"eighteen" poems - Hello Poetry

"eighteen" poems

by definition, lust is extreme ****** desire for someone by nature, lust is uncontrollable... I'm attracted to my thirty-seven year old male teacher and my eighteen year old male coworker and the quirky girl who sits behind me in history, what? by religion, lust is a sin, punishable by Hell, whatever that is. lust is unavoidable, but socially unacceptable to act upon.

0

Oct 4, 2014

Oct 4, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC

by definition, lust is extreme ****** desire for someone by nature, lust is uncontrollable... I'm attracted to my thirty-seven year old male teacher and my eighteen year old male coworker and the quirky girl who sits behind me in history, what? by religion, lust is a sin, punishable by Hell, whatever that is. lust is unavoidable, but socially unacceptable to act upon.

Continue reading...

Step One: Meet someone. Step Two: Become friends. Step Three: Spend too much time with them. Step Four: Realize that you have gotten along better with them than anyone else you know. Step Five: Tell yourself that they're the one for you. Step Six: Tell them that they're the one for you. Step Seven: Date. Step Eight: Fall in love. Take a deep breath. This is where it gets tricky. STEP NINE: Stay together for awhile... STEP TEN: AND AWHILE LONGER STEP ELEVEN AND WHILE LONGER STEP TWELVE AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER STEP THIRTEEN: SHORTEN CONVERSATIONS STEP FOURTEEN: AWKWARD SILENCE STEP FIFTEEN: THEY STOP CALLING STEP SIXTEEN: THEY STOP TEXTING STEP SEVENTEEN: THEY SAY THEY FEEL DIFFERENTLY STEP EIGHTEEN: THEY SAY THEY MET SOMEONE ELSE STEP NINETEEN: THEY SAY THEY STILL WANT TO BE FRIENDS STEP TWENTY: THEY BLOCK YOU ONLINE STEP TWENTY-ONE: THEY BLOCK YOUR CELLPHONE NUMBER STEP TWENTY-TWO: YOU CRY and you cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry... Step Twenty-Three: ...you fall and hit rock bottom. There you have it, ladies in gentlemen: How to **** yourself without actually dying? ...Love someone who doesn't love you back.

0

Mar 21, 2016

Mar 21, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC

How To **** Yourself Without Dying: In 23 Simple Steps

Step One: Meet someone. Step Two: Become friends. Step Three: Spend too much time with them. Step Four: Realize that you have gotten along better with them than anyone else you know. Step Five: Tell yourself that they're the one for you. Step Six: Tell them that they're the one for you. Step Seven: Date. Step Eight: Fall in love. Take a deep breath. This is where it gets tricky. STEP NINE: Stay together for awhile... STEP TEN: AND AWHILE LONGER STEP ELEVEN AND WHILE LONGER STEP TWELVE AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER AND AWHILE LONGER STEP THIRTEEN: SHORTEN CONVERSATIONS STEP FOURTEEN: AWKWARD SILENCE STEP FIFTEEN: THEY STOP CALLING STEP SIXTEEN: THEY STOP TEXTING STEP SEVENTEEN: THEY SAY THEY FEEL DIFFERENTLY STEP EIGHTEEN: THEY SAY THEY MET SOMEONE ELSE STEP NINETEEN: THEY SAY THEY STILL WANT TO BE FRIENDS STEP TWENTY: THEY BLOCK YOU ONLINE STEP TWENTY-ONE: THEY BLOCK YOUR CELLPHONE NUMBER STEP TWENTY-TWO: YOU CRY and you cry and cry and cry and cry and cry and cry... Step Twenty-Three: ...you fall and hit rock bottom. There you have it, ladies in gentlemen: How to **** yourself without actually dying? ...Love someone who doesn't love you back.

Continue reading...

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.

0

Feb 24, 2016

Feb 24, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC

For Those I've Truly Loved

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.

Continue reading...

I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan, She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan. The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom', I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done. My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away, With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day. In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war, Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw. She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate, she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate. She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why, In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry. Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead, She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head. She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken, The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token. You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away, I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today. They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury, You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry. You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life, My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife, She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday, Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away. She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown. She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide, how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side. The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan, Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then, I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do, And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.

0

Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC

Tribute to a soldier

I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan, She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan. The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom', I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done. My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away, With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day. In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war, Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw. She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate, she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate. She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why, In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry. Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead, She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head. She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken, The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token. You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away, I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today. They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury, You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry. You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life, My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife, She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday, Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away. She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown. She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide, how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side. The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan, Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then, I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do, And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.

Continue reading...

