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Jenna Johnston Dec 2011
This poem was written after watching a few hours of slam poetry on Youtube. Let me know what you think...it's my first shot at slam poetry.*

There are so many words flowing around out there about the big girls. The thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls. About their plush and soft exteriors, their abundant backsides, their willingness to accept themselves and their hopefulness that others will do the same. Their….thereness.
They are beautiful, don’t get me wrong.
They are beautiful.

But what about the skinny girls?

The small girls with petite builds and large hearts and an aversion to the word short. The size two and under girls, the drive thru can’t gain a pound girls, the I AM NOT ANNOREXIC OR BULLEMIC girls.

The girls who will always be referred to as “pixie-like” or “waif-like” or “twig-like.” The perfect model body girls that all of the other girls hate…because of their lack of fat.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The girls with the size 32 bust line, the girls who, at 24, still shop in the junior sections of department stores. The girls who, regardless of their age, their strengths and weaknesses, their experiences, heartaches and joys, disappointments and triumphs, their want or need for life and love will always look like they missed a meal or gave it back purposefully with the intent of becoming even thinner. The girls who, no matter how ******* HARD they try, cannot even weigh 100 lbs soaking ******* wet.

Aren’t they beautiful?

The big girls have to search and search for cute and **** and attractive clothes because of their size. Guess what? So do the skinny girls. Do you know ******* hard it is to find a pair of pants with a size zero waist and a 34 inch leg? To finally find an extra small shirt that doesn’t have one of the top three cartoon characters of the time plastered across the front?

All I’m saying is yes, the thick girls, the curvy girls, the p-h-a-t phat girls…
They are beautiful.

But ******, so am I.
This is an original by Jenna Johnston. If you like it, by all means write it down, but give credit where credit is due, please
Rockie Apr 2015
I'm here
Watching you fix your tie
With the grace of a clumsy seal
Who got drunk
On the verge of tomorrow
And the brink of today

I'm here
Watching you stride out
With the hopefulness of a child at Christmas
Who won't go to sleep
For Santa will arrive
At midnight

I'm here
Watching you speak to the crowd
With the confidence of a frightened duckling
Who were recently hatched
Out of an egg
And into the light
Every time I hear of you--
I wonder what went wrong
that you would choose
another over me.

The cogwheels of my brain
would constantly rewind
to the very day we meet;
the nerves I had prior
and the brief good memories.

This bitter nostalgia
reminded me of
my foolish sense of hope
that I was the special one
among many others--

Only when I was told
that I was rejected
did I realise...
I was only a pitiful jester;
dancing and joking
for your fancy
on that very day.

I could not help thinking,
being rejected on a Christmas eve
is a terrible Christmas present,
and also the only Christmas present I had.

They say that it was not His will--
But they also did not know...
Perhaps it was His will
that I spend the dead morning of Christmas
soaking my pillow in tears
while nursing a overactive mind.

And yes, I saw you again on New Years Eve--
from afar, where everyone was celebrating
of their successful association with you
with delirious hopefulness and motivation...
Meanwhile, I was made to
welcome the New Year all alone
with tears in memory of your rejection.
People rejoicing and being congratulated getting the job you want while you are spending the new year alone is probably one of the worst feeling one can get. Some people are destined for greater heights while others will always be eating off the feet of others.

Happy belated New Year.
So yes, I will not have stupid expectations and resolutions for 2019. I will be realistic.
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2014
i wasn’t feeling okay

so i put on my overalls and went
outside 

to wander around my backyard,

trekking around in clunky rain boots

as i hummed and tried not to think
i like to write
 little notes

on the leaves that are now 

changing colors
and when i’m done

i let them
fall

so i can flatten them

beneath my heel

till the small words

are crinkled and no longer legible
amongst the dirt and grass
and so desperately,
i wish i could

let the thoughts in my head

fall
to the ground

so i could flatten
these
 pitiful feelings

beneath my heel

until they were no longer legible

amongst the hurt and hopefulness 

in my heart
written on 11/4/14
Red Sep 2016
Anxiety is like the movie "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids",
except it's the sequel "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves",
because you have no one else to blame for how big and scary the world seems around you.
To anyone else, a stair is just a stair,
but this stair in life is towering over me and I have no clue how to overcome.
This stair might be getting out of bed,
being around other people,
or shopping at a store alone.

Fairly easy tasks,
but I feel I have to ******* my oxygen tank and climb Mt. Everest.

Anxiety is like when you are sick,
and the bathroom is a mere 10 steps away,
but like in the cartoons,
the bathroom stretches to miles away before my eyes.
10 steps is now 10,000,
in those 10,000 steps to school, or work, so many things could go wrong.

Anxiety is knowing you're thinking irrationally.
Thinking against yourself in your head,
wanting to strangle whatever force is driving you mad.
Like finding an on-off switch,
but no matter how many times you flip it, nothing happens.

Anxiety is laying in bed,
plauged with possibilities of problems,
not moving a muscle,
paralyzed by the endless possible outcomes of failure.
I feel as if I'm in a big gray cloud.
I can see through it, but yet it is so dense I am captive by my own paranoia.

Anxiety is being a walking imperfection.
Where one zit on your forehead acts as a big red, flashing, arrow floating above your head saying IMPERFECT
DISGUSTING
UNLOVEABLE

Anxiety is wanting to love yourself
so so very bad
and fighting every day against a bug infesting your beautiful brain
with negative self talk.

