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w Nov 2016
18
Lahat naman tayo nakaramdam na ng lungkot
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung saan nagmula
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung ano ang dahilan
Lungkot na hindi mo alam kung ano ang kinahihinatnan
Pero ang pinaka nakakalungkot sa lahat e yung puno ng tao sa isang kwarto
Puno ng tunog at salita
Puno ng biruan at tawanan
Pero ramdam **** nag-iisa ka
Ramdam **** hindi ka nababagay sa lugar na naroon ka
Sa pagkakataong ito, hindi mo alam kung bakit hindi mo kayang makisali at magkunwaring masaya nalang
Kung sa mga nakaraang araw kinaya mo naman
Nakakapagod ano?
Nakakapagod magkunwaring masaya
Nakakapagod magkunwaring kaya mo pa
Pero alam naman natin
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin ng pahinga
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang idaan sa alak o ng yosi man lang
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang idaan sa maghapong hilata sa kama
Eto yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin o kahit dampi ng matinding menthol ng salonpas sa nangangalay na kasu-kasuan
Etong yung pagod na hindi kayang gamutin ng efficascent oil na suki ng buong pamilya
Eto yung pagod na dama ng kaibuturan at kaluluwa
Eto yung pagod na mahirap punan ng lunas kasi hindi mo alam kung bakit ang bigat sa pakiramdam
Iyong pag napabayaan o mali ang diagnosis mo e pwedeng lumikha ng sanga-sangangang maliit at mas komplikadong dahilan ng kapaguran
Kung pwede lang mapawi ang lungkot sa bawat malalim na buntong hininga ang ngalay na dama ng kaluluwa
Yung tuwang hatid damay lahat ng parte ng kabuuan
Isama mo pa pati yung sangkatutak na split ends mas lalo na ang mga pimples na ayaw kang lubayan
Alam ko,  pagod ka narin
Sadyang nakakapagod lang talagang gumising sa umagang walang kulay
Sa mundong malawak at mapaglaro
Sa mga tulang isinulat pero walang laman
Sa mga nasambit na salitang wala man lang naantig
Sa mga matang blanko na walang ningning
Sa mga patok na banat pero hindi naman nakinabang
Sa mga mensahe sa inbox na puro lang chain messages ang laman galing sa kakilala **** di na umahon sa pagiging jejemon
Sa mga text ni Baby aka 8888 na pinapaalala kang expired na pala ang iyong load
Talaga namang nakakapagod ang mundo
Minsan nga nakakagago
Itulog nalang natin 'to, ano?
Ayan tayo e, dinadaan sa tulog ang lahat
Pero malay mo nga naman, baka sakaling sa mahabang paglimot sa mundo, isang panaginip lang pala ang lahat ng sakit
Hindi lang siguro dahil tamad kaya natutulog pero eto na marahil yung senyales ng pagsuko sa laban
Sa pagpiling takasan panandalian ang buhay at baka sakaling sa panaginip matupad ang nais ng puso
Kasi sa totoong buhay ang hirap tanggapin ang bawat sampal ng pagkabigo
Yung bang dalawang klase ng pagkabigo
Yung todo bigay ka sa una pero bokya ka parin
At yung isa naman, yung natatakot ka ng sumunggab at tinikop ka na agad ng takot
Beterana na nga ata sa larangan ng pagiging olats
Nganga kung nganga
Nada kung nada
Itlog kung itlog
Pero hindi pa tapos ang kwento
Malayo pa ang lalakbayin
May natitira pa naman sigurong alas dyan na di pa naitataya
Positibo naman ako na sa negatibong sitwasyon makakaalpas din
Lahat naman ng bagay lumilipas, parang yung paboritong pantalon na sa kakasuot unti-unting kumukupas
Tulad ng chika ng karakter sa pinapanood kong korean nobela, Fighting daw!
Minsan may pakinabang din pala ang pagharap sa telebisyon sa ganitong pagkakataon
Ngayon, alas otso medya ng gabi sinusulat ang mga katagang nais ilabas ng puso
Habang wala pang tugon mula sa itaaas
Salamat sa oras na tibok ng puso
Kakapit muna ako kay Captain Yoo
Sa seryoso pero nakakakilig na ugali,
Sa swabe niyang mga the moves,
Sa grabehan niyang mga titig,
At sa mala-fairytale nilang storya,
Captain, ako nalang please!
Ang huling pagkapagod kong nais ireklamo
Siguro sa paghihintay na may isang Captain Yoo Shijin na darating, na kikiliti sa pagod kong puso at magbibigay ng rasong ipagpatuloy ang labang kinapusan na ng dahilan.
r m Sep 2018
my inbox is a wonderland
            a rollercoaster;
    an amusement park itself!

