me, which was good. you gave a reason to your point of view, always (which was quite annoying in some ways and some adorably lovely in others.) having to say your opinion.
unfinished. not knowing how to finish it because it makes no sense.
Poetic T Oct 2014
As I coughed up the
Ash that was Once
Love,
Commitment,
Trust,
My lips black with
Charcoal embers
My throat raw as
Burning
Suffocating
Texture
Like acid, as I expelled
The remnants of my
Heart,
You had spilt liquid
Then lit the flame
Unto my love,
It didn't need words
In his embrace,
Then the kiss in front of my eyes,
My love had been built
In time, I loved you so much
But with not even a word,
You burnt away my heart
Ignited,
Stoked,
Burnt,
Away in moments
That was built off love.
Your tears fell
Many hit upon the ground,
But they were like acid
Scorching the ground,
Fake emotions
Distrustful touch
I love you so much
But know my heart is but embers,
That I expel with each breath,
My lips now black with the charcoal of love..
T
Mikaila Nov 2014
-
I never had a sister.
I never even really
Had a best friend.
I fell in love
And I got hurt
And I
Was there for others,
But I never let anybody near me.
Not unless they forced their way into my heart
Brutally.
I hardly even had friends
(Real friends)
So distrustful of the world was I.
And I certainly didn't have family.
Not family in the truest sense-
In the
There-is-nothing-you-could-do-to-make-me-hate-you sense.
I was loved, and I loved,
But there was trust on... neither end, really.
I never had a sister.

But

If I did

I'd want her to be you.
TLPrince Apr 2020
Passengers of scarcity.

Hi through dark and space to you my friend
Cause yes I know you
As you know me;
We’re both passengers of scarcity, guessed it huh?

I’ll begin like it started for me. I want it to be honest this time
-As if poets could be honest-
But let’s try my friend.

My evening sky doesn’t talk to me like it used to.
It talked louder then.
Before, I remember the before when my legs were fast, my heart full of hopes
And when we –you know- looked at reality only and only within the lenses of dreams.
Distrustful of truth, world-paintor inside the cupboard of our mind, schemer of realms of now and there...
Time has flown
Remember
Time has flown
And now my evening sky grew rarer.

But today it came to me
Almost as loud as before
And I could see once again
In crimson and purple.

“Soon I’ll come back, ma!”
The children play! Madman you hear

Don’t you look back in wonder sometimes?
Don’t you look back at you like at a stranger
Passing by. Walking on the sidewalk of your notice
And you turn and you look at his back
As he steps away, eaten by the crowd
And you wonder ‘This man...’
Whose face you’re not really sure
Whose air, maybe... in a foreign country...
But through your voluntary mist something knows
It was you.
Little shame, little laugh.
Little forget, little lie
Let’s add another mindless night
To twenty thousand others.

“Oh man! Such a spastic.
Crippled.
How can he walk along with that big
Too big!
Can’t he see it is showing
runny, weeping,  noisy, babbling
Heart.
Man, it’s showing!
Hide it;

Hide it.

Hide it!”

It was you;

Now I’m hungry for your light
-Jealousy gnaws at the sheets of my memory –
My belly roars at the table. The neighbour she told me. She heard it from her bathtub.

The hairdryer is still hot.
"Sombebody was killed here man!"
Can’t see the body... But, I can smell it.
The hairdryer is still hot
"Why do you smile girl"
There was a ****** here.
See the hairdryer.
Don’t you... Why keep you smiling?
We really need to leave before...
The hairdryer you know
I wish you’d stop smiling girl!
See!
See!"
A hand
-I can’t move-
Creeps on
-I can’t move!-
The Hairdryer
-Please, please, stop laughing heart!-
It’s my fingers.

The mirror got broken.



Now you’re with me, I dropped a few lines between you and this
Like antipasta.
If I had an airline company for truth, I’d call it
‘Delayed’


Passengers of scarcity
We are.
We can see now.
Hungry for some light, always on the lookout
For the outside glow, to warm up dead bowels.
But
Passengers of scarcity
We were.
You just couldn’t see.
Your eyes mistook you.
For what were the words and dreams but the ailments of our locked-up souls
Already burning from within
Alone
Covered in the rags of self-deceit;
Ashes to the old

So little are you
So nothing you were.
Eyes breeding monsters
In your decadent corpse.
All your lies, all your animals
You put them here, not me!
Hunger has made its way through thy heart
And they have died in your cage.
Empty chuckle.
*** pause.









