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Cathyy Jan 2016
Libras love hard..
Oh you know us Libras love hard sometimes.. And we are quite sensual,
artistic, sentimental..

Just let this time heal,
Let 2016 fix your heart
Oh I know its hard sometimes
But you deserve more days out of the dark..

We started a friendship through a group chat
This time last year who could've ever imagined that?
Well since then; we've been tipsy in a park and in a *** club
& then I crashed your bike into your skateboard..
And I don't normally sleep early or take photos with people, but now I do

So I want to thank you,
For all the impact you've had
'Hope I made you feel the same, too
You've seen me cry when I'm sad
And laugh with all my heart, you..
Always make it hard for me to stay mad..
Whenever you look at me like that

And when you've hurt me, thats okay baby; you could've done worse things..
Just make up for that, by holding me
Until I stop hurting..
And never, let this connection go
I'll wait for you to move on

Oh on every Sunday..
Whether i'm uploading on Youtube or singing on the pavement;
I will remember turnpike lane station,
And to be honest i just used that because it kinda rhymed (****)
As cheesy and dramatic as i may be
I'll always remain by your side.
Lily Flower Mar 2018
The story goes: A sad poet sat
beside the unpolished fireplace
immersed in the dying fire
and began with would be heres.
Such tragedy choked me when you set off toward the horizon.
And I knelt gasping, gasping for breath.
Begging for a last look, before death.
I burned in depth.
You spat flowers, moving away
giving a shadowed smile
And an empty love letter.
I dearly wished for better.
There was no better.
There however, was an end
to the rise and fall of my chest
I bet you thought it was for the best.
Twenty years of solemn dysfunction
and morbid melancholy.
Darling! Listen to my ifs and buts
silly and dramatic cuts through my throat.
Believe! For a moment watch close
my insane heart would still beat
if you were here, by the fireplace now
I could make a perpetual vow
to speak your soft heart only.
I hate confessing I feel broken and lonely.
But I'd do anything
And I'd do everything for you.
to come back and do
all I thought impossible
but possible with you..
Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
I'm tired of being dramatic
Words don't always flow
Poetry isn't right over what else is wrong
Cry some more
That will help
Whine a lot
Like we all do
**** trying to sound perfect
Life doesn't rhyme
Life has ups and downs
Life *****
And then it gets good
And then it ***** again
Deal with it
Stop crying
LP S Jun 2018
"You can't always win, L."
he says.
He always says that,
the boy from Ohio with the lopsided grin,
"Sometimes, you just lose..
and that's okay."
Emphasis on the "okay".
Because he knows
that's the one word
I won't hear him say.
He knows this,
because he always says it.
When I tell him,
I don't feel right, where I am.
And it's worked before.
So it should work now,
he thinks to himself.
And perhaps if I were sitting next to him,
like I used to,
in that one room apartment,
in Victorian Village,
I would hear it.
I would hear it,
and it would resonate.
Before he punched me in the arm
and asked if I was done being dramatic,
so we could turn on the game,
because he just got a text that OSU is down by 7,
and he's pretty sure it's because he's not watching..
So I would laugh,
shove him off the couch I got at Goodwill,
and he would grab two more PBRs from my fridge
that only sometimes worked,
and it would be okay.
It would.
Because to the sound of him yelling at Braxton Miller
through the tv
like he could actually hear him,
and the hot summer breeze pouring through the open windows,
it made sense.
What he said,
made sense.
But we're not in that apartment,
and he can't hear how hard my is heart beating
from 700 miles away,
can't see the look on my face
when I tell him I think I'm losing my ******* mind.
Suddenly his voice sounds so far
and so foreign.
And he knows,
he knows it's not working this time
but that's the farthest he ever got
so that's as far as he goes.
And the long pause is deafening.
So in one final act of desperation
he simply says,
"Love you, kid."
And I just say,
"I know."
Night all along was
A monologue of lights,
On prowling darkness!
Leal Knowone Jul 2017
Whispering winds, rustle weeping willows,
were the corpses, and sorrow lie.
Winding beaten roads,
broke from the artery of cluttered existence.

Landing me in what reality?

Rattling minds, in longing whoa
anamnesis, horror,love denied.