four years ago
           said the time stamp
    he said "hi"

no matter how much i boast
           on my way with words
    most times i'm just lost.

my inbox is a wonderland
            a rollercoaster;
    an amusement park itself!

seven years ago
           said the time stamp
    she said, "you're not my friend."

no matter how much i boast
           with my way with people
    every relationship comes out with scars.

my inbox is a wonderland
            a rollercoaster;
    an amusement park itself!

five years ago,
            as indicated by the time stamp
    my friend told me, "i hope it gets better for you"

no matter how much i boast
           about my big heart and love for them
    i always forget to tuck them close.
hi, i'm still not fully back to the swing of writing. this one just needed to be typed out and sent to the universe. i've been building something and i tried to look back, and feelings came rushing back.
Zee Nov 20
Guys don't open any messages from sgg. In inbox please report as the message they send is linked to a virus. Please report and block so we can crack down on this asap.
Kelsey Rhoads Apr 2018
If you are a suicide survivor
Inbox me your name
And I’ll add it to my tattoos of others

You guys mean the world to me
And I have my own name on my arm
Because I too, am a suicide survivor.
Inbox me your name. Make this go viral so I get names. Hopefully it inspires someone to fight a little harder. Anyone wanna join me?

If you understand I’m sorry. Stay strong friend.
Sara Jun 2018
My inbox was always full
but I always made time for you.
Now, time tells me that I'm the fool:
you say you will, you never do.

You said you would, you never did.
Reclining, you could watch me sink
then toss an anchor down to say
you gave your all to keep me safe.

Don't get me wrong, we were both weights;
controlling, insecure, insane.
Like deep-sea diving in the rain,
not knowing it was all in vain.

Practice breathing, slow and steady;
in the ocean, hot and heavy and
screaming for a miracle
to help us find our way to shore.

Now, I think it discpicable
that I would move sea, sand, and shoreline,
just to make sure you were mine
-a pretty, washed-up shell resigned.
when you don't know what you're looking for who knows what you might find
mûre Nov 2012
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.

Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *******, lips parted, heart racing?

I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside
hers.

After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?

I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.

In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.

I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.

Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.