Anxiety is trying to fall asleep at night,
and with every breath,
my body gets smaller and smaller,
my thoughts have weight like a lead balloon,
filling with every breath,
my head is heavy and I feel my chest caving in.

Anxiety is the anti-Cupid who stabs an arrow between anyone I've ever loved.
She is the imaginary mistress I can't help but suspect,
no matter how many times he says he loves me.
What if one day he doesn't?
What if one day everything I hate about myself he hates too?
Anxiety is the mistress he never knows is there,
and yet I push her towards him.

With Anxiety there are options.
There is one switch that does work.
It is a big red button labeled MEDICATION
this button will destroy every anxious though I may have
but often in wars the innocent suffer.

If this button is pressed, I lose everything.
Anger, sadness, paranoia,

I lose happiness.
I lose the feeling of love,
excitement,
hopefulness.

My heart and brain become an empty forgotten shoe box that I don't need anymore.

My body smiles when my brain believes it should,
and fills the air with laughter that isn't mine.

Someone tells a joke and my stomach never hurts from laughing.

I don't have crushes on cute boys.

My deep brown eyes look as if they are made of glass... Emotionless.

Kisses feel like flicks.
Hugs feel like uncomfortable, uncessary squeezes.

I find myself going through the motions, like an extra on a TV set.
Saying words that have no meaning.
Moving my mouth but nothing is truly coming out.

I stop petting my cat.

It is inconvenient when my dog greets me at the door and licks me.

My mother tells me she loves me and I despise it.. I don't know why.

I forget what it is like to feel.

I am a robot in a human's body.

If you tell me to take medication,
I am letting my illness win,
with a white flag in hand.

I refuse to throw away every piece of me for "peace."
for those suffering
don't press the big red button... ever
Lunar Vacancy Oct 2017
i have written numerous times in many ways,
hopefulness is my gift,
just as it is my worst curse.
i can hope for several things,
hope i pass this semester
hope i lose that extra weight
hope my broken heart will heal
hope the winter comes quickly.
i can hope for a lot of things
but that hopefulness will sink into my pockets
and drag me down if i'm not careful.
hope is dangerous, just like fear.
i can hope that one day, you'll love me again.
i can hope for my appetite to leave me and never come back
i can hope for some physical pain to lesson the emotional pain.
but it will always be hope that carries me throughout today.
i dont know what will happen.
i could see the love of my life tomorrow
or ultimately get hit by a bus.
i dont know what the future holds.
or if i even have one at all. all i can hope for -
is that it gets better somehow
that i dont become who i love so dearly,
-van gogh
-sylvia plath
- ernest hemingway
because this sadness - could last forever.
Umaizah Sep 2015
End
I want to run away so badly.
Just end it with everyone.
I'm burning from my own mistakes.
I hate the person I become when you are around.
The reality is that I've never ment anything to you.
Hopefulness has taking me into the realm of delusion.
What is right I see as left.
Your eternal love is really a three minute panting and moaning fest.
How could I be so blind.
Well in truth I was viewing it all and I just wouldn't let go.
I knew it was wrong but I just didn't care.
I apparently don't love myself at all.
If I did you would have seen nothing and I would have remained as Mother Teresa.
So long it's time to grow up and outgrow you.
Let my new roots be firm and pure.
Ruby Nemo Jul 2018
There comes a time in man's gentle endeavors in which their person flutters through. Not perfect, not even close. When all of the essentials are blatantly missing, but nevertheless you chase. And it's not the chase; it cannot be, because that chase is distinguishable from all else.

Though still, the heavy burden provokes. Why? Well, man may claim the uncertainty of such an underdeveloped string of emotions, yet in some fashion this is utterly obscure. If my opinions not be discerned from a folly fool, let my brain be put to rest!

No, I say, it is much deeper than that. When simple dining becomes strenuous, and the tear ducts loose, another vague instance is to blame. It is not the result of a mere first glance. It is not the result of the wave of a hand. Hell, it is not even that which has evolved from a childish fling. It is something called My Person Condition.

And it is more complex, still. It is worthy of noting that a condition is identified in a modified fashion. See that this is no disease, no ailment, no illness. An unfortunate victim has no hopes of returning to their former, less-impaired self, but their opinions are clouded so fully that this, to them, brings upon great advantages. Yet the scars and piercing truths that lurk within MPC prove to be a particularly heavy load for most to carry.

The earliest symptoms may include the following: loss of appetite, perspiration, anxious breathing, spotted vision, hallucinations, reclusiveness, futuristic thoughts, rage, severe bipolar tendencies, self-contradiction, loss of sleep, loss of energy, sorrow, hopefulness, nightmares, and ****** rejection resulting in extractions such as emesis, urination, and excessive bleeding. Patients will also find difficulty in restricting their thoughts to those which do not include their person. The danger that lies within this condition is extensive, but can be overturned with the proper care and medical attention.

Perhaps I have refrained from discussing the most detrimental force assigned to any MPC sufferer, and that is the false sense of progression of mental feelings of stability. As days move on, and nights drag out into the next, new faces are introduced at an increasingly rapid rate. This can be destructive in the sense that the victim will gain a false grip on reality. They will reject further treatment, stand down in a circulation of positive vibrations, and cease to recall the importance of their continuous efforts against their condition.