Simulan natin sa katapusan nang taon, Naging dahilan nang araw-araw kong pagbangon, Naalintana ang palagiang paglamon, At uminit ang Pasko nang kahapon. “Napakaganda nang buhok mo”, aking bati, Para sa minimithi kong binibini, Pagmamahal mo’y sa akin’y biglaang sumapi, Noon ko ipinagdarasal na makita kita’ng parati. Humingi nang payo kung kani-kanino, Upang manatiling aktibo’t ‘di mablangko, Bagama’t ang kinauukalan mo’y malayo, ‘Di nagtagal, nagkaroon na din nang “tayo” Araw-araw magkausap simula noong ikalabing-walo nang Enero, Nagpatuloy hanggang Pebrero pati Marso, Kadalasang naiisip kapag nag-iisa sa kwarto, Hanggang sa eskwela, daanan, lansangan, lungsod, barangay’t baryo. Naputol man ang ating koneksyon, Hinding-hindi ka mawawala sa ‘king imahinasyon, Ipinagbawal man upang turuan nang leksyon, Sa araw-araw ang pag-ibig mo’y aking binabaon. Pinaghigpitan man’y iginagalang ko Ang desisyon at pagmamahal nang mga magulang mo, Sa ika-dieciocho ka pa daw pwedeng magka-novio, Nag-atubili, sumagot ako nang “opo”. Lahat daw nang inaantay at pinaghihirapan, Ay mayroong napakalaking kahalagahan, Kahit alinma’y sakit ay aking ginampanan, Upang sumunod lamang sa natatanging kasunduan. Kaya nandito ako ngayon, Na may pagmamahal at may mga pagtitiis na naipon, Nanabik sa pangako nang kahapon, Sa pangakong uuwi ka sa iyong selebrasyon, Ngayong ika-siyam nang Pebrero, Nais kong malaman mo na pag-ibig ko sayo’y ‘di magbabago, Nag-intay, nagtiis, nahirapan, ngunit ‘di napagod, Dahil umaapaw ang pagmamahal mula labas hanggang ubod.

0

Jun 4, 2018

Jun 4, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC

Dieciocho (Eighteen)

Simulan natin sa katapusan nang taon, Naging dahilan nang araw-araw kong pagbangon, Naalintana ang palagiang paglamon, At uminit ang Pasko nang kahapon. “Napakaganda nang buhok mo”, aking bati, Para sa minimithi kong binibini, Pagmamahal mo’y sa akin’y biglaang sumapi, Noon ko ipinagdarasal na makita kita’ng parati. Humingi nang payo kung kani-kanino, Upang manatiling aktibo’t ‘di mablangko, Bagama’t ang kinauukalan mo’y malayo, ‘Di nagtagal, nagkaroon na din nang “tayo” Araw-araw magkausap simula noong ikalabing-walo nang Enero, Nagpatuloy hanggang Pebrero pati Marso, Kadalasang naiisip kapag nag-iisa sa kwarto, Hanggang sa eskwela, daanan, lansangan, lungsod, barangay’t baryo. Naputol man ang ating koneksyon, Hinding-hindi ka mawawala sa ‘king imahinasyon, Ipinagbawal man upang turuan nang leksyon, Sa araw-araw ang pag-ibig mo’y aking binabaon. Pinaghigpitan man’y iginagalang ko Ang desisyon at pagmamahal nang mga magulang mo, Sa ika-dieciocho ka pa daw pwedeng magka-novio, Nag-atubili, sumagot ako nang “opo”. Lahat daw nang inaantay at pinaghihirapan, Ay mayroong napakalaking kahalagahan, Kahit alinma’y sakit ay aking ginampanan, Upang sumunod lamang sa natatanging kasunduan. Kaya nandito ako ngayon, Na may pagmamahal at may mga pagtitiis na naipon, Nanabik sa pangako nang kahapon, Sa pangakong uuwi ka sa iyong selebrasyon, Ngayong ika-siyam nang Pebrero, Nais kong malaman mo na pag-ibig ko sayo’y ‘di magbabago, Nag-intay, nagtiis, nahirapan, ngunit ‘di napagod, Dahil umaapaw ang pagmamahal mula labas hanggang ubod.

Continue reading...

Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend… The queen will be safe here from the rabble The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her Among these lofty cliffs Between the raging circuit of the tide Here winds forbid the vengeful mob Here lovers learn the debt of love’s bad timing “Drink ye all of it!” --the potion that assigns our sorrow…. She will not sleep— while I chew this gum-- GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly Their hands steady the wheel

0

Sep 13, 2016

Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Angel's Jukebox

Route 84 would not lend me the light of a star last night Radio blazing at 75 mph nonsense noise to chew gum by Crackling political commentary Static of distance and thick clouds Invisible mountains blocking Memories seeping through the cracks coating the music in a film I rub my eyes watch myself punch alert buttons But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight Roll down the window Watch the heat escape Summer again I am building a castle of ancient stones pulverized by relentless tides Dragged across maps by mastodons and mammoth glaciers The scouring hiss the ocean sighs Time has lulled these smoothly rolling them in the softest hands of sand and gels of life’s comings and goings tenderly tumbling in the millionth moonrise— Time deposits them here wet and glistening For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather Shoulders sun-burnt barely say one week only, one week of the fifty two “It’s the time of the season…” and daddies on the beach are watching…. She has chosen yet another stone And the castle continues— in oblivion to all but her legend… The queen will be safe here from the rabble The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her Among these lofty cliffs Between the raging circuit of the tide Here winds forbid the vengeful mob Here lovers learn the debt of love’s bad timing “Drink ye all of it!” --the potion that assigns our sorrow…. She will not sleep— while I chew this gum-- GUM? Roll down the window! Angels escape with the heat Waking me with the brush of their wings As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank And leans on the horn Lights flashing Rude rumbling under right tires Tantrum of snow In the draft of mass and velocity …and the angels? They’ve chosen another good one! They must’ve liked the 80’s Their wings slapping the windshield madly Their hands steady the wheel

Continue reading...

