I Felt●

You curled
Your hands from the heights

Did instigate●

I could fly and catch your smiles
I felt I could fly but to that mile
Just like the kites●

Endless fantasies
I clench myself like colourful crayons●

I felt each had a riven beak
And foil me
To print the picture of these delusions
So bright●

I feel am right,and myself
Waving back to the same heights●

I Felt●

©Historian E.Lexano

I Was Waving At A Friend. from The Third Floor

Sad to say
Hope wasn't enough,
there was a thousand words battling in her mind
but her tongue remained numb
Deep into the late night hours
She hugs her pillows
and paint them wet
Realizing her existence in this world is inane and all her ways are complexed
She was forged this way
An unbalanced scale of life
She was forced to stay
Agony of her loneliness brought penetrating pain
She cried even through the sunshine
Lived depressed during the rain
Whips from life's battles instilled on her frame
Perfectly tattooed on her skin
Innocence robbed from her before the age of ten
Those hands exploring her body never got approved
Scars and words of abuse was all she was accustomed to
From minds of the ones she loved
Grew extreme curious
Too see what lies inside of a woman for deliverance
Nights she cried tears that refuse to come
Glands denying the tears and sufferings that attempted to form
The torture and sorrow in the glass of her reflection
Taught her venom which she perpetually spat at the girl in the mirror
Her thoughts was her MRSA, constantly eating her away
Rug burns implanted on her knees from all the nights that she prayed
Her life felt more painful than being engulfed into flames
Disgust boiled in the bottom of her stomach, just from hearing her name
No one understood her pain
No one even knew
Of all the dirt and infidelity her poor soul was drug through
Knives met her hands
Many nights she felt tempted but was too weak to stand
She'd rather fall
Full possession of her extremities but,
She rather crawl
into a deep dark cave
Than to reside in this World and become its slave
She was just a little girl
Dwelling in purity
A lost wandering soul
No form of security
For those who are believers and have even only a mustard seed of faith
Pretty please
Remember her in your hearts
When you go to God and pray

                             Copy Right 2013
                                    ©Patty Ann

Wejdan Mar 2015

I felt sorry for her
i felt sorry for how weak she got when she saw him
and let him inside of her mentally, emotionally and physically
i felt sorry for her cheeks to touch those tears when he broke her heart
i felt sorry for the loud laughs when he tickle her
i felt sorry for her skin ad her hair after using make-up and those hairstyles just to look good in front of him
i felt sorry for her heart
i felt sorry for her love
i felt sorry for the morning texts with these romantic words
i felt sorry for those lips to be kissed  every-time
in general, i felt sorry for the love that deserved to be treated so well

Emily Nov 2014

I wasn't sure
I wasn't sure how
  I wasn't sure how you felt
   I wasn't sure how you felt when your smile made me melt
   Your smile made me melt
  I wasn't sure how you felt
I wasn't sure how
I wasn't sure


It always felt to me—a wrong
To that Old Moses—done—
To let him see—the Canaan—
Without the entering—

And tho’ in soberer moments—
No Moses there can be
I’m satisfied—the Romance
In point of injury—

Surpasses sharper stated—
Of Stephen—or of Paul—
For these—were only put to death—
While God’s adroiter will

On Moses—seemed to fasten
With tantalizing Play
As Boy—should deal with lesser Boy—
To prove ability.

The fault—was doubtless Israel’s—
Myself—had banned the Tribes—
And ushered Grand Old Moses
In Pentateuchal Robes

Upon the Broad Possession
’Twas little—But titled Him—to see—
Old Man on Nebo! Late as this—
My justice bleeds—for Thee!

SRS Jan 2014

Magic and lies
I don't want people to see it either

I read a play
about a woman
who was slowly
being drawn into insanity
A Streetcar Named Desire
her name was Blanche Dubois
pronounced 'Dubwa'

and I could relate
to the way she swayed
between reality and fantasy

how she felt
when she said
she wished to give
to people
and that was the only
reason she lied
so to cover up the darkness
the unaccepted insides
the parts she knew
nobody would like

the way she craved
to fill in a space
which she deep down knew
would never go away
I was in her shoes
I heard the polka music too
and the BANG
I felt the pain
in my own way
through this women
who was made up
for entertainment
who doesn't even exist

and I'd never tell a soul but you
will you keep my secret?

I based this off of a play *A Streetcar Named Desire* By: Tennessee Williams. We took it apart in my English class for school...and I felt so drawn to this character. She's one I will always remember. I highly recommend to read the play, its amazing, especially when you get so deep into the characters.


A loss of something ever felt I—
The first that I could recollect
Bereft I was—of what I knew not
Too young that any should suspect

A Mourner walked among the children
I notwithstanding went about
As one bemoaning a Dominion
Itself the only Prince cast out—

Elder, Today, a session wiser
And fainter, too, as Wiseness is—
I find myself still softly searching
For my Delinguent Palaces—

And a Suspicion, like a Finger
Touches my Forehead now and then
That I am looking oppositely
For the site of the Kingdom of Heaven—

pandemonium Aug 2013

It’s past 2 in the morning and the only thing holding you two together is the group chat a classmate administrate because both are you (and others, of course) are generally in the same group for this semester but you are split in classes but you have two that are the same together. An assignment is due to be emailed that night and he just got back from god knows where and you’re a tad curious (maybe more) because during old times, he would tell you the things he do simply because you were the best company and the both of you complement each other. He said that he was going to pull off an all-nighter and you can’t help your fingers from typing down a witty response.