Skeletons emerge,
of the forgotten foes, and mystic secrets
the world sought not to see.
Clustered hoards galloping to their doom.

Essence ripped away, by cloven hoof.
Relevant ramble from a vagrant drunken stooge.
Whisk away by the dramatic exchange of a loon.
Echoing memories bombarding the senses.

Landing me in what reality?

Echoing voices carried through hallways
were  sorrow, and corpses lie.
Zersrol Sep 2018
Fear is not put aside
No matter what
It's there to stay
You could channel it
But you could never
Get rid of it
When you think
You have
Is the day you are DEAD
When looking down
For the first time ever
You would be in
And even feel the SWEAT
Going down your back
When seeing a speeding car
Moving fast and crazy
On the street you are
Causally walking through
With no time to blink or move
You are in Shock
You are feeling THE FEAR
Soon enough it takes you over
Soon enough the fear of life's troubles
Consumes you
But these events is what makes us
In a world such as ours
You can't get rid of fear
But you can mold it
To make you STRONG
I made this to pass time in class when I was in 7th grade. I was honestly letting my brain go plays again and this poem just happened
Luna Rose May 2016
I am 16 years old
Yet I am suffering from anxiety
I am suffering with the fact that I can never find my happy place
I don't understand how I feel the need to cry
I feel like I'm just a girl talking about problems
Problems that aren't that heavy
Why is that I tell bits and pieces but never the whole story
Who can I tell without looking like a fake person
See whenever I cried I was told that I was being dramatic
Till this day I don't like people seeing me cry cause I feel dramatic
I am scared of the outcome of reality
I am terrified of  the fact that I cry in front of people
I am scared for the fact that the boy that I like will think of me as a basket case or even worse I will get judged
Who is to say I won't get judged
see people say that the way a person gets treated is all about their race
I never understood that
I don't get how a white boy doesn't feel the same pain  we do
I don't get why I was told in the first grade that I was black
I remember picking up the black crayon and looking around to see anyone that matches that color
But never being able to find it
I don't get why I panic about this
I really do not feel the need to cry either
Today I was told to look myself in the mirror ,
I never did because I knew that I wouldn't like what I see
I don't see myself as beautiful
I do not see myself as perfect
When i see myself in the mirror the only thing I see is a face and a name
To be honest I haven't discovered who I am yet
I haven't thought about who I wanna be
Which still gives me anxiety
Ik I want to be someone
Ik I wanna reach for the stars
But I do not know why
I have trust issues I won't lie
I bottle everything up
My life is not always as it seems
I don't like to be yelled at cause I already get yelled at too much
I do not like the fact that I feel the need to hide
I do not like the fact that I never want to have children
Because knowing that I will have children
Makes me feel like I will **** them up
So please stop adding anymore anxiety honestly I'm good as it is rn
I am not a basket case
I Am not dramatic
I am simple a 16 year old girl who faces anxiety
Emma Price Oct 2018
Just like watching a movie,
looking back at old poems,
so filled with dramatic irony,
that you think I wish I could just show em
~ much love
Waynepatrick May 2018
I said I'd never lose hope,
At  least that's what I thought until now.
I'm sullen with discomfort that all this I allow,

And I try to stem this tide without success,
A strange blend of heightened consciousness and dramatic
I can never plumb it's depth fully,
The steady drumrolls of stress I discount,hoping it goes away .
But I'm sure of one thing,
My hope is just but a lonely sentinel,
Keeping watch over the vast stretch of sterile land that it once
Thus I've found myself here,
I wouldn't wish for anyone to be there.
Franchesca Oct 2017
But I know what you're going through.
I know that it hurts.
I know that the pain is breathtakingly exhausting.
I know.
I know that your lungs give out everytime you scream their name, internally.
The shades of sadness you wear are now thicker than the blood your heart would bleed out everytime the image of the future with them was at an edge.
I know that everytime you look up from the grey gravel you drag yourself upon, a strike is ran within your nerves because you can no longer love with your eyes anymore.
I know that although you weren't the one that brought it all to shambles, you hopelessly imagine that they will open up the curtains within them that restrained them of the love you had to offer.
I know.
I know that breathing around them after it has ended is the most dramatic difference because for so long, the love you both shared was formed in the most  synchronized pattern.
It was all you knew.
I know it gets better from this point on,
But I also know that the urgency to chase after them is still pulsating within you.
Right now, it is all darkness, but you have yet to encounter the light.
I know.
Soon you will too.
Adrian Alberts May 2016
Poetry is just scratches on paper
forming dramatic words
by an overemotional character

Poetry is certainly
not a pen that digs trenches
for the blue blood to follow
draining a soul to a sterile existence

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is all
roses are red
violets are blue
blah, blah, blah
I'm so in love with you

Nobody cares about books
Notice how the poetry section
in the bookstores continue
to diminish with every look?