I'm a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie World. Life's fantastic: I feel like plastic, aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away. I feel like plastic, having to choose between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes. I feel like plastic, a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead. I feel like plastic, a size nine squeezed to a three, spending three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says 'Don't eat.' I'm a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie World. Life's fantastic, but... I'm not plastic. I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that society is made by you. You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and trust me, it's trendy: Psychiatry. A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams, fading reality. I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I am a flame, ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me. All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions and I care, I do, I mean... I'm standing here among you. But words are just air. You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but I am more than my face so disregard my mild distaste for your inspirational speech. Now, this... This isn't a call for help. This is a call to arms. This is a battle cry because I am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday. So use this air to live the words you say and rally. Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in Shawnee, Johnson County. I'm a real girl, in a real world. Life's fantastic, and I refuse to be plastic, aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number. I refuse to be plastic, a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose. I refuse to be plastic, a bust that you don't need to be sizing when I've got eyes a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken puke. I refuse to be plastic, a size nine foot in a size nine shoe, spending three to nine enjoying my meal times, because my weight loss book is chucked down the chute. I'm a living girl in a beautiful world. Life's fantastic, because I'm not plastic.

0

Feb 11, 2015

Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC

I'm a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie World. Life's fantastic: I feel like plastic, aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away. I feel like plastic, having to choose between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes. I feel like plastic, a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead. I feel like plastic, a size nine squeezed to a three, spending three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says 'Don't eat.' I'm a Barbie Girl, in a Barbie World. Life's fantastic, but... I'm not plastic. I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that society is made by you. You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and trust me, it's trendy: Psychiatry. A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams, fading reality. I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I am a flame, ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me. All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions and I care, I do, I mean... I'm standing here among you. But words are just air. You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but I am more than my face so disregard my mild distaste for your inspirational speech. Now, this... This isn't a call for help. This is a call to arms. This is a battle cry because I am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday. So use this air to live the words you say and rally. Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in Shawnee, Johnson County. I'm a real girl, in a real world. Life's fantastic, and I refuse to be plastic, aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number. I refuse to be plastic, a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose. I refuse to be plastic, a bust that you don't need to be sizing when I've got eyes a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken puke. I refuse to be plastic, a size nine foot in a size nine shoe, spending three to nine enjoying my meal times, because my weight loss book is chucked down the chute. I'm a living girl in a beautiful world. Life's fantastic, because I'm not plastic.

Continue reading...

Born a boy... Baseball, music, skateboards... Puberty comes and goes... Suicidal thoughts... The only answer to stop the pain... Too scared to follow through... 18 and life, my body is a prison... My body breaks mirrors... Dysphoria, a word never heard... Lost, never knowing why... Alcohol finds me... The perfect medication... I laugh, I live... It hides all the pain... Year after year... It's all i know.. There's still something inside... Something pushing... Calling, wanting to get out... It got to be too much... Then eighteen months ago... The pain got too much... My liver was destroyed... I thought it was the end... I met a person... Heard the word transgender... Some others took me... Taught me, cared for me... One day the light came on... After all these years of tears... The answer was so simple... All the pieces fit perfectly... I was transgender, and never knew... Now I'm free... Im so happy for the first time to be me... I'm transgender..!

0

Apr 27, 2015

Apr 27, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC

Born a boy... Baseball, music, skateboards... Puberty comes and goes... Suicidal thoughts... The only answer to stop the pain... Too scared to follow through... 18 and life, my body is a prison... My body breaks mirrors... Dysphoria, a word never heard... Lost, never knowing why... Alcohol finds me... The perfect medication... I laugh, I live... It hides all the pain... Year after year... It's all i know.. There's still something inside... Something pushing... Calling, wanting to get out... It got to be too much... Then eighteen months ago... The pain got too much... My liver was destroyed... I thought it was the end... I met a person... Heard the word transgender... Some others took me... Taught me, cared for me... One day the light came on... After all these years of tears... The answer was so simple... All the pieces fit perfectly... I was transgender, and never knew... Now I'm free... Im so happy for the first time to be me... I'm transgender..!

Continue reading...

There's a candle burning nightly In the window, on the right The house has long been empty But, the candle's there each night The house in old and ancient I'm sure it has tales it needs to tell Like, why the candle's burning And why the house won't sell The candle shows up daily As soon as dusk begins to fall The drapes are drawn so closely In each room along the hall But, in that lonely window Burns a candle all can see It's been burning there each evening Since nineteen forty three They say the house is haunted After all, the candle is a clue Someone lights it nightly The question asked is who? The house has been abandoned No one lives there any more They say the last survivor Left in nineteen forty four The story is as follows If I get my rumours straight The house was built around The year eighteen eighty eight The family that did own it When the candle came to light Were wealthy, and reclusive And they all kept out of sight The story goes, their oldest son Signed up and went to war He was a pilot in the air force He shot down 15 planes or more He was shot down on a mission But his plane was never found They never found the wreckage Where it crashed into the ground The candle started burning The day the message came It's always burning in the window It's always lit, it's all the same The candle shows when it is dusk It goes out just past three No one knows who lights it There's no one there to see Is the candle lit by spirits Waiting for a missing son Is it lit to help pass over To make his journey done No one knows the exact story If the plane crashed and he died But, even in the daylight People don't pass by on this side The house is an enigma Is a ghost there waiting for A son to come home to them Marching through the old front door All I know is that the candle Has been lit for 60 years And there's a ghost up there just waiting Crying quiet , ghostly tears