A day rolls around in several years. They share feelings of gratitude and affection with another being, pretending that their person has left their mind for good. Until the radio threatens to remind them of so long ago, the compulsive nights that were spent in pursuit of an extra pinch of knowledge. Until the box fills the patient's ears with a sweet melodic voice spun from pure gold and coated in the finest finish. MPC revives itself like a flame inside their heart, inside their bloodstream. Renewal flows through their veins at a painless rate - until a grin spreads across their face, their head is turned back around, and there they are.
My Person.
07-06-18
In the spring and in the autumn,
in the calm and in the storm.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In my sorrow and in my joy,
in times of bounty and times of uncertainty.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In times of darkness.
In times of sickness.
In times of abundance.
In times of youthful vitality.

In times when I do not understand why.

I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In days of rest; and days of stress.
In days of struggle; and days of hopefulness.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.

In every season.
In every season.
I give thanks to You, O Lord.
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord,
unto me. (Thomas Chisholm, 1923)
I give thanks.
To Thee.
Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude over all God has given me.
Overwhelmed Mar 2011
what
has happened to
the world
we
live in
now?

no man knows the meaning of trust,
of love,
of friendship,
of innocence.

the children are perverted
by other children

the adults made paranoid
by other adults

the idiots turned manic
by other idiots

the wise men turned wiser
by no one

this world we live in now
is tearing at the seams and
threatens to fall apart

but we have been here before.

we,
man,
were here at the dawn
of our existence

fighting against the wild creatures
and the twistings of mother nature

we were at this breaking point
and we survived.

we, man,
were here at the dawn
of the current era

destroying all that we knew
about the past and rebuilding
it in the hands of new men

we, man,
were here in the great war,
in the second great war, in
the war of the capitalists and
the communists, in the war
against the terror that still
goes on today

we were at the breaking point,
the chaos of it all spilling over
into things we didn’t think
could be tainted,

and yet we came back,
greater than
before.

we,
man,
humanity,
people,

have gone to the edge of existence,
even jumped from it,
without thinking of the doom
that awaited us
at the bottom of this
rocky cliff,

and yet we came back.

back from freefall.
back from oblivion.
back from hell.
back from the dark ages.

we came back.

again
and
again
and
again.

and who is to say we won’t come back?

we came back

we, together, fought against the plagues,
at the sickly parasites that drained our
powers and success, at the people that
refused to accept the future and held back
all those that they could,

and we won.

We won and we
won and we won.

won.
won.
won.

together.

and we can do it
again

together,
I know,
we
can.
This is the final edition of a poem I am submitting to Reflections, a national mixed media competition that is asking for work using the theme "together we can...".
Q Dec 2013
Bittersweet lime-flavoured love
An apparition, a ghost, a face I think of
A mere shadow without definition or name
A hopefulness for the fulfilment of why I came.
Stretching into the ghetto of my mind
Is a body, a shape, a stencil of who may be mine
Reaching against the wicked hands of time
Yet never grasping; a drop of sugar, a cup of lime

Down on my knees with my hands clasped tight in prayer
And my will alone shakes the foundation, yet no one appears
Errant tendrils of loneliness grip at my rotting soul and heart
And the rejection, and the hurt, and the hope tears me apart.
I am now a sinister, cynical shell of who I used to be
And I plead, I beg the monotony to set me free
As I am suffocating on the slimmest sliver of a wish
My head turned upwards, lips waiting for a kiss.

Whether love, or like, or grudging intimacy
So be it, for I need it, and whatever else it may be
Thus, I will wait by the water's edge where the waves are violent
I'll wait at the volcano's peak, before it erupts, when all is quiet.
I'll hang to a fraying rope placed miles above solid ground
I'll stand at the edge of a tall building and dizzy myself looking down
Until someone, or something, arrives from somewhere to extend my time
Until the taste finally fades: a drop of the sweetest sugar, a cup of bitter lime.
born into this:
not into the lights.
not into the fame.
not into the hopefulness.
born into this:
the sewers.
the dark.
the hopelessness.
you found us there one night.
you:
calm and still,
almost understanding,
carrying purity
in your bones.
you weren't just sprinkled with it,
you were drenched with it.
you could tell by the ever changing color of your cheeks
that you:
the purest of them all,
made the water clear
just by your very presence.
were you born into this?
your voice like a hymn,
eyes like the sky
heart like the sea.
born into the sewers?
the dark?
the hopelessness?
you taught us
there was light in the dark
with your gentle hands,
kind mouth,
open heart.
But your purity made us feel
like ****** up
***** angels.
if you
also born into this
could be so so pure
why couldn't we be?
you pulled yourself out of the sewer
and into the lights
the fame
the hopefulness
while we just sat here to rot.
Thinking
We had to be as pure as you
to ever succeed
but
My voice is not a hymn
Eyes not the sky
Heart not the sea
But
My voice is a thunderstorm
my eyes a hurricane
my heart a tornado
i do not carry purity in my bones
not sprinkled with it.
not drenched in it.
i carry a fire.
my hands could ignite the sky
could light all the darkness
Still
when you offered to help
i agreed
although
next to you
I remained looking like
a ****** up ***** angel
it didn't matter
getting out of what i was born into
was not easy
i scraped my knees
got lost
hurt
but you:
pure as ever
kept holding my hand
even when I slipped down onto the pavement
and had to start over
even when I got into the fame
The lights
the hopefulness
i still wasn't pure.
wasnt soft
not always kind
but I used the fire in my bones
things sparked
My voice thundered
and people finally heard
People could tell
I had a fire in my bones
by the way I spoke
the way I looked
the way I felt
they looked at me
the way we used to look at you
never had they seen someone with such spitfire
born into this:
the dark
the sewers
the hopelessness
but
i didn't stay
didnt rot.
pushed myself out of it.
sometimes you guide me past the sewer
where we all lied before
and I remember all of my friends
who are still there
still rotting
still sad
because they did not want
to appear ugly
next to you
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
Willow herb floating