It was a poopause. At least one in your useless life.(just kidding)


So scarce.
The forced smile. The faded ‘hello’ to passing stranger
The hours of mindless thoughts and petty hopes.
Criminal mediocrity.
Vessels of going somewhere for
Going somewhere.
The to-do
To do.
To do something.
But really nothing struck you.
Desert.
A little too much food won’t fulfill it.
The phone fell silent with my lips –oh friends I need more than you-
The smoke of cigarettes is powder to your eyes
But nothing else.
Walk
Walk
Without purpose
Without even an idea of purpose
.
Isn’t it eternal Justice,
That those who have less
Have less.
Isn’t it eternally Just.
Of course, it’s hard for us the passengers
But there can’t be winners without losers though...
Still,
Reasons of the thirst...do not quell the thirst.

So what! What can we say! What can we do!
Oh! Who will save me.
Gimme some light sweet mamma!
Gimme some light!

Somewhere in the distance, two things:
a baby is born
-Blue-eyed-;
A gambler rolled the dice
-Eyes closed-;
A light sprung and a light dimmed
-You need black and white to draw pupils-
And my evening sky turned a dark pale of night.
Eric W Apr 2015
I can't apologize anymore,
for who I am, who I've come to be,
who I was and will be.
I cannot.
If my person offends you
when I do not speak my thoughts,
and also when I do,
I cannot help you.
I have spoken far too much,
and far too little,
for far too long
not to know
what I should hide
and what I should show.
I have wrestled my thoughts
for years until I've found I cannot,
but instead must observe them with
an objective eye,
cut them open
with an inquisitive mind,
searching for something,
but only to find --
that it is best to let them pass
without consequence,
without permanence,
only resonance.
And if you cannot take seriously
the things I know seriously
of people, the world,
the pain,
then you deserve
manipulation,
exploitation,
desecration.
For I do not speak lies,
and if so,
by mere mistake,
when I speak of what I see,
and what I see is fake.
Too many false words
have fallen on my ears
not to be distrustful
for the rest of all my years,
and not to know and read and see
what people would have come of things.
And I cannot blame them, no.
For we are all full of ***** tactics,
shadowy motives, and schemes.
It is everyone's duty to see this
in themselves,
and to know it must be in others
as well.
And when I try to take responsibility
for not or for
voicing passing thoughts,
and their effects,
only to be met with more wrongs,
and rejects,
I cannot.
For if I am to believe
my responsibility towards you
is meaningless,
then I should seek responsibility elsewhere.
I know.
I know there is much to learn,
and much I do not know,
because I know what I know,
and I know how little that is.
What I know are things about myself,
and therefore others,
that I will always improve upon myself,
or at the very least,
I will try.

So I will not apologize anymore.
For to do so means apologizing for
learning, of myself and of others,
for improving, of myself and of others,
and for trying, for myself and for others,
and I cannot.

I cannot apologize.
neth jones Apr 2022
pry it open
      clan of lies    libido            and lily lunged persuaders  
             etching wounds                   ills upon those you itched after
        letching tightly in patterns            
               then blooming out          in a ring of your 'brothers'
                        again tightening
                     breaths oppress breathing
                             a clenching jellyfish action
                         offends the natural      teaming in a derangement
                                a loyalty of cowards    each one initiation edgy
                            paid up members     linked in ceremony
                                 a skeleton grid channeling away responsibility
                          thick distaste of the unsightly      and abrasive scent
                              of your speeching spatters
                        it's unmother worldly
                             a clutch of an abusive family thing
                      that psychology      that bonds for life
                         and spans love       in all its distrustful ******
                 violence
                     not a truth
             to mould in his raspy mouth
                this is a reputation
             repeated sellings
     this is not a truth
       this is just repetition
 persistently boomed      into adjustable history
     dying over and again
each hand that takes up the stylus
       muster evidence
   of our mad insistences
         the 'sharing' game
     snaring the population bulk
           and lording over it with
       your repulsating power on display
you can't walk in a hallway without a million voices in your head tearing you down
the feeling of crying while you walk into the cafeteria and seeing that everyone has their place but you never will
the feeling of eating lunch by yourself and feeling like you are  the most hated person in the room
the feeling of knowing no matter how many schools you switch to, the feelings still follow
the feeling of going home to parents who know how to provide for you physically but don't understand why you feel the way you do when everything has been provided for you from the day you were born
It's like they wrote the formula out and they know the right answer but they keep getting the wrong one
and you're that wrong one
they set the equation right and followed every step, so what could possibly be wrong?
Tell me I'm not this. The blue began to flood
inside a room once painted black. Tell me I don't
see this. The orb of morning peering its start right to
my eyelids that can't even close. Tell me I don't hear
this. Birds chirping for sunrise, playing lightly as my
lullaby. Tell me I'm dreaming. My leg still twitches,
seven in the morning, because I'm afraid I'll lose you
before dawn. Shedding emotion in fast waves of flight,
tell me I didn't run through time, making stars out
of daylight. Orange in the sky, and not from shy
headlights in insomniac cars. Yellow, making its fellow
opening for my restless sleep, not a nightlight like before,
no. Tell me I'm not this.
Panic attacks for me are shaky.
I start to think everyone's starring,
I wonder what they're thinking.
My resolution is to get out.
Then the tears come pouring down.
As they do my body follows.
I sink to the ground and try to hide myself.
The sleeves of my jacket become soaked,
And then my heart feels like it'll explode.
Anxiety is a whole nother code.
My divulging outcries should
match the anguished weeks we've had. I've deceived all of
you with obscured replies, and now this distrustful person
I am is hard to understand. But you see, I can't decipher myself,
for I'm a traveler of my own heartbreak. A nomad without a map, searching for this knack to surviving. Deserted on scattered land, and each fighting "I'm okay" evolves me more lost. An unsolvable destination to which discovered, I may uncover a pumping, breathing new body and fresh spirit clean of a blemished memory. Deprived and striving; I'm holding on for that revival of flared hope, to where I cope with these thoughts in a better way. How long can you
thrive on nothing?
Will I last today, or is the burden too much?
A burden is the depression settling in around you like a rain cloud over only your head.
Walking from place to place soaking wet from the storm.
You are cold, you are sick, you are not okay.