0

Mar 25, 2013

Mar 25, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC

The candle in the window

There's a candle burning nightly In the window, on the right The house has long been empty But, the candle's there each night The house in old and ancient I'm sure it has tales it needs to tell Like, why the candle's burning And why the house won't sell The candle shows up daily As soon as dusk begins to fall The drapes are drawn so closely In each room along the hall But, in that lonely window Burns a candle all can see It's been burning there each evening Since nineteen forty three They say the house is haunted After all, the candle is a clue Someone lights it nightly The question asked is who? The house has been abandoned No one lives there any more They say the last survivor Left in nineteen forty four The story is as follows If I get my rumours straight The house was built around The year eighteen eighty eight The family that did own it When the candle came to light Were wealthy, and reclusive And they all kept out of sight The story goes, their oldest son Signed up and went to war He was a pilot in the air force He shot down 15 planes or more He was shot down on a mission But his plane was never found They never found the wreckage Where it crashed into the ground The candle started burning The day the message came It's always burning in the window It's always lit, it's all the same The candle shows when it is dusk It goes out just past three No one knows who lights it There's no one there to see Is the candle lit by spirits Waiting for a missing son Is it lit to help pass over To make his journey done No one knows the exact story If the plane crashed and he died But, even in the daylight People don't pass by on this side The house is an enigma Is a ghost there waiting for A son to come home to them Marching through the old front door All I know is that the candle Has been lit for 60 years And there's a ghost up there just waiting Crying quiet , ghostly tears

Continue reading...

Bits and bytes over the wire Kindled the LDR love so far Poetic verses heart inspire First meeting feelings unbar Mind and heart inquire Intellect wins emotions ajar She said ain't gonna work esquire This LDR love flees bare Then came her note Hard to let go, you still mine? May be it ain't over yet Give it some more time Listen to hearts plea Let it be free Today it's only seven, Twenty five may beckon Eighteen days to next date LDR love will update Not for good bye But for two hearts to fly

0

Jan 7, 2020

Jan 7, 2020 at 2:39 PM UTC

Bits and bytes over the wire Kindled the LDR love so far Poetic verses heart inspire First meeting feelings unbar Mind and heart inquire Intellect wins emotions ajar She said ain't gonna work esquire This LDR love flees bare Then came her note Hard to let go, you still mine? May be it ain't over yet Give it some more time Listen to hearts plea Let it be free Today it's only seven, Twenty five may beckon Eighteen days to next date LDR love will update Not for good bye But for two hearts to fly

Continue reading...

There is a body floating in the water of Lake Michigan again, but no one is willing to fish it out. There is a body floating in the pond near my subdivision again, but everyone already knew that anyway. I am sitting eighty miles away, overlooking a city that is not mine, thinking about how the moon outside my window is the same moon that you can see from down below in your partially frozen-over dirt bed. I am thinking about the vampire that sits in his apartment, chugging two-to-three bottles of blood a week, and wondering if he is haunted by the same ghosts as I am. It’s taken me eighteen years to realize that I was infected with a different variation of his curse all along—I am less human and more lycanthrope than I would like to admit. I am not like you, I am not like him, I am my own breed and that terrifies me. (There are black cats prowling in my heart and fragments of mirrors in my liver and salt that bleeds from my heels when I walk.) No matter how many rabbits’ feet I tie to my keys, how many dreamcatchers I put above my bed, how many cloves of garlic I hang over my door, I am never able to rid myself of the chill that goes hand in hand with the phantom you left here. Mother, I think I killed a man two full moons ago and I haven’t been the same since. I threw his body into the lake and watched him drift out into the unknown, watched the kraken drag him down, watched the water spew him back up like a cork. And now I need you to make your way back to the land of the living to sit by my side. I want you to cut off my head and make me a trophy animal. Create a rug from my fur. Eat my organs and freeze the rest for winter. Use me for your own survival. I just want to be helpful. I want to be everything the vampire was not but my fingers are breaking from holding on too tight. I should let go.

0

Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC

There is a body floating in the water of Lake Michigan again, but no one is willing to fish it out. There is a body floating in the pond near my subdivision again, but everyone already knew that anyway. I am sitting eighty miles away, overlooking a city that is not mine, thinking about how the moon outside my window is the same moon that you can see from down below in your partially frozen-over dirt bed. I am thinking about the vampire that sits in his apartment, chugging two-to-three bottles of blood a week, and wondering if he is haunted by the same ghosts as I am. It’s taken me eighteen years to realize that I was infected with a different variation of his curse all along—I am less human and more lycanthrope than I would like to admit. I am not like you, I am not like him, I am my own breed and that terrifies me. (There are black cats prowling in my heart and fragments of mirrors in my liver and salt that bleeds from my heels when I walk.) No matter how many rabbits’ feet I tie to my keys, how many dreamcatchers I put above my bed, how many cloves of garlic I hang over my door, I am never able to rid myself of the chill that goes hand in hand with the phantom you left here. Mother, I think I killed a man two full moons ago and I haven’t been the same since. I threw his body into the lake and watched him drift out into the unknown, watched the kraken drag him down, watched the water spew him back up like a cork. And now I need you to make your way back to the land of the living to sit by my side. I want you to cut off my head and make me a trophy animal. Create a rug from my fur. Eat my organs and freeze the rest for winter. Use me for your own survival. I just want to be helpful. I want to be everything the vampire was not but my fingers are breaking from holding on too tight. I should let go.