on silent certainty

ashes of sighs


not fleeting,

unvapoured on the

blossom of the rain,

I am too light to

pull or push

the swing of delight

through this land.




The rain left me for a

while

sun unshielding

-a thousand widows

more unyielding than the depths . .

Once shadowed whisperers

of delight,gossamer

sparkling , descending

their chains

of necromantic hope.





Lilith is no night owl

she is mother, eve

and my becoming:

sweet earth spun

at once ,

exhaling her .





The see saw

bumped gently

on my chin

it is a most gentle

form of awakening.




The silence bore no whispers

till sinking through the quicksand

-or was it quicksilver?

-in any case I could smell little

in my amniotic amnesia.

I made ten thousand friends,till their soap

made this place clean.



Is this a seed or a dying

hopefulness

-is my sallow sowing

beyond all shores of

reproduction;

a reflection of the child

they dared not bear?



Is my last breath like this

a forgotton yielding

will they catch me

as I fall ?

-(sweet earth)-



This moth of my ending,

a shallow recantation,

my fears-

their memories, mere

testubes of

stylish hope .





I breathe the elegant stare

you have forgotten .

Once more free

from such

rememberance






I need not ,

remained not ,

your imploded ,

wakefulness .





A thousand pardons

exhaled like silk

entwining

an unfinished race

spider of a thousand eyes .



One may say

I was

stared

to death

but surrogate air

mocks childish pity.



Taut refelexions

bear salt echoes

in silk convulsions

fresh water

a veneered hope .



Easier in death than life

is a child's sorrowed

partings ,

the illusion of

bouyancy

rippled tides

unfelt.



The oceans have not enough salt

for such shrunken sorrow.

if we could but once

have shared

unbreathed aspersion .



The room has come and gone

the pillow quite undry

unforgotten

unremembered.

A web untouched
2003. Tribute to Christina Lothian english teacher ,ended her life in the river Ayr ,in the embrace of another woman .They jumped together.I found out 30 years too late.
SC Kelley Aug 2018
I still feel you in my arms.
.
Still looking at the heavens together,
With the galaxies in our eyes.
.
Still breathing in unison,
Our living souls crash like roaring seas with every inhale,
And calming them with each exhale.
.
Still whispering destinies in your ear,
Feeling your hold around me tighten with hopefulness.
.
Still together in what felt like fate,
The moment that was forever.
.
Still, steady heartbeats,
Softly throbbing into each other.
.
Stillness that never ended,
And the anticipation for it to be broken,
By the sweetness of your soft, lively kiss.
.
Still,
Wishing for that night back.
.
Still.
Waiting.
.
.

~S.C. Kelley
For My Love
Taylor Nichelle Apr 2015
Please forgive the lies.
Those lies you realized were real lies in your eyes, that look at my eyes that cries.
Please forgive my tick, my tick that flicks when you click my impatience.
Please try to forgive the tears I cried, my hands tied down to the chair of my stupidness.
Forgive me for the different masks I've worn because I was born with a face torn..
Please, forgive me for looking at that mirror
Glaring
Staring
Preparing, to attack and smack
Break this make-up of me and off my face.
Forgive those scars across my heart that left marks on my inner wrists, forgive my fists that ball,
hit walls and doors to settle the score between love and hate.
Please forgive me for wasting your time, I'm fine. That line, like the line you wait behind dozens of people who I've said that to.. please forgive me when you tell me "I'm beautiful" because the thought of me possibly, being pretty, is new to me.
Forgive me when I say I'm lonely or feeling alone because I only have myself in my mind
and behind the door of thoughts are secrets kept, sept underneath the rug if uncertainty.
Insecurities, get the best of me,
Forgive my darkness
Forgive my awkwardness
Forgive my serial killer mentality, hunting down, killing off my confidence and any compliments I receive.
I enjoy bringing myself to low points
And at this point, I need a new point. A hight point. And the distance between my low point and my high point is a long line of self awareness and weakness.
I digress, my progress is better, my confidence is higher, I guess..
You'll be impressed with what you don't know,
What you should know,
But what I don't show.
My confusing image of myself
"Love thy self"
Lord please forgive me for I have sinned.
Trying to die earlier than intended is a sin.
Trying to force pain amongst my body is a sin.
Please forgive my dark thoughts, my depressed ways.
Forgive those who attempt the same attempts  i attempt.
Forgive those who drag themselves to the ground, buried underground with tomb stones above their heads.
Forgive the knives they used to bleed out their tears and sadness.
Forgive the pills that sit in the stomach of the people lying on the bathroom floor unaware of their scared mothers faces.
Forgive the flowers you place in front of their grave of hopefulness buried with terrible self consciousness.
Please forgive me when I say, please don't delay, but I really can't stay..
Anjana Rao Mar 2016
It happens imperceptibly
but you know it
when it’s in full effect –

Two’s company
three’s crowd.