I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
Meg B Oct 2021
I can’t get your words out of my head
Syllable by syllable I’ve reread
Them a dozen times,
And now I contemplate why
And how I never knew
You felt how I do.
Edmund black Jul 2018
This is hellopoetry
I do not dwell on
Hurtful comments
Or negativity
The insanity of the way
Humans marginalize
And hate others
Without reasons
Without merits
Is like knives in my heart
All I see is beauty everywhere
Every human on earth
Is a universe in their own right
A manifestation of uniqueness
That can never again replicated
I’m here to write and share my thoughts
With those who cares for it
Give the world a snapshot
Of my soul and it’s principles
My dream my pain
my emotion my humanity
If negativity is where you dwell
I implore you stay out of my inbox
Highly recommend you read
Motivating things
Or maybe listens to songs
That would cheer you up
I learned most storms
Don’t come to disrupt
Your life rather
to clear your path
The challenges equip you
With the necessary weapons
And tools you need to
Spiritually advance
Therefore I’m stepping
Into your hatred challenge
With confidence and much
More wisdom than I had.
Don’t let hatred dwell
In your mind and heart
For I have nothing but
Love for you my brother
If you had my life
You would understand!
love is beautiful but you don’t have a clue!
A Lopez Mar 2016
Some poets will
W
   R
  I
T
  E,
Just for the
F
A
M
E.
Having
To
Send
Requests,
For someone
To like their poem's
Again. They'll befriend,
And put on a smile,
While asking by inbox
'Can you share my poesía for a while'.
Yet poesía isn't inboxing
To get a quick like,
That's just new
Age poesía, sickening to my
Dislike, I understand if one
Wants to get known,
Though just send us your
poesía, other poet's who like it
Will surely make you known.
I will speak out
Against this invasion-------of the sending and begging
For the liking
For the gain of many's
Own self wanting ambitions.
I will no longer share
Anyone's writes
Who beg for me to share,
If one has to beg
poesía isn't your fair.
Noone else will speak out
So I will do dare.
Poesía, if we like
We'll click and we'll compare.
Poesía isn't sending a write
To every rhymester and
Imploring. Poesía shares itself
In the world of poetry
That's been mourning.
So please I ask kindly
No more entreating me with inboxed writes,
If others like, we will share
As we're together
In this fight.
I have seen noone speak out on this I don't hate anyone who does this though it happens to me alot and know it does with so many people, there are a few here that the only reason they do get a like, is by sending their poesìa to every man and woman here, and to be honest that isn't poesìa, it has nothing to do with trolling as many have sickeningly called me that, this has to do with poetry as a whole. In poesía if anyone studies old world poetry the will see the best poets who ever existed never considered themselves as poets, and never asked or wanted anyone to like their poems, they just wrote to their little hearts content. And people years later decided -hey- these speakers are amazing and made for the world of poesía, I have no issue sharing ones piece that isn't known, or wants to get themselves on their feet. Though to be honest, my inbox is filled with more than one person, many know who they are, that send us daily on a scheduled basis, the poems they create, and say please read, meaning you got to give it a like, as why many get the popular votes on hellopoetry, while the unknown artist starves and doesn't get one daily or even a view . let's stand up to this. Yet respect those doing it. And letting them know poesía isn't begging for a like, it's helping another out in this community by sharing.
Gracias

Quick note taken
If get unfollowed or unliked for stating facts, OK with me. I will still continue to like their writes, if I like their poems and choose to do so. If one doesn't like my poesía for this, I say oh well, and won't exchange hate for hate, but replace hate with love. And share others writes that deserve to be shared . even if they don't like mine. Every poet has their own preference. =D
vikas chauhan May 2015
Daily I open my e-mail
Check my inbox and search  horoscope.
There  I found new horoscope daily
I read my love horoscope there
which  Described Your and My love relation status.

But today when I open  my e-mail,check my inbox,search horoscope.
there is no mail related to horoscope.

I become worried about you,little bit despondent for you,disquiet
After waiting for long time.
when I press refresh button
I received a new mail
It is my Horoscope ,I become a happy once again.
This is all about my daily routine.
Atlas Dec 2018
My inbox is full of messages
I am too afraid to send
They say
"I care about you
and wish things didn't end"
Hasan Maruf Apr 2017
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz

The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew

The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!

The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube

Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd

The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox

Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!

The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…

The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…

The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!

The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!

Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!

The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review

Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth

You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Slightly anti feminist but a poem representing contemporaneity in our life in a balanced manner of looking into male female relationship.
King Panda Oct 2015
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core

we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk

we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash

we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats

we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia

we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
Selena Jul 2018
Last night I saw the fear in your eyes
the vulnerability seeping in.
I made you vulnerable and you hated me for that
you hated that I was the only one
who actually made you feel something
so you had to go and cheat
but I was the **** all though your inbox
says different
A flirty message with a heart faced attached
it doesn't mean anything I tell myself
he loves me.
But I never truly believed. Us girls caught
up in our heads is he thinking of me too.
you broke my heart and I want to break your spine
my therapist says letting anger out is healthy
but I actually want you to die
I want you to feel the pain I felt when I saw you with not the first but the third girl. But I was the idiot for going back.
I want you to not be able to sleep at night
Having panic attack after panic attack
wondering why you were never good enough
I want you to die
because I see in colors and you shut your blue eyes and now all I see is black.
because you said you loved me
and her
and her
my liver trying to accommodate all the alcohol just to get a weakened smile
my veins screaming for me to stop
bleeding them dry my head spiraling trying to get me to think of anything else but you
your manipulative blue eyes and your sinful lips but I am my own worst enemy
Isobel G Jan 2011
Waking up,
To inbox 1,
Such a joyous sight,
But after seeing,
The anger behind your words,
The smile fades,
Replaced by a solemn frown,
I wonder if it's because of me,
That your so enraged,
If my endless dillemas,
Are the cause of your sudden rage,
A thought comes to mind:
Maybe I should just fade,
Into the background,
I'd rather not,
But I won't test your patience,
To generous have you already been
©Nicola-Isobel H.      21.01.2011
Tawanda Mulalu Aug 2014
AN INBOX.


