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chichee Dec 2018
Other girls get
Fistfuls of tulip and
But my love knows me
Painted across skin are
All my favourite colours
I always get the
Prettiest blooms.
Thought of this in the bathroom brushing my teeth, thinking about the goodness in bad things.
MJL Mar 5
Fescue fields in view
Electric neon butter *****
Scattered glowing beacons
Dot the greens and browns
Magnets for little hands
Tiny feet racing to keep up
A child’s laser focus
To pick and pick and pick
More and more and more
Fistfuls of joy
To tickle the nose
To share with laughter
To put in a pocket
Then nap and forget

© 2019 MJL
kgl Oct 2015
the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.

it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.

now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.

this is the last poem i'll write about you.
Tiger Striped Jan 20
the next girl

should get bouquets of flowers

not fistfuls of flour

flung in her face

choking out her words

blinding her eyes

burning her lungs


give her flowers

do not deceive her

as you did

Hunter Mars Mar 11
And there, you had presented yourself in everything beautiful to me in slow succession.

I catch you, ghosting through the intensely green woods behind my house,

I taste you, notes of smoke and familiar, in the brew I make early on in the morning,

I’ve heard you, a voice singing in showers of seasonal rain, soft and unrelenting,

I’ll smell you, when I grab fistfuls of earth and hold them near, raw with realness,

I’ve felt you, whenever my hand swept across the other, in every pulse throughout me, in all my subtle smiles.
x.x H. Mars
(I wrote this for you, B)
Jules Aug 2018
in the vast crumbling timeline of the universe
13-year-old me is wondering
whether i exist.
4 years is a long time,
after all,
maybe enough to choose the exit,
leave the stage,
throw away everything
she is currently trying to hold together.

but here i am,
after all,
so she must have made it;
trekked through the perilous path of the future,
which is just another word for the unknown
which is just another word for nothing,
for empty,
and made it here.
and here is not a field of green,
but maybe an oasis in the desert.

i am proud of her, even if
it is not halfway done,
even if the road stretches dark and endless,
even if she has brought with her nothing
but fistfuls of doubt
all her stupid starving for reassurance—
will i be here in 3 years?
in 5 years?
in 10?

like a haunting hold,
a ghost.

but we have still made it,
after all.
for me,
and my 13-year-old spectre,
the question is not
how do you see yourself in the future
or where do you think you will be by then
or even what do you want to be doing in ten
but merely

will i see myself.
will i see myself.
will i get there.
it's fine, asking just means you still have hope for a positive answer
your poetry is the
timid surgeon's

your brainwashed disfigured filth
posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled
over horse ****

parasitic eager beavers
rattling off hollow sanitary words
from suburban armchairs

when you speak of passion...
I want the ivory joy
of licking teeth in black
cold nights of February
grabbing fistfuls of flesh
and desire

not your stiff ******* advertisement,
marketing zombie climaxes and red roses
of compulsion

when you speak of loss...
I want the acrid smell of burnt
hair, a scene of cinder and ashes,
a house of dreams smoked
by the arsons of addiction
and stupidity

not your camouflaged metaphors
of two dollar sunrises and legislated
loneliness, echoing off the empty walls
of narcissism

when you speak of hate...
I want cold bacon grease and blood
stuck to my tongue and dripping from
my mouth, to become a carnivore of ******
and liberated violence

not your confused assault
of cheap mouthwashed words
spat in basins of shallow

ah, **** it,
write what you will
but give more
poetry should
Amanda May 5
I am kept awake until dawn arrives
Close to clawing out these open eyes
Near to dreams
Far from sleep
Further from the relief I seek

Every night feel taunted
The empty walls of my room
Space beside me sneers silently
Sunrise is coming soon

Sprawled in an asymmetric shape
Restlessly flipping pillows
In bed screaming
Into fistfuls of blankets
Drowning in sheets that billow

"You lost him!"
Written everywhere
Each and every item you touched
It's agonizing how I'm forced to see reminders
As if I did not already miss you too much
An excerpt from the letter I wrote that I'm pretty sure you didn't read

Tried to come up with a witty play on words for the title and failed so I went for a silly title instead

— The End —