It’s not
anyone’s fault,
not something
anyone decides,
just how it goes
sometimes.

Conversation
becomes
more and more
personal,
until it is clear:

You are not supposed to be here.

So you do
what you are good at doing.
You disappear.

-

See, disappearing?
You have it down
to a science.

Talk less and less
and then not at all.
Stare off into space,
perhaps fidget from time to time,
make small movements
to show that you
have not quite
turned to stone.

Take a while to leave.
It can’t be sudden -
you wouldn’t want to draw attention
to yourself.
[It’s awkward for everyone involved.]

Finally,
when you think you just
can’t
bear it,
get up to go to the bathroom
and never come back.

It’s easier than you think.

-

They will look for and address you
eventually:
oh good night, are you okay, you’re so quiet,
you should have said something, I’m sorry, sorry,
sorry.


The usual.

You will reassure them
when the time comes,
fold up your feelings
into a little origami crane
that you wish could just
fly away.

But for now
you can sit safely
in your invisibility.

-

You told your friend group earlier
that sometimes you thought
there was no point calling yourself
gay
because you just hated everyone.

It makes everyone laugh,
and even you find that you’re amused,
but
you don’t know if they heard
the hurt, the bitterness, the honesty of that statement
buried within your voice.

-

You watch
the way your two friends (with benefits)
are affectionate with each other,
the way one puts her head
in the other’s lap,
the way they play with each other’s hair
small kisses on small places,
the way they do these things
and see only each other,
as if all of this
is only obvious
to them.

It’s sweet.

You try to rouse yourself into
more feeling:
jealousy,
sadness,
hopefulness,
anything intense, but
everything boils down to
the same nothingness.
This is simply
another thing you
can’t/won’t/don’t have
[pick any verb, they’re all true].

-

And this is what
your life is:
trying to find ways
to make everything disappear.

Feelings – gone.
Desires – gone.
Expectations – gone.
Hopes – gone.
Communication – gone.

-

And this is what your life is:
Succeeding.
wraiths Aug 2015
i feel like i keep losing you over and over again in my mind because once i finally accept one realization about you, another shows itself and i have to pick myself back up all over again. it hurts because i'm alone, but it also hurts because i know that you're too far gone.

i thought maybe we had a shot, that this time was different. i was hopeful for the first time in months, but my hopefulness is slowly being crushed as time drags on and you still won't call. i'm too scared to even look at my phone because i know there'll be nothing there; or worse, there will be.

i'm sad because i feel as if i've taken a huge blow to my heart and you haven't even suffered anything. you are fine without me, and i can't say the same vice versa, which is what makes this all hurt. you can get up and walk away at any given moment and not suffer any injuries but if i were to try and leave, my own **** heart would probably fall through my ribcage and into your unwilling hands.
jeffrey robin Apr 2013
All
Gone mad!
..
My friends !
.
Facing the beast -- the beast stared back
--------
--
Facing the mad days

Too involved
---
--
-
It HAS COME TO THIS
It has come to a few sad remnant human beings
TO THIS
the .........bluff
The swagger
The puffed up
Ideology of fearlessness
.
Facing the GODLESS god

With
Dread
.
With dreadlocks
With tattoos or painted bodies
With
ATTITUDE!

Yeah we ain't gonna lose
Yeah
We done lost already!
---
Gone mad

Facing the beast the beast stared back
-----
To end on a note of hopefulness?

Would be the most hopeless thing to do
sad and stupid Oct 2017
the most dangerous person I know was a beautiful girl,
with a singing voice like white chalk:
when you came into contact with that voice, even momentarily
you found your fingertips lightly dusted
and the taste of chalk in your lungs
She settled on you.

This girl left pieces of herself everywhere--
anchors.
to things she knew should be
important to her, but instead she couldn't find the commitment
enough to make them important.

she could only find
fragments of a conversation
about anything
that affirmed her
self-importance
or made her feel
important.
even if only for a second.

she disregarded the pain that lumbered just beneath those
glimmering retinas,
only to step closer and see the light
was just a reflection of whatever stood before her.

so she anchored herself to humans.
she chose to connect with people
based on the "mutual" stars in
their eyes.
and how they felt important.
she anchored herself to
the expectations held aloof in
the eyes of her unattached lover.
Eyes that swam with the imaginary meetings and hopefulness
to obtain girls not her.

and so she swam.

at first, she treaded water like it the thing to do in the eyes of your
"lover"
then, the ropes she tied to herself
to make anchors began to drag her down.

the people she anchored herself to reached out as far as the cold depths would allow
but she refused to tread the last few feet and take hold
of a shoreline filled with
finite praise for not drowning herself.

The most dangerous girl I knew
made drowning the important thing.
and now she waits, sunken and waterlogged
with the weight of eyes that are not hers.