I watched our brief memories shatter before my face,
          and wondered

About our inherent chaos and implicit shapelessness;
         crying now

Before me. I meet grey scars in your heart-broken eyes,
         cataracts,

Singing a siren’s song that drags me to drown with you-
        I hate you

For bringing me back…my head had just broken through your waters…
       I miss breathing…

                                      ...so, so much.
Facebook *****.
Carla Aug 2018
[New Message]
It reads,
Great, more trouble,
All I need.

Opening the inbox,
What could it really be?
Please not another,
"PARIS, a sight to see!"

I have had enough of spam,
So, please be some news,
And not a "favourite show" quiz,
I'm not obliged to choose.

A message from my boss?
No, he's already out of town,
A notice from the tailor?
No, she can't've done the gown.

Well, what is it?
Why won't it load?
Is it a virus?
Or some kind of code?

Well, I give up,
That is it,
I'll check it later,
For now, I quit.
Robert Ronnow Nov 2023
Black lives matter. Me too.
Not my president. Give peace a chance.
Luck runs out. I like immigrants.
Power must be challenged by power.

Equal and opposite reactions.
God is the answer. Love is the answer.
Walk on the sunny side of the street. Meat feet.
Learn to drive. Wait for the train in the rain.

A girl gets sick of a rose. Mock orange.
Mediocre presidents, unnecessary wars.
Triumph and humiliation. Meditation.
Sometimes I’m tired of being me. Therefore.

Subaru. Suduko. Haiku. Hulu.
Stop on red, go on green. Orderly neighborhood.
Too tired to be angry. Too tired to do homework.
Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.

College campus. Saguaro, cactus.
Million dollar movie. Aliens in the bleachers.
Full length feature. TED talk, lecture.
Breathe in experience. Bring sentience into an expressible state.

Events pile up with or without an identity willing to organize them.
Events in their mere chronology make no sense.
Inability to transcend own interests. Inability to find one’s way.
Vacations and accomplishments accumulate late in life and early on.

Late in life I struggle against my insignificance.
The straight way lost. Concentrate on this: Thy will be done.
The straight way misplaced. Get over it. Someone tell a joke.
Love. Vote. Join a committee or a party.

MLK made the jump from race to class, dreamed of a brotherly nation.
Is this feeling nostalgia for the past or occipital neuralgia?
Knee surgery, plywood factory. Lost lover, lost city.
Old friends who are dead to me but still here.

Somewhere there are flowers among railroad ties.
True love between ****** partners. Dusty villages and vast cities.
Popper v. Niebuhr, impeachment inquiry.
Hassid and Muslim dress codes. French fashions.

Watch for war, **** and shower. Do the limbo.
Pay bills. The very thought of the rosy dawn makes Jack ill.
Big comfy couch, a nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day.
A long day’s journey into night. Truckin’.

Death comes for the archbishop. Private Ryan and Big Red One.
Absence of knowledge and intelligent beings who make things happen.
Life’s brevity and the time taken to carve the canyon.
Decibel level and ambient noise. Captain Carpenter and Mr. Flood.

Nothing but ocean, self-aware organisms and the longing they provoke.
Unit, corps, God, country. Zip code. The clocks and the docks gone and       no smoke.
Achilles and Hector. Wills and losses.
Continued existence and most of history.

A holy condition. A warrior’s position.
Walk with a limp. Don’t complain about pain.
Truth may be ascertained by considering your uncertainty.
If everyone votes and every vote’s counted, time is the mercy of eternity.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2014
You will not fit in my inbox,
If you love me, you’ll never try.
Never let a font decide the sincerity
of any good morning or goodnight.
Speak earthquakes to me slowly,
close as you can to my side.
Let me feel your lips
gently graze my earlobe
without an electrical circuit in sight.
Our love will not fit into 1s and 0s.
If you know me, I’ll never try.
Never let a hashtag envelop my sentiment
or pull the digital wool over my eyes.
I’ll lay grooves in your wax
you can play back later.
Our proximity too analog
for the technicolor sky.
Joshua Haines Dec 2014
This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.

