Ironatmosphere Jul 2014
I let the sun and the moon rebirth me
And woke up in a forest
Naked and alone
through the pillars of trees holding up the star speckled ceiling,
I knew
It was gone
It was all gone
The world that once inhabited this planet had vanished and disappeared
Cassidy Shoop Feb 2015
an unread book,
a pair of broken headphones,
the shirt of someone who is perfect in my eyes.
a bic lighter,
a glass of water,
a succulent that i could never seem to keep alive.

condensation forms on the surface of the table
as the water begs to bring life back to the plant,
but the lonely plant only speaks of the sun
and the way it desires his light.
Emily Li Mar 2012
I bounce a volleyball as I walk to my dorm
just to hear that delightful sound, that satisfying, clean thud off the cement.

look up, see you in that grey hoodie that gives me bad dreams
and curse under my breath, eyes darting like a cornered fox,
            there is nowhere to hide.
we almost exchange eye contact, I almost taste blood in my mouth
            I hate how familiar you are.
you look down, cough;
I murmur a dusty hello-goodbye into the ground, hold my volleyball tighter
against my chest –
and hurry on, court sneakers straining on the pavement, trying too hard to forget your cracked smiles.


I remember how we used to pass for hours
no sound but the volleyball slapping against our forearms,
brushing off our fingertips,
echoing through that Choate gymnasium, that cold spring;

My head had barely reached the middle of the net,
but you were tall and brave and handsome, my Prince Charming, and
I was a freshman girl with her heart on her sleeve, who
hugged a warm volleyball to her heart and smiled,

thinking herself lucky.


Spring thawed your heart, eventually,
and you let me hold your hand;
you had long fingers, cold to the touch.
you taught me how to set, complimented my hands,
trained me to cradle the ball with my thumbs like it was made of glass,
your hands around mine.

I was braver than you were,
because everything felt fresh and exciting to me, like the
smell of crushed pine needles in the air;
you kissed me (I kissed you?) on that night
and I leaned forward, curious and eager, and wrapped my arms
around your neck.


The days melted into one another,
and we became
like chalk drawings blurring after rain,
like floor burns from sliding to save a falling ball –
but missing it, all the effort gone to waste;
the burns will still burn and still scar, for nothing.

May to June, June to July,
I hugged you and laughed, but my eyes
were cold; you said I love you
And I tried to say it back, but I couldn’t without
sticking a used to before the love –
            the honey words stuck in my throat.

Our kisses were routine, stale
like the crackers I left out the night before;
I tapped my foot and
tossed the volleyball quickly behind my back with nimble fingers
and counted the seconds before it was acceptable to pull back;
I had homework and volleyball practice and quizzes to study for, you know – I tried to smile but
it felt so wrong, I stopped –
you asked what was wrong, I shook my head, there are no answers for some questions.


It’s been four years since we’ve spoken,
shared secret moments under solemn oak trees, behind library bookshelves
that promised to keep us away from prying eyes,
smiled into each other’s lips,
blinked stories into each other’s eyes.
It’s been four years since people have teased you for not
hitting the ball when we passed – you gentleman, you –

I will not say I miss you, because I refuse to lie for your sake;
but sometimes as I set a ball perfectly to a hitter
I think of you for a split second, wonder where you are and if you remember as much
as I do, which is, honestly
not very much.


she writes letters to him and then burns them all, the smell of smoke fills the room.
It’s as if she is stealing the fury of the sun, which is cooling down, melting into lava at the horizon –
it will be another cold winter, there is already frost in the grass, the air smells chilly.

Dear you,

I broke up with you as nicely as I could –
there was no reason I fell out of love, the same way
there is no reason people fall in love.

you have no right bitching me out on the internet the way you did.
Every time I hit a volleyball I imagine your face on my palm, and I hit harder.
I will never forgive you for the things you wrote,
and I don’t know if I ever loved you at all,
because you are despicable.

the girl of your dreams.


it’s the beginning of the end of July, everything is so hot.
the pavement is baking, the volleyballs are flat,
her arms feel weak and limp like overcooked noodles.

it’s hard to think straight. She can hardly remember
her own name before remembering that she has a boyfriend.
He calls, he says I love you and she tries to choke out that well-rehearsed lie –
what was it again? something like I love you too?