The eyes of her lover, who sparkle artificially
as the light is just a reflection of whatever stands in front of him.
friendships that feel like relationships. she made it my problem. and everyone else's..
Gabrielle Diaz Apr 2013
Stranded out in the bitter cold
wind slicing up my cheeks
while it slaps me with its icy fingers

Limbs buried in the dense snow
weighed down by the frozen
hopelessness that is as far as the
eye can bare to see

Although weakness threatens me
and death nips at my nose
I beg of all to leave me be,
I dare them

For I know that through the
darkest night of my life
thoughts of you will rush
to comfort me

I think of your piercing eyes
and how the blueness calms me

My mind runs to thoughts of
your lips- to each pure kiss

These frigid fingertips of mine yearn
to be entwined with yours once more

As love awakens in me
the warmth you’ve embedded
into my being multiplies

I find myself free of the icy *******
in a pool of warm hopefulness  

Green emerges from the thousand
shades of melting white
and I know lovely things will grow
from what I have made it through

The sun kisses every inch of me
the way only you do and I know
I can get back to you now.
Shadow Paradox Apr 2015
~Depression plants suicidal seeds, don’t copy hate, instead do good deeds~

◄►◄►◄►◄►
Rhythm and rhyme beats in the heart
Forming musical inspiration in a creative art
Beauty from pain
It lies within, as rainbows bleed a colorful stain
Razor marks tattooed on the skin
Is this a sign or a committed sin?
Learn from past, live the present
Don’t be a suicidal mocking bird who always laments
Copying others, with suicide entwined in imagination
Bleed the pen, and brightly color in your blank emotion
Represent a leader
You were born a survivor
Revolutionary options are provided for you to excel
Grow wings, spread them, and fly beyond this living hell
Skidding across icy obstacles
Wishing for miracles
Live your dream
Let the dying razor scream
No more suicidal mockingbird
Let hopefulness be today’s most used word
◄►◄►◄►◄►
This is such an old poem but I thought I'd share.
Waverly Apr 2012
Angela,
would you ever
come back?

I've been asking
this question
as the licquor
subsides.

I've been
sleeping
on it,
just to take
its weight down.

I ate
three tasteless burgers,
and rummaged
through their tomatoes
looking for your lips
red as cherries.

Hopefulness
is a disease,
a cancer
because it spreads
in violent fingers.

The **** of my heart
has begun
before the burgers
settled.
Jay M Wong Apr 2013
For a boulder untouched rests in solitude alone,
An emperor unconquered rests upon his throne,
A field unwintered flourishes so hopelessly aside,
A songbird unharmed sings so mutelessly by,

Two lovesome starlings may each other greet,
Only to apartly fade and never again a'meet.
For troubles, in singles or greater pairs,
Always finds a way to draw a'near,
But away do these troubles inevitably drift,
As joys, too, fades to nothing, ever so swift.
As a prelude may swiftly come a'close,
Much like a woman's heart a'drift it goes.

Yet a lonesome pebble may drift miles a'sea,
Only to cross upon a mound of utter debris,
A withering rose may bloom only to later die,
And wither its way back to its initial state a'by.

To observe such cyclic manners bears no path,
Of hopefulness and motives under fate's wrath.
And so, should one live amongst the world a'here,
And seek for nothing but a moment to disappear.
Marsha Singh Feb 2011
Riley wants to build a robot.
With all the eagerness of
a five year old
who has been told
that she is brilliant, and beautiful, and kind,
she presents me with her shopping list:

METAL
CLEAN WHEELS
ROBOT FOOD

She tells me that the wheels need to be clean
so they don't mess up Mama's floor.
Of course, I say,
and kiss the top of
her brilliant, and beautiful, and kind head,
reflecting for a moment, with my eyes closed
and Riley chattering happily,
on why a child's hopefulness
always makes me
just a little sad.
KC Feb 2016
I’m a ******* for love,
I couldn’t give you up

Sweeter dreams of yesterday
Are a lust that’s gone today

I’m a ******* for love
I gave my all not to give you up

Writing rhymes of wondrous romance
Trapped in feelings like a trance

I’m a ******* for love
Take the beating, give a hug

It’s only masochism when not returned
And believe me, girl, I’ll take the burn

A body that is bruised
Can indefinitely still be whole

What matters the most
Is the condition of your soul

Purity and peace
Hopefulness on bending knees

All these things you don’t possess
That you still never took from me.
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

a mortal can no more free himself
than can from ravenous spider,
the frail and struggling fly;
nor from ferocious wolf,
can flee the helpless lamb.

a mortal sees his frailty,
feels his utter weaknesses,
in mind, in sprit, and in frame,
weighted ’gainst the task at hand
can raise his head no more again.

for to lift, to build, restore, forgive
these no mortal man has ever done.
but ask a man who knows his ilk,
the kin of whom he is,
the stuff with which he’s made
the cloth from which he’s cut...

he is no mortal man
who knows the dust
from which he’s plucked;
who’s hands have molded his;
who’s very chest has heaved,
with breath from giver,
this his gift.

tis his, the bugled call,
on longing ears that falls,
gives answer to the sound;
this the one when wisdom cries,
in streets she gathers round,
calling voice to one to all...

“let your weeping cease
and from the void,
the darkened corners creep.
no more you are
oh man, oh woman,
no mere mortal thee!
you breath the very wind,
with forward vision see,
graced with strength and
robed in immortality!"


immortal one, to him ordained,
to raise his voice above the fray,
beyond the strife, through the pain;
of mortal man the lot, the whole,
none can raise his mortal soul;
but gift him immortality,
a mortal man is he no more,
immortality has set him free!