This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.

Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.

We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.

Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.

They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.

I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.

Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.
abecedarian May 2015
Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately

you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction

now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...

nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!

no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect

well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance

I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1020933/masters-of-the-universetender-me-thy-resignation/

Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

*tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...

I can do better.

Why?

not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors life,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me*
**human**
Seema Dec 2017
My inbox is empty
My draft is full
Friends you have plenty
Feelings you have none
Online status shows active
But seems I'm on your spam list
I guess you are selective
Or maybe just ******
You started to ignore
I bet its nothing new now
For there is nothing more
I can do...



©sim
Just scribbles
Mahalea Isis May 2014
He makes me feel beautiful
Which I have never felt before
I've always had my doubts and could never be too sure
Cause they told me I was ugly
They told me I was fat
They joked about me and never had regrets

And I sat there and I laughed it off but it hurt me inside
So bad that I got off the bus and ran straight to my room to cry
And I got on my knees and prayed at my window and asked the lord
"Why is this happening to me?" and it started when I was four
And yes, I still remember that far back
Cause being bullied is it's own feeling of being jumped or attacked

And *he makes me feel beautiful

Cause he looks me in my eyes and tells me that I am and I can tell it's not a lie...
Because instead of posting pictures I have edited and cropped
And having boys tell me I'm pretty through messages in my inbox...

He makes me feel beautiful
Cause he means what he says
And a few other people have told me I am cute but I thought they were just kidding
Cause I have programmed myself to thinking my beauty is forbidden
Which means that I could never be a girl that is praised
For her good looks, her perfect body, and her Aphrodite face.

He makes me feel beautiful
Cause even though I have flaws
He accepts them and makes me feel like I have none at all
So maybe I am pretty and I am starting to think better
Of myself instead of looking in the mirror with a look so bitter

He makes me feel beautiful
And when he tells me so with such a serious voice, I get chills
Cause he's the first person that hasn't made me feel completely ill
By insulting or pointing out one of my many imperfections
But instead trying to help get rid if that negative venom
That people have slowly injected into my mind
Making my optimism die slowly over time
Making me get violent and defensive and making me less kind
To the point I get a rush to commit a deadly crime

Then they say I'm crazy and continue with the names
It's a cycle, a stupid circle, a horrible made up game
That has expanded to the point where death is how you win
And I would of won this game if it wasn't for my kin

He makes me feel beautiful outside and in
So I wrote this in dedication to that special him
For helping me realize more than ever in my life
That maybe I am beautiful and I've been this way for a very long time...
Inspired by my ex-boyfriend and was written while we were together. A very personal and deep poem to me about how he made me actually feel perfect for the first time in my life.
WickedHope Nov 2014
I'm sorry* your inbox is all me
I'm sorry I'm so **** needy
I'm sorry I'm afraid of everyone leaving
I'm sorry I say yes and then I say no
I'm sorry I beg you to stay then I go
I'm sorry I'm the sun then the moon
I'm sorry I'm so confused
I'm sorry I'm addicted to abuse
I'm sorry I hate being used
I'm sorry  
I'm toxic
I'm sorry  
I'm me
I'm sorry, darling.
Heliza Rose Jun 2014
Is my heart connected to my inbox?
Because they are both empty
dan hinton Nov 2011
The emails have not been kind of
Late –
It’s not sadistic publishers
Or die-hard groupies
(well, mostly not)
No it’s people getting in touch
Wanting a taste of the good stuff
Their mouthful of meat
What they believe is theirs,
A weight I should carry.
Sometimes it’s about poetry,
I only wish more of it was –
But mainly it’s people
With nowhere to turn
And no thought for my situation.
I try and assuage their grief
But it’s no good
I cannot do it.
One day I can take no more,
I am staring at the ceiling
And I hear the telling ping.
I hit delete
It could be Jesus gone viral
But I doubt it,
Even He knows
I’m past saving.
Then I know it’s a diehard,
My phone begins to make
Continual pinging noises;
An ****** of woe.
The buggar then begins to
Ring.
I could fling him across
Main Street
But I only bought him
Two days ago.
He’s not worth it,
And goes away,
Before I can blow.
But sure enough,
There is no peace for the wicked:
Beep, beep
Ring, ring
Ping, ping
I picked it up, primed
“What do you want?!” I bellow.
“Oh... I’m sorry Mr. Hinton, just
To let you know this is Nurse
Georgia, reminding you about your
Appointment this Friday?”
I told her I’d be
There for her.
Crimsyy Sep 2016
You're all caught up