Poetry is certainly not as profound
as the inert words
lay gutted by the rapper
which boasts his materialistic empire
that his target audience consumes
yet cannot honestly digest

And you'll find the album
in an abundant display
set in the center of the bookstore

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is just something studied
from history books to obtain credit
A time before the internet
and a true social status
Before days rapt in vanity

Poetry is certainly not a self sacrifice
to explore the wilderness of the heart
and the shutters to the mind
An outlet to tread another day

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
David Adamson Feb 17
The place smells the same. Garlic, undergraduate angst, oven flame.  The menu hasn’t changed. The Antony and Cleopatra.  Italian sausage and snake meat. The Macbeth. Cooked in a cauldron.  Blood sauce won’t wash off. The Julius Caesar.  Served bottom side up.  You have to knife it from the back. The Timon of Athens. Only bitter, separate ingredients, overcooked to black. The Frankenstein.  Assembled from ingredients at hand.  Served smoking from a jolt of high voltage. The Dramatic Irony. It’s a surprise.  Everyone at your table knows what you’re getting while you cover your eyes.

You said tragedy means playing out a ****** hand. The game has to end badly. Bigger Thomas. Joe Christmas.  Hamlet.  Everybody dies.  No choices. The end. I said, no, it means you have a fatal flaw.  Macbeth and Ted Kennedy—ruthless ambition.  Gatsby—pride. Lear—vanity. Richard Nixon—douchebaggery, deep-fried. Bad choices.  

“Can’t be both,” you said.  “One is character, the other one’s fate.” “What if character is fate?” I asked smugly. “Then we’re *******, Heraclitus. It’s late.”

I smoked a pipe.  You wore a beret and severely bobbed hair. I wrote sarcastic love letters to the universe. You wrote hate lyrics to Ted Hughes, love notes to Jane Eyre. We kept relations on an intellectual plane. You had a set of big firm ideas, dark-eyed principles, and a dimpled scorn of life’s surly crap. My eloquence was tall, square-jawed, curly, tan.  Together we solved the world’s big problems as only undergraduates can.

“Can pizza be tragic; or is it merely postponed farce?” I wondered. “Here it is clearly both, though not at the same time,” you said. “Does tragedy plus time equal comedy?” “Sounds right.” “No, tragedy plus time is any order in this place on a Saturday night.” After what seems like decades our orders finally arrive.  

“What did you get?” I asked.  “Looks like the Double Tragic,” you replied. “Flawed choices and fate. I leave you. You were unfaithful to every love sonnet you ever wrote.  Yet you are the first man who makes me feel loved, the only one who ever will.  I strain for that feeling again and again but it becomes a boulder that keeps rolling back down the hill. And fate—my beautiful ******* that got so much attention from men will **** me.  The only thing they will ever nurse is a cancerous seed. You?”

“The Too-Many-Choices, done to perfection. Choosing everything means choosing nothing. Loving too many women, I love none.  I follow a simple path home but try to stay lost. Living in the space between lost and found has a cost.  My life becomes a solitary pilgrimage to no place.”