~

*post script.

in believing himself wise enough to know all,  mankind settles for only shreds of truth and dismisses his immortality as impossible fairied tales and *******; embracing mortality, he dooms himself to an endless spiral of hopelessness, closing his mind to the hopefulness that lies so closely nearby.

believe me when i say, earth’s gravitational pull became no weightier after Newton explained it to us;  DaVinci’s sails filled no more fluidly after we knew how wind was formed.  long before her forces were understood, mankind built towers and harnessed nature’s forces for good; understanding where it came from was not only secondary... it was  unnecessary to its function and its employment.  (any who might suggest i am dismissing knowledge as useless would be missing my point). we can act immortally long before understanding it origins or fullness.  the healing of our nation requires those who can act with immortality; not as mere mortals.

words from C.S. Lewis in his, ’The Weight of Glory’, “you’ve never met a mere mortal… nations, cultures, arts, civilizations are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. …it is immortals whom we… work with, marry, snub, and exploit.”
Toni Seychelle Dec 2012
If you would be my man, baby I'd take you anywhere you wanna go - so let me know, if you take me down, I'll take you around- give me those eyes and I'll love you for days like birds live for skies. And, baby, the way you touch me is completely an accessory to mesmerize me - talk to me, lover, you, the one with the eyes, I'll be yours if you say so in my ear but it's clear you're just a dear, so close never near. Desperate for a heart to hold, fall for smiles and break apart the mold.. Storms that put you to sleep keep you awake, make you shake - it's all in that machine that makes you dream midnight's moonlight on that scene.. Glowing arms reach for your embrace, soft and creamy skin against your face race against your pace, stars fall into place... Dizzy in my dreams, so it seems daily streams of delinquent screams for serious fears and this is what you wanted, you wanted to think, you're here so you speak silence demanding patience since straying, stranding my hopes in hopeless hopefulness helpless for an accomplice.. Designs in my mind lying on the floor like a crime for fame, what a crying shame - dying for the same life-defining, death-defying love stunt mind ****.
121709
Pudge Apr 2016
sometimes I wish I prepared myself more for you
the first time I met you, the first thing I noticed about you was your eyes
sullen, deranged, yet...hopeful
it intrigued me for how someone who has been through so much
yet still looked forward for another day

I envied that hopefulness from you but
I think what killed me is the conversations we never even had the chance to start.
your laughter I never got to hear from my jokes
[IN PROGRESS]
Julia Betancourt Oct 2016
trust me with your heart.

i will have did to you
all you have done to me,
and in the end,
“strangers”
will have been forgotten.
our love
will last.
broken and shattered hearts
will crumble beside our empty hands.
hopefulness
will enlighten itself within our souls.
darkness
will not exist.
love stories always written in books
will be named after us.
insecurity and misery
will not form in shadows at night.
worthlessness
promises that
i cannot keep you
happy.
you will never be
miserable.
you will be
loved.
do not ever think you could be
hurt by me.
i will be sure you are
always on my mind,
and with your broken heart
believe i will love you

(now read from bottom to top)
SM Mar 2014
If I were air, I’d be the wind on your face as you try to get away on your bike.
Caressing the curvature from your cheekbones to your chin.

If I were brightness, I’d be the flame from your lighter.
Here to light your cigarettes and candles.

If I were clothing, I’d be your t-shirt.
Listening to you inhale defeat and exhale content.

If I were the darkness, I’d be your shadow.
Ever present during the day and holding you at night.

If I were a mystery, I’d be the ocean
You could discover my depth.

If I were a beat, I’d be the ticking of your wristwatch.
A reminder each second that time progresses.

If I were words, I’d arrange myself into a book.
A story to keep you company in the winter.

If I were a spirit, I’d be a ghost.
Silently witnessing how you live.

If I were an addiction, I’d be your last cigarette.
You’d desire to get more of my flavor.

If I were hopefulness, I’d be your ambitions.
In hope that you’d find me buried somewhere in your dreams.

If I were a body part, I’d be your fingernails.
Close to your lips when you become anxious.

If I were a color, I’d be red.
Living within your veins.

But I am not.
You put your hand up to block the wind.
You only strike my flame for a moment, and then put me out.
All I hear are empty sighs
And you’ve become afraid of what is in the darkness.
You’ve learned swim to shore, to escape my vastness
And my loud ticking at night drives you insane.
You’ve read me to boredom.
I feel your presence, but you feel none of mine.
You’ve smoked too much and can’t feel the high anymore,
And you do not dream any more. You only have nightmares.
Your nails are now bitten to the bone.
And you’ve bled yourself dry.
Zane H Jan 2017
-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------
Assuming that we can only experience time on a linear scale, I believe that suffering and joy can both be broken down into various opposing feelings that reflect our views on the past, present, and future.
These basic feelings are as follows:

        Desire (want for something not currently present) vs
Contentment (acceptance of present circumstances)

        Fear (belief that the future may be worse than the present) vs Hopefulness (belief that the future will be better than the present)

        Lamentment (recalling negative events that have occurred in the past) vs Reminiscence (recalling positive events in the past)

In our current mortal existence, we happen upon a complicated mixture of feelings both good and bad. Many of these are combinations of the six basic feelings. For example, motivation can be explained as the desire to perform a difficult task, along with hopefulness that we'll succeed in performing the task. Likewise, regret can be described as the lamentation of a past event, along with the unfulfillable desire to change the way we had acted.
All of our feelings, in addition to our cumulative worldly experiences, help us define what we call "life".