But it’s too hot, and she
can’t do it anymore –

she swallows hard and grips her volleyball tighter,
her hands sweating against the weathered sphere that has been through so much with her
as she prepares to say goodbye.
Hailey P Dec 2014
There's two hearts
On the floor.
One mine,
Both yours.
Ayeglasses Nov 2012
Due time, I simply could not find,
The place that once bubbled kindly,
All of what was my finding,
Was lost.

Forests surrounded,
Feelings abounded,
Guilt confounded,
I found it.

Fear was gripping,
Capability was slipping,
My hope was drifting,
You were slowly sifting,
I left that place swiftly.

It had ended far before,
What was in store...
I needed more.

Falling to the floor.

(This poetry stuff is sort of fun)
w r e c k a g e Jun 2015
i left your shirt
lying on my bedroom floor
so i can pretend i'm not the only thing
you left behind
Just Melz Oct 2015
Consumed by a life
    She couldn't handle anymore
          Ashamed by desires
       Too desperate to score
               It's just too addicting
   She wants nothing more
Watching everything she loves
            Walk out the door
    Finds money where she can
         But still living life poor
          Too smart to get too involved
     And too dumb to ignore it
             She don't even care
      They all call her a whore
Now thinking, as she sees the knife
           This isn't what she prepared for
    But with a little thought, she knows  
It's what she's always had in store
              As she lays, bleeding out
     On her *dirty kitchen floor
liv Dec 2012
Some trifecta of differing virtues
sunk from the marble to the unclean floor.
My soap opera protagonists, my guests.
My cleanliness worries me.
My impression broadcast in backstage conversations
worries me.

That hair suspended like a truly careless girl,
burnt up like petty inked numbers, discarded,
with her back finding solace in my own domain once more.
Two years since the last thunderclap
and a year since I shut the door.
She creaks open again, quickly, like a soft paperback
I've thumbed through,
racked with the familiar scent.
A metaphor, our status quo,
our birthright.
Six and a half fucking years
and I'm still slobbering all over the mysterious one to her new-pierced ears.
Eyes crystalized with conflicted Catholic innocence,
obligatory moral corpses and shameless twisted dreams.
Never thought I'd be the forgiving type.

The other is even sweeter,
candy shell so hard, a present
from her parents.
She dreams of India, Thailand,
purpose, calling,
hotel rooms and nondescript emotions and
life so extraordinary in its expectancy.
Like a good kiddy movie.
When she cracks open before my eyes,
it's another
bitter sight to smile about.
She alternates by the dishwasher, warm,
my eyes shifting,
her eyes shifting,
she squeaks and roars with her own private passions we coax out in
this average conversation of agreements.

Wet, dirty Monday.
Practically screaming in harmony.
We all dream of poverty,
rich girls with our outside voices on.
John Mahoney Dec 2012
don't call out her name
she will not
there is a hole in the bottle
a blanket on the floor
the hallway isn't empty
shoes scatter when they fall
don't turn at the corner
or start towards the door
the light from the window
never reaches very far
shadows cast the grey
the grey narrows to a point
meaningless gradual losses
have taken her astray
don't turn away
you can't reach her anymore
Swetank Modi Oct 2014
Baby on the floor
Likes to play with potato
Potato is cooked
ic Mar 2014
and you will
find me lying
on the floor,
looking happy for
the first time,
even though,
i will be in
where i truly belong.
Madeleine Toerne Oct 2013
Counting young women in black leggings
and baseball caps, with ancient letters inscribed on the tops of them.
One-thousand, three-hundred, thirty-five dollars
and fifty-four cents,
for half a year
of friendship.

The damp sidewalk is the stage,
the crushed orange leaves a platform.
Rubber rain boots have only existed for three or four decades.
Holes in an umbrella, holes in mother's boots;
Whatever that man said last night,
whatever that was,
it wasn't an oxymoron.

Leafing leaves, neon green with orangish tips
shake subtly with a light breeze,
and madly with a heavy breeze.
Or is that a squirrel?
Foreground, background, juxsta-
And I,
just in the right position.
w r e c k a g e Jun 2015
missing you is like trying
to breathe underwater
and tonight i'm sleeping
on the ocean floor
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