Continue reading...

I can't name or count how many guys I've looked at approvingly thinking 'I'd love to **** him' or whatever people say when they give that approving eye glance and nod thing. Of course I do it. All the time. I'm eighteen for gods sake. I can look! However, I can count all the guys I've genuinely fancied on both hands. I can count the guys I've really liked on one hand. I can count the guys I've kissed on two fingers. I can count the guys I've actually called my boyfriend on one finger. But that is not the man I love. None of them are. Because he's not a statistic. He's a part of my soul.

0

Aug 4, 2014

Aug 4, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC

I can't name or count how many guys I've looked at approvingly thinking 'I'd love to **** him' or whatever people say when they give that approving eye glance and nod thing. Of course I do it. All the time. I'm eighteen for gods sake. I can look! However, I can count all the guys I've genuinely fancied on both hands. I can count the guys I've really liked on one hand. I can count the guys I've kissed on two fingers. I can count the guys I've actually called my boyfriend on one finger. But that is not the man I love. None of them are. Because he's not a statistic. He's a part of my soul.

Continue reading...

The Day... ...huff, huff, ...huff breathe Not one but many, downed twenty-two a numbered set Push! break, reset, align... frost, huff, Great God of Light reveals our Glory! breathing...breathing Field of pain, torn, exhausted, sweat, rain, mist, colder as grass-stained; the warrior's drobe. Situate, whistle! -stop! Realign, Randint, paired, matched to offset... feign, move 'Eleven-by-Eleven,' storied beget tension Forty-Five! Eighteen! Okemah! Rush... *In the fields herds collide, as Chaos, Eros, Geron, Adonai, War portends a losing side? The cheering throngs cast coronae...* *Eleven steers to sacrifice, go they do to God. The ritual structure to suffice, Violent nature absorbed by sod.* BULL *

0

Dec 20, 2016

Dec 20, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC

david-john-mowers

The Day... ...huff, huff, ...huff breathe Not one but many, downed twenty-two a numbered set Push! break, reset, align... frost, huff, Great God of Light reveals our Glory! breathing...breathing Field of pain, torn, exhausted, sweat, rain, mist, colder as grass-stained; the warrior's drobe. Situate, whistle! -stop! Realign, Randint, paired, matched to offset... feign, move 'Eleven-by-Eleven,' storied beget tension Forty-Five! Eighteen! Okemah! Rush... *In the fields herds collide, as Chaos, Eros, Geron, Adonai, War portends a losing side? The cheering throngs cast coronae...* *Eleven steers to sacrifice, go they do to God. The ritual structure to suffice, Violent nature absorbed by sod.* BULL *

Continue reading...

you are eighteen and you're in love with a boy who hates his birthday. you don't know it yet, but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car. you think he needs you to be happy and so does he but both of you are wrong. it'll take you almost a year to stop crying. and then you don't talk for another three and when you finally do, he thinks he still knows you, but your heart is heavier than it was then. and you **** him because you're lonely but it isn't the same. neither of you can fake love. at least he still makes you laugh. you'll pretend it's enough because at least he's a body. at least you're not by yourself. at least you're alive and you're good at ******* because bodies are distractions from the things we hide inside them. you have him inside you and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad. he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night and you laugh. you know what this is and how it goes and you both love someone else. you swear you won't **** him again but you do anyway because you're still lonely and you like the way his hands fit around your neck. you **** him because it's good for your art and you get bored of your own hands on your body and you're fine with letting him feel useful. and you think about when you were sixteen and how *** was supposed to be special and it makes you cry because you're not who you wanted to be. it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger after you left the backseat of his car. the world is so big and you don't know how it ended up on your shoulders. you would have died for him. you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved. you have dreams where he dies and you can't save him. you have dreams where people die and you can't save them and you're the one who tied your hands. your mangled heart and all its bleeding. nobody asked you to die. what good is all the love in your chest if you don't leave any for yourself? - m.f.

0

Sep 7, 2015

Sep 7, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC

you are eighteen and you're in love with a boy who hates his birthday. you don't know it yet, but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car. you think he needs you to be happy and so does he but both of you are wrong. it'll take you almost a year to stop crying. and then you don't talk for another three and when you finally do, he thinks he still knows you, but your heart is heavier than it was then. and you **** him because you're lonely but it isn't the same. neither of you can fake love. at least he still makes you laugh. you'll pretend it's enough because at least he's a body. at least you're not by yourself. at least you're alive and you're good at ******* because bodies are distractions from the things we hide inside them. you have him inside you and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad. he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night and you laugh. you know what this is and how it goes and you both love someone else. you swear you won't **** him again but you do anyway because you're still lonely and you like the way his hands fit around your neck. you **** him because it's good for your art and you get bored of your own hands on your body and you're fine with letting him feel useful. and you think about when you were sixteen and how *** was supposed to be special and it makes you cry because you're not who you wanted to be. it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger after you left the backseat of his car. the world is so big and you don't know how it ended up on your shoulders. you would have died for him. you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved. you have dreams where he dies and you can't save him. you have dreams where people die and you can't save them and you're the one who tied your hands. your mangled heart and all its bleeding. nobody asked you to die. what good is all the love in your chest if you don't leave any for yourself? - m.f.