“Let’s not reduce our lives to a Harry Chapin song,” we agreed. So we toasted the beauty of what never was. I went back to my hotel to write, found my way to a few easy truths, and called it a night.
Lost Soul Dec 2018
you say your hands are cold,that you forgot your gloves
i look down at my hands
i take my only pair off and give them to you
i feel the cold air on my bare hands
i tell myself its not too bad and you'll give them back if i need them
hours go by
you still have my gloves
the muscles in my fingers become ridged from the cold
but i love to see you warm so i don't ask for them back
another hour goes by
you still have my gloves
i cant feel or move my fingers now
the tips are starting to burn...
i know this is the start of frost bite
but i don't want to take the warmth from you so i wait a little longer to ask you for them back

i finally gather the courage to approach you ...
under my breath, i ask if i can borrow them for a bit?
just to get the blood back in my veins?
you stare at me for what seems like forever...then you start to laugh
you say: i'm fine
you say: i don't really need them
you say: i'm dramatic
i say, i feel numb
i say: i just need them for a little bit
you say: i'm selfish
you say: i don't love you....that i want you to be cold like i am
you say: i'm a coward and say that instead of asking you
i should just learn to deal with it

i stood there not knowing what to say ... maybe you right?
so i decide to bare it , i bare it while my hands start to sting
i watch you with our friends as i sit on the side-lines
the love i have for you is the only warmth left in my body
i look down and my hands are turning blue now
i cant let me do this to myself
i realize i need to find help ...but that means i have to leave you
i never want to leave you
but you refuse to go with

after much consideration, i do what is best for no one else but me
i leave..
i leave while you still hold a bit of me
leaving was one of the hardest decisions i have ever made
This is my 2018. Interpret this however you want. To me this is a metaphor for my year. I gave alot of myself to people,to the point were my mental and physical health got really bad. Unfortunately the people I thought would be there, left me.
Europa Apr 2017
[... I can feel its humble goodness. It's in the pinky shadows that only come out when there's sun. And in the rustling of dry, decaying leaves-- a moment of airy respite 'till they pass through to what's next in their slow lives.]

I see sunshine encapsulated in
The rungs of time's branches--
And I am grateful
For the significance that
Temporary things know.

Oh dramatic beings, today
Let's be eased.
Feel the humming of
Sun striking Earth--
It is the most loving blow.

Remember the orcas and
The petals of spring yet to be.
Of our friends and their laughter...
Remember the roots that
Traverse beneath you and me,
And that constant
Slip of the tide...

Our memories are constant--
Indeed you can remember
What you have yet to see.

Dip your skin in this
Day's glory, and wear it so
For as long as it fits.

O! My Love, how the past seems inevitable,
every time your name is mentioned.
Old memories start calling me back to you,
I cry with each chapter as the pages of us
keep turning to my happiest times I shared with you.

It is as if we had written our own love scene
but we didn't know how the ending was going
to be in a dramatic scene where our love
will soon make a case of an end.

I truly never wanted to look back
but it is hard when I know what I once had
and what it is I had lost…
what was and what is no longer.

I still have in my heart this deep longing
for that one person that possess my heart
that truly had shown me true passion and love.

O!  My Love, what a scene it was,
It is crazy how you could keep a smile on my face
way back then...and every time I think about you
that smile finds it's way back.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1982
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1982
Nobody Dec 2018
Branded as the weaker *** ever since birth,
your voice long lost wandering around this earth.
Told you shouldn’t throw a ball, and “boys will be boys”;
stand still and look pretty, try not to make too much noise.

You’re much too fragile to let off our leash,
and so dramatic too, for a piece of meat.
That’s why we’ll never listen, or let you try and explain.
We only know how to minimize your ‘so called’ pain.

We’ll just one up you, and try to laugh it all away,
hold your head down forcing you back in your lane.
We’re used to being on top, you’re not changing the rules;
now keep the crying to yourself, you naive little fool.
Salmabanu Hatim Jul 2018
When I am bored,
I write poems.
Bored with nothing to do,
Action poems,
Bored with nobody to talk to,
Dramatic poems.
Bored with no one to listen to,
Miss my love,
Nostalgic poems.
Simply bored and lazy,
In a good mood,
Funny poems.
Bored in a crowd,
Interesting quotes and sayings.
Tyler A Sullivan Nov 2017
What fortune is more cursed
Than a lover black of heart
What flower more odious
Than a lovers stall to start

What animal least prepared
For the loss of love
Than the petty man
And his dying dove

What tale more sour
Than the story of man and wife
What play more dramatic
Than this farse of a life

What animal least prepared
For the loss of love
Than the petty man
And his dying dove

What Destiny more doomed
Than me and Rose
What option least fitting
Than the one she chose

What animal least prepared
For the loss of life
Than the broken man
And his endless strife
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