1/19/17
**-Feel free to provide critique. I'd like to hear what everyone else thinks.**
daniela Oct 2015
i am the sum of my worst parts.
i am best friends with my loathing,
i dress all my nightmares in sheep's clothing.
i tell my mother they're friends of mine,
i tell my mother i am fine.
we were terrible actors but, god, were we good at memorizing the lines.
but we both know that nothing’s worse than insincerity.
i think i was so lost i couldn’t stand being found.
it was all i knew, my old paint under the new.
you know what it’s like,
you get stuck in a sadness so sweet
you almost mistake it for something you deserve.
you become comfortable.
it’s a process, cut my losses
relapsed back into my sadness and all my bad habits,
begging you to lick the wine and water off my lips,
the way you grip my hips,
just press me down into the sheets until i don’t exist.
we wrote an album full anthems and we couldn’t carry a **** tune.
you’re just a big bleeding heart, an open wound of a person  
and everybody loves you
and everybody hates you
like the radio hit that made their favorite band big.
so this is for all the times you were told to bite your tongue
but you were so tired of bleeding.
this is for all the times you opened your mouth
but never spoke.
this is for all the times you talked to fill the air
but never really said anything.
you are what you think. you are what you say. you are what you do.
but, maybe most importantly, you are what you don’t do.
because what if icarus had been cautious?
what if icarus had never left the ground?
i guess one way to love somebody is when they're never around,
and i guess there’s people like that;
those who only want to hear songs they’ve already heard.
there’s people like that, those who don’t want to learn anything
that they don’t already know.
there’s people like that, those who don’t like to question things.
science and god sit at the dinner table as lovers.
they say their vows in verse,
in a thousand different languages.
neither of them have the whole story,
but together, i’m told sometimes they make a lot of sense.
science and god sit at the dinner table as equals.
art and wonder and the human spirit are their children.
love may be a myth, but it’s my favorite one.
we do not age at the dinner table
we do not know hate at the dinner table
we spit bullets and grow flowers into vases.
we knock elbows, and argue, and love, and reconcile, and praise.
we spill wine not blood.
we do not know hate at the dinner table.
and i find, at the dinner table, seated
between past and present
between heart-ache and hopefulness
between glory and insignificance
i am not so lonely.
inspired by the italian proverb
"we do not age at the dinner table / a tavola non s'invecchia"
John Jun 2014
My father, my father
Now he's going to see
I've proven myself worth a bother
And there's no stopping what I can be
Future king of the islands of iron
And son to the one who they currently worship
Sprung in the hard isles, I was
But raised in the frozen north
I can only imagine the plans father will put forth

Now that I've sailed
Though with an unruly crew
The iron price shall prevail
Because my father says it's true
And he is His Holiness
And the undisputed head of my native land
I can do nothing to quell my hopefulness
On these ****** rocks, on this crimson shore I stand
Now and again though I've been told
That I am Theon of the North
And am a part, no longer, of the isles where I was birthed
I will show my father just who his son has become
****** it in the face of islanders who don't believe in their rightful heir
I've made mistakes, misstepped the side who won
But I am a noble, one born into which I will flair

I'm off home now, though it is my snowfallen one
Where I learned what is right
Where there is no such thing as an "iron price"
One which is embedded in my heart so tight
But I mustn't look back now
At all I have gained from these people and lands
For it's time to wake this sleeping cow
I know it is right when I step foot on the sand
March my men straight back "home"
Sneak up, like proper thieves, and sack my once-called castle
Who would've thought it'd be such a gods-be-****** hassle
Based on the character of Theon Greyjoy in George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series. The events in the poem mostly occur in book two, when Robb sends Theon back home to the Iron Islands to talk his father into siding with the newly minted King in the North. Theon's father, Balon Greyjoy, shows little respect and love to his son who then promptly returns to Winterfell to sack the place he once called home.
Swords and Roses Nov 2015
breath restrained in lungs
a tiny bright light inside
not allowed to grow
ifs, maybes, it's possible
silent prayers to all who hear
L M C Sep 2014
a sonorous and straightforward
declaration of contentment
your eyes are poetry
and my heart is drenched with
calm hopefulness

the mind and core synchronize
with intention to ascend into
a novel vibrating frequency
neither party knew was accessible

liberating, raw creative energy
to thrive with another
who strives for endless truth
striking the transition toward
enlightenment with a
partner in survival
through any challenge
put forth by the
ever enchanting, ever expanding
universe we are
immersed in

promises of freedom are fully materializing
unlike anything previously sensed
everything is starting
to fall into
place
Jo Baez May 2016
Hope is a thread hanging
off my ceiling like spider webs made from a spider named hopefulness.
Happiness, optimism, and vitality, intertwine forming cobwebs at the corner ends of my room...
Regret, bitterness, and hopelessness, morph into black-widows crawling on my limbs.
Injecting a poison I call mental suicide into my veins.
Why does dying feel fulfilling,
like being alive for the first time?
These spider webs take form of memories falling on my body like rain....
Leaving me nostalgically hollow, like empty pictures inside picture frames.
Hopefulness crawled into my mouth as I clenched my teeth shut.
Chewed up, swallowed, and left a misfortunate taste on my tongue.
These black-widows won't let me sleep..

— The End —