Continue reading...

Against the lavender of a Capricorn: less chubby at age fourteen than at eighteen, produced at the wrong time. Her stars are their least private in December, moths pick up ovaries and eggs from below her dress left behind from relationship number one. A lesbian curse, no offspring for her girlfriend was a Capricorn spirit too. A nymph who took ten seconds to leave though eight years to disappear: nurses say, “it just hurts for a moment,” but needles ruin your whole ******* week. But out of two Capricorn women, one is sure to get pregnant. The first’s not heard of powdered milk, nor would she have any, calcium-deficient so others break her bones. She has a cabinet of amber orbs held with sickly insects, a million years old and brown hair in like tiny ***** of yarn. Some parts of a person can belong to another. This was not their cornflower-eyes but an ability to bear child from straight *** female parts tangled like herbs and stars.

0

May 25, 2013

May 25, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC

Against the lavender of a Capricorn: less chubby at age fourteen than at eighteen, produced at the wrong time. Her stars are their least private in December, moths pick up ovaries and eggs from below her dress left behind from relationship number one. A lesbian curse, no offspring for her girlfriend was a Capricorn spirit too. A nymph who took ten seconds to leave though eight years to disappear: nurses say, “it just hurts for a moment,” but needles ruin your whole ******* week. But out of two Capricorn women, one is sure to get pregnant. The first’s not heard of powdered milk, nor would she have any, calcium-deficient so others break her bones. She has a cabinet of amber orbs held with sickly insects, a million years old and brown hair in like tiny ***** of yarn. Some parts of a person can belong to another. This was not their cornflower-eyes but an ability to bear child from straight *** female parts tangled like herbs and stars.

Continue reading...

What can win against time, someone asked me reminiscing the journey which started eighteen months ago with me and him philosophizing intricacies of life and human emotion relishing the daily luxuries of satisfying debates when little did I know that we would walk all along fighting demons in our own being surviving closed ends of fate and loneliness The man I got to learn of his real, gentle and calm soul comforted with the truth of a warm heart eventually knocking out the dread of long distances between us relinquishing the storms in our minds embracing sparkles of different weathers Shall it really last forever self-contained or burst out with emotion believing it really is us together and our love fueled by faith in search of its way which outlasts time a shining beacon in midst of an ocean of crowded wilderness.

0

Nov 21, 2016

Nov 21, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC

eighteen months

What can win against time, someone asked me reminiscing the journey which started eighteen months ago with me and him philosophizing intricacies of life and human emotion relishing the daily luxuries of satisfying debates when little did I know that we would walk all along fighting demons in our own being surviving closed ends of fate and loneliness The man I got to learn of his real, gentle and calm soul comforted with the truth of a warm heart eventually knocking out the dread of long distances between us relinquishing the storms in our minds embracing sparkles of different weathers Shall it really last forever self-contained or burst out with emotion believing it really is us together and our love fueled by faith in search of its way which outlasts time a shining beacon in midst of an ocean of crowded wilderness.

Continue reading...

My Insomnia is a **** He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm. When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen. But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone. My Insomnia is a patient man. I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets. I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door. But he shoos them away when they get to close. My Insomnia is a jealous man. He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands. He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping. He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises. My Insomnia keeps me in a prison. I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away. The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep. My Insomnia is a cruel man. He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep. The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed. But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter. My Insomnia is an ******* For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed. He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn. To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me. My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair. My Insomnia is a spoiled man. And he always gets what he wants.

0

Jul 1, 2019

Jul 1, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC

veronica-victoria-smith

My Insomnia is a **** He keeps me up at night and keeps the end of my bed warm. When the sun sets and the moon comes up, I should be dreaming of soft things or wacky situations that could never happen. But instead, I'm trapped here, with my Insomnia at the foot of my bed, keeping me on my phone. My Insomnia is a patient man. I've tried, believe me, to ignore him. I've laid for hours in my bed, wrapped up in blankets. I've counted thousands of sheep, let them hop to and fro from my bed to the door. But he shoos them away when they get to close. My Insomnia is a jealous man. He doesn't like Sleep and her warm and gentle touches. He favors his cold and sharp hands. He doesn't let her take me until he's had me to the sunrise, where I should be waking now instead of sleeping. He keeps me until my eyes are stinging and I'm all but begging to be released. He let's go only because he'll return at the end of the day when the sun sets and the moon rises. My Insomnia keeps me in a prison. I can't see the night progress through the blanket I've hung up on my window, as a makeshift curtain to keep the sun out of my eyes as I sleep the day away. The night pities me and the day yearns for me. My friends wait for me and my sisters lose patience as I miss out on plans. My grandma worries for me, and pulls me from the gentle embrace of sleep. My Insomnia is a cruel man. He keeps me chained to my phone and my computer, to the horrors of my mind as I only seek relief through sleep. The chains used to cut when I was eleven and so exhausted and so confused when he had first graced the end of my bed. But now, when I'm edging into eighteen, I'm only tired and defeated. I can only let him run his course, and wait for school to arrive so I can imprison him with sugar-coated pills bought over the counter. My Insomnia is an ******* For even as I drift off in the warm arms of Sleep, I can see him drifting above my bed. He whispers promises to return at the end of the day, to which he always does, to torment and keeps me awake until my eyes burn. To keep me awake until I regret everything and burn in memories that resurface when the sun has gone away, and Sleep can't protect me. My Insomnia has an iron grip on me, that not even Sleep can break as I rest in her golden arms and breathe in her strawberry hair. My Insomnia is a spoiled man. And he always gets what he wants.