2. A burden is the anxiety shaking your body until you feel like you might burst at the seams.
People can see that your hands won't stay still, and they stare.
You are trembling, you are scared, you are not okay.

3. A burden is the rumors your "best friend" has spread around the whole freshman class.
Secrets exposed to people you don't even know.
You are found out, you are alone, you are not okay.

4. A burden is the thought of suicide bouncing around your head.
The thought of death so good, yet so bad.
You are confused, you are conflicted, you are not okay.

5. A burden is reaching out for help and being punished.
No longer allowed to talk to those they told you would help.
You are lost, you are unprotected, you are not okay.

6. A burden is not a student who has experienced 1-5.
A  student who yearns so much to get better, and just keeps getting pushed down.
A student who is terrified, who is lonely, who is not okay

7. You called yourself a mental health professional.
But 8. would never deal with this student yourself.
and 9. called her a burden to the entire campus.

But the campus is unaffected, the campus is stable, and the campus is okay.

So did you mean the campus would be better off without me?

Or that you would.. maybe...I just want it to end.

The hopelessness, the fear,
the constant critic in my head:
I've lived with them all for too long.
All I've ever known is this war, this endless battle.
There's nothing wrong with wanting it to end.
To wish that it didn't is cruel.
But why can't the best solution be the simplest?
Why do I have to keep fighting?

At times it's deafening,
and I'm so exhausted.

Why can't I just lay down in no man's land
and let this battle fall silent around me?
Why can't that be the end?
Because... I'll never know what's possible.
Vanshika nangia Feb 2016
People said he was bad, very bad or even worse. He was known to be distrustful, heartless. But she was never convinced by this. She fought with them. Never let them speak a word against him. She found goodness in his wickedness. For her, he was different. The best. He could never see her love. He played, every time. Hurt her more than anyone else could. Never left any chance to destroy her. Still, she saw something good. Thinking may be all this was done for her good. May be he cared enough to send her away before he left. She loved him unconditionally with just one hope, that one fine day, life will find its way, he will change for her. He will love her the way she does. And now, she's afraid that may be this is her biggest fault. Never will he change, instead she'll loose herself over hope.
-Vanshika
3/2/16
3:27am
Graff1980 Nov 2015
I bring you flourishes of superb poetic sentiment
Superfluously inspired by my desires
To touch, to see, to hear, to be near,
To succor on the sweetness of your lips,

To worship your poetic passions,
In each verbal nuance, and embellishment
But not from such a terrible distance

To let whatever fury you possess
Consume me like a wave after it crests
Washing away the very core of my distrustful heart

It has been years since I saw the shores of love
Like a long lost utopia, Avalon still waits in the mists
Storms shadowing each precipice
You are dangerous but the perfect fuel
If you crush me I believe that I will bleed beautiful poetry
Still being better for loving you from such a distance
Molly Apr 2014
She is so sure of it, one minute,
then the next is a flurry of tears,
curse words and disappointments.
I can never say the right words,
distrustful stance;
she raised me. She can ground me,
she thinks I would lie in a heartbeat.
She waits for
some lady in pinstripes
with money on her mind. "Can I
drain the mind of the poet for cash?"
She will ask, and sleep on her dollar pile
in diamonds and furs,
my mother a pea in the eighth mattress
down,
never noticed by thieves, the true princess.

— The End —