The nostalgia taking over you as you shot bullets of reply to him because he was doing the same. Soon enough it seemed as though you two were the only ones alive in the group along with a few other irrelevant comments to your bickering. His last message was an icon of a high five and you purposely left him hanging and close the application in your phone. With a soft chuckle, you shook your head and continued reading the poetry book you recently bought.

He knows you like the back of his hand, and it just hit past well about 4 in the morning and you’re still awake. What do you know it? A message from him- asking why you left his last message on the group chat hanging. That personal conversation went on as if you were in the past again; as if he wasn’t dating your ex-best friend, as if you weren’t hurt being left because it was that play where the two of you were the main characters with an unattached past. Your story is the type of love where you’re best friends and you know you get a bit giddy when it’s way beyond your bedtime. You’ve been involved with writing poems after you were left to be on your own and this idea was blown to you.

You send him a poem of which you wrote but you give him under a pseudonym so he wouldn’t know it’s by you. He said that it was deep and probably something he doesn’t think he can ever reach in an emotional level of expressing. It hit you. He was the perfect critic for the other poems you wrote. So you gave him a few more and it happened. He asked you if you’ve written any. Could this be the chance for you to finally prove to the only boy you’ve been stupidly pining on that you’re doing sort of well and that you just need him to subconsciously be the muse of your work?

You make a deal. 5 poems and he guess which is yours. He whines that 5 is too much as you’ve already given him others before. You really wanted him to read what else you still have so you reduced it to 3 and he grudgingly accepted (like the little whiny boy you have grown to love him to be). You gave him one about your ex-boyfriend, another about a boy you were infatuated with and lastly, one about him. And you waited. You waited for what it seemed like hours when it was just a petty 10 minutes. He narrowed it down to the one of him and the other boy. You guessed he would have let go of the one about your ex-boyfriend because he was there when he hurt you.

The paranoia seeps into your soul wondering if his could feel the one you wrote about/for him. Finally, he chose the one you wrote for the other boy because he rather sort of knows about that short amount of time where you really thought you really could like him. You hadn’t realised that you were holding your breath the whole time he was deliberating which to choose. A voice spoke in your mind telling that you should be grateful that he chose the one you wrote for the other boy as if he had chosen the one you wrote for him, what excuse behind that story are you going to make up?

And with that, the conversation of your writing opened up to a whole new request. He asked what else have you written about and you said just about your past and your broken family and such. He knows how bad the situation with your family is so he asked if you had written about the new spectacles you started wearing at the beginning of the semester because your vision gradually went from 20/20 to blurred lines during your current time in college. You perked, what to write about these glasses, you asked. He joked saying anything, but it has to include his name.

You were intrigued with the idea and agreed. He retracted saying that he was just joking as how do you put a name in a poem anyway. You just told him you’ll think about it but after saying that, you grabbed your pen and paper and began writing. He wanted it to be about your glasses and inclusive of his name, then you’ll give him just that. Your conversation lasted until dawn and believe it or not, you fell asleep first and missed your morning class at 8. When you woke up, a message from him (sounding as if he’s snickering at you) asking where you were.

Oh, the heavy weight of lying. You told him that you weren’t feeling well and that you’re going for the afternoon class at 2 instead (not with him).

After that class finished at 4 p.m., you sent him the poem you wrote for him the other night. He said that it was really good but he never questioned about him. You really wanted to prove that you could take up the challenge of writing a poem and having his name. You said, “You wanted a poem with your name, so here you go” and he was dumbfounded (as you quite expected). “But I don’t see my name anywhere”.

You told him that the beginning letter of every two lines spelt his name. His reaction was one you’re to treasure.

It was a bittersweet ending to your little fantasy story as that will be the last you’ll hear directly from him for months to come.

Patrice Jones Jan 2014

My life in a different place
Young and full of bliss
Never again would I feel the same
For my heart would now stand still

Years crawled along
Caring only for myself
Not a second thought given
I felt without feeling

Memories were drowned
Forced away to the bottom
Little did I know
That I would soon feel again

Appearing ahead, a woman
She brings me my heart
I resist with all my soul
For fear of the tides of loneliness
The waves of pain
The knowledge to gain
The feelings to be slain
Why am I afraid

She's in that same place
That I once was
Torn from the honey breeze
And thrown to the bitter cold

I have lived here long
In this moment bleak
Then she appeared
And put a smile on my face

I feel lucky
So uniquely lucky
And yet not so
A taste of things to come
A morsel of feelings
An apprehension
A longing wait
I'm ready now

She has much to learn
And I have much to give

Why must I continue
Wasn't all before now enough
I have been alone
And known to feel nothing
But again my heart sings
For I am alive again
And yet still alone

I feel my hopes are folly
I should just stop trying
She doesn't want my heart
Just stop


I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—
As if my Brain had split—
I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—
But could not make it fit.

The thought behind, I strove to join
Unto the thought before—
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
Like Balls—upon a Floor.

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

Aaron Blair Nov 2012

I crawled naked
through the fires of redemption
and I felt nothing.
I felt nothing,
with blood running down my arms,
and tears carving canyons
through what was left of my baby face.
The river ran through me
the same way the blade ran me through.
We wrapped our hands around
each others’ throats,
and together, we felt nothing,
but, for a moment, nothing we had ever felt,
had ever made us so alive.

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