Continue reading...

Back when I was nine When I don't know what are beyond the line Where everything was "just" a touch Even when she did it at night in couch When I turned twelve They said dress according to yourselves I wear a skirt that I feel Every eyes are wanting me to peel I remember a horrible day of fifteen I wear shirt and pants of green A cold sweat flush A strange man grab my *** I thought eighteen will be fine Maliciousness will decline Until someone asked Join them in bed, I feel aghast Now I'm twenty-one Fear lived, doesn't gone Every looked has a meaning A memoir of harassing

0

Jun 30, 2018

Jun 30, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC

A Memoir of Harassing

Back when I was nine When I don't know what are beyond the line Where everything was "just" a touch Even when she did it at night in couch When I turned twelve They said dress according to yourselves I wear a skirt that I feel Every eyes are wanting me to peel I remember a horrible day of fifteen I wear shirt and pants of green A cold sweat flush A strange man grab my *** I thought eighteen will be fine Maliciousness will decline Until someone asked Join them in bed, I feel aghast Now I'm twenty-one Fear lived, doesn't gone Every looked has a meaning A memoir of harassing

Continue reading...

Eighteen misses and three survivors Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love Two warring sisters and too many brothers Numbers don’t always make the lives of another Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs Gone are the days of each of those Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication Ghosts of the past Harried, busy, and distant Buy back the time Patience, hope, and acceptance Crowding the cast Three lives play out creating six more One life still here caught in time One life locked in with ghosts of the past cc062611

0

Jun 26, 2011

Jun 26, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC

Eighteen misses and three survivors Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love Two warring sisters and too many brothers Numbers don’t always make the lives of another Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs Gone are the days of each of those Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication Ghosts of the past Harried, busy, and distant Buy back the time Patience, hope, and acceptance Crowding the cast Three lives play out creating six more One life still here caught in time One life locked in with ghosts of the past cc062611

Continue reading...

Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness one where I try to pretend I don't notice but have you noticed how difficult it is when outside idles but inside there's a race to views like you leaning side to side on the motorcycle ride slot machine driving my eyes to sly around your slides taking them wide as when I was eighteen I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end give out stares and start to take in scenes of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade around and around the circuit you rode I was lapping up your every move sneaking a view through the coin drop peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who prying open the photo booth curtain gap faux testing the mallet with your strength playing air hockey with my thoughts were your short chic bangs a wig? they sit so still I long for the straights then swing to one side with a leg tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends ironing out where the centre line is damp polishing the dashing leather saddle vibrating with wrist twist contempt loveliness revving up to red line exploding in my face with daring this bike crash heart of mine please forgive not stopping staring a race course habit never outgrown I go too fast and of course I fall in love as bad as deeply madly but the fact that it's with you.. well I have to forgive myself this malady I'm a side-road heading for a spin on ways to tell you you're beautiful dangerously close I risk self harm imagining that colour of pink and pale the flush u-turn will be a charm If I can get you climbing off hot and flustered I’ll have done my pit stop job at once a chance encounter and a fateful winning score to let you know you've entered into being my prize draw I'll walk away but don't be sore it's up to you to take it further but just know one thing more that if you call me to confirm and tell me that I’m worth it I would turn around so fast the world would gearshift and wait but not in neutral for us

0

Aug 8, 2014

Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC

anthony-williams

Not a slot insight

Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness one where I try to pretend I don't notice but have you noticed how difficult it is when outside idles but inside there's a race to views like you leaning side to side on the motorcycle ride slot machine driving my eyes to sly around your slides taking them wide as when I was eighteen I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end give out stares and start to take in scenes of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade around and around the circuit you rode I was lapping up your every move sneaking a view through the coin drop peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who prying open the photo booth curtain gap faux testing the mallet with your strength playing air hockey with my thoughts were your short chic bangs a wig? they sit so still I long for the straights then swing to one side with a leg tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends ironing out where the centre line is damp polishing the dashing leather saddle vibrating with wrist twist contempt loveliness revving up to red line exploding in my face with daring this bike crash heart of mine please forgive not stopping staring a race course habit never outgrown I go too fast and of course I fall in love as bad as deeply madly but the fact that it's with you.. well I have to forgive myself this malady I'm a side-road heading for a spin on ways to tell you you're beautiful dangerously close I risk self harm imagining that colour of pink and pale the flush u-turn will be a charm If I can get you climbing off hot and flustered I’ll have done my pit stop job at once a chance encounter and a fateful winning score to let you know you've entered into being my prize draw I'll walk away but don't be sore it's up to you to take it further but just know one thing more that if you call me to confirm and tell me that I’m worth it I would turn around so fast the world would gearshift and wait but not in neutral for us

Continue reading...

Age 18 Friends are all getting them. It seems the thing to do. Besides they are real cool. I think I’ll get one too. Age 19 I only have one tattoo My best friend now has three. I think I’ll a couple more, No one can outdo me. Age 20 Tattoo’s are pretty awesome. More awesome the more I get. Why do all old people Think one day I will regret? Age 30 I kinda wish I didn’t have This ink all over my body. Instead of cool, I feel like a fool Because I look so gaudy. Age 50 What happened to my tattoo’s? The artwork had detail. Now I can’t tell what they are, They really look like hell.. Age 65 If I were just eighteen again I know what I wouldn’t do.. I wouldn’t decorate my body with even one tattoo.

0

Nov 27, 2011

Nov 27, 2011 at 9:37 AM UTC

Age 18 Friends are all getting them. It seems the thing to do. Besides they are real cool. I think I’ll get one too. Age 19 I only have one tattoo My best friend now has three. I think I’ll a couple more, No one can outdo me. Age 20 Tattoo’s are pretty awesome. More awesome the more I get. Why do all old people Think one day I will regret? Age 30 I kinda wish I didn’t have This ink all over my body. Instead of cool, I feel like a fool Because I look so gaudy. Age 50 What happened to my tattoo’s? The artwork had detail. Now I can’t tell what they are, They really look like hell.. Age 65 If I were just eighteen again I know what I wouldn’t do.. I wouldn’t decorate my body with even one tattoo.

Continue reading...

Home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place. I hate how loud I must barely scream so that people can see my face: I am dark and this is a time of shadows. Sometimes what worries me most about us is not that we are forced to carry guns and **** our own mothers is not that we are pulled from our classrooms back into our homesteads is not that some of our leaders feast while we become skinny UNICEF models is not that if only one molecule of my DNA was different I could have lived without ever knowing how to read even a single word is not even that the smallest of things can wipe out entire villages in an instant- mosquitoes, viruses, locusts; slave ships. Sometimes what worries me most is that my headphones carry more sounds of strange places than my heart will ever know- that not even my brothers and sisters sold off to those strange places ever knew, as their children are hung off the trees of Jim Crow and we call them strange fruit, and that maybe our first president didn't marry a white lady; the white lady might have married him. Sometimes what worries me most is that for just over eighteen years of seeing thinking feeling breathing being I couldn't have ever told you what Africa meant to me past the occasional 'dumela' to my mother's mother but never, never did I know or now know or will know my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother because she can't fit inside the cellular America that I hold in my palm. And this is why they call us lost. Because home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place. One time, my five year old cousin said matter-of-factly that black is ugly. In my Primary School days everyone said I should stay out of the sun lest I get darker. But I'm here to tell you that I don't even bother wearing a sun-hat anymore. I'm here to tell you that I don't cut my hair because to do so would feel like oppression. I'm here to tell you how vivid and lovely and blessed I do feel to have been born in broken-heart home because at least it has soul. I'm here to tell you that, yes, I do remember that time when the whole world knew what to do about ****** and Bin Laden but never could get round to talking about Cecil John Rhodes. I'm here to tell you that Today, that conversation starts with a toppled statue. Today, that conversation starts with my voice. Today, this conversation starts with a poem which proclaims- child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am- that this is my day. This is my day. The Day of the African Child.

0

Jun 16, 2015

Jun 16, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC

Home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place. I hate how loud I must barely scream so that people can see my face: I am dark and this is a time of shadows. Sometimes what worries me most about us is not that we are forced to carry guns and **** our own mothers is not that we are pulled from our classrooms back into our homesteads is not that some of our leaders feast while we become skinny UNICEF models is not that if only one molecule of my DNA was different I could have lived without ever knowing how to read even a single word is not even that the smallest of things can wipe out entire villages in an instant- mosquitoes, viruses, locusts; slave ships. Sometimes what worries me most is that my headphones carry more sounds of strange places than my heart will ever know- that not even my brothers and sisters sold off to those strange places ever knew, as their children are hung off the trees of Jim Crow and we call them strange fruit, and that maybe our first president didn't marry a white lady; the white lady might have married him. Sometimes what worries me most is that for just over eighteen years of seeing thinking feeling breathing being I couldn't have ever told you what Africa meant to me past the occasional 'dumela' to my mother's mother but never, never did I know or now know or will know my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother because she can't fit inside the cellular America that I hold in my palm. And this is why they call us lost. Because home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place. One time, my five year old cousin said matter-of-factly that black is ugly. In my Primary School days everyone said I should stay out of the sun lest I get darker. But I'm here to tell you that I don't even bother wearing a sun-hat anymore. I'm here to tell you that I don't cut my hair because to do so would feel like oppression. I'm here to tell you how vivid and lovely and blessed I do feel to have been born in broken-heart home because at least it has soul. I'm here to tell you that, yes, I do remember that time when the whole world knew what to do about ****** and Bin Laden but never could get round to talking about Cecil John Rhodes. I'm here to tell you that Today, that conversation starts with a toppled statue. Today, that conversation starts with my voice. Today, this conversation starts with a poem which proclaims- child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am- that this is my day. This is my day. The Day of the African Child.

Continue reading...

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen. I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe. I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden. I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple. I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple. I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple. I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me. I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.

0

Jun 12, 2016

Jun 12, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen. I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe. I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden. I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple. I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple. I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple. I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me. I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.

Continue reading...