Archivio
Unwanted
New for old replacement

Appear away, the end of today.
Jackie White Mar 2015
No phone, no facebook.
Simple, old fashioned email.
When we arent together, thats what we do.
Whether its setting up dates,
or just passing time.
My heart leaps with joy when i see your name
up at the top
waiting for me to read it.
i dont care if it takes longer.
this is something unique to this relationship.
to us.
Just some thoughts. As usual.
Nicholas Snell May 2013
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes.  The rate of ooze changes?.  Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with *****: practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility.  The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you.  Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and *****, sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications.  I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin.  I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks?  Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx.  Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of  You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost *****, all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business.  While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
unwritten Aug 2014
i believe
that you can tell a lot about a person
by the number of email drafts in their inbox;

the number of times they had words to say but soon thought better of it
and retreated back into the silence;

the number of times their heart and soul were screaming,
begging to be heard,
but were soon vanquished with the click of one shiny "X"
or a backspace button;

the number of times they opened the closet
to pull out a skeleton,
only to come to their senses
and shut it back in again.

i believe that you can tell a lot about a person
by the number of email drafts in their inbox.

but maybe that's just me.

i tend to dwell on unsaid words.

(a.m.)
i was logged into my email and saw that a lot of my drafts were new messages with nothing in them. i had thought of something to send, then thought better of it, and i began to wonder what i had wanted to say at those moments.
connecting….
you are now connected at 4mbps.
heart beats at 4beats per second.

connecting for…
…connection.
social networks
for social interaction.

names. nicknames. pseudonyms
all over the screen.

outbox. inbox.
feelings box.
boxed and botched.

attracted to an idea
a person living inside my computer screen

in my inbox.

are you sure you want to replace this file?
click.

i’m forgetting about you.
you with the flesh
and the warm blood.
and the beating heart.

pop-up.
this signal is poor.
i’ve been disconnected.

we’re disconnected.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)

one poem, written by two authors


~~~

Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.

From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.

The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value

(written by S.D., a woman)

~~~

(written by N.L., a man)

unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected

the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own

every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing

a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship

all  these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,  
instantaneously compromised

but,

it is upon  the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality

while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:

every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the

princes of principles,
valence and value

that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,

her character

this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky
Valence,
as used in psychology, especially in discussing emotions, means the intrinsic attractiveness (positive valence) of an event, object, or situation.

In chemistry, the valence or valency of an element is a measure of its combining power with other atoms when it forms chemical compounds or molecules.

you decide.

hers, two six sixteen,
his, two seven sixteen,
in the wee hours
I wanted to cry
but couldn't—22 year old American male—
so I laced up running shoes
no jacket
just shorts
12 degree punishment.

I needed to get away
from a silent phone,
an empty inbox
so I could scream out my coward

sprinting over hills
in the full moon's
telling light.
I try to curdle blood
but choke

on vocal cords
bolted in place
by modern modesty

too scared
to sound my barbaric yawp
I yelp
like a coyote

the size of a wolf pup
that only has breath enough
for half a call.

I stop to catch the wind
and with it
howl over and over

again and again
until I scream,
freezing every heartbeat
within earshot.
A single tear
drops on the fire.

Breathing heavier now
in the moon's empty landscape
I begin dragging my feet
slowly toward the agony of a silent phone
and an empty inbox, trying to calm myself
because one tear is not enough.
John Smith Mar 2015
You call me many names
Fascist, racist, bigot, monster
To you I am the face of evil
My presence, my very existence
Alarms you to the core of your being
My love for my people
To you is only hate for others
Being comfortable in my own skin
Is an intolerable crime
You hunt me
Chase me out of jobs
Threaten my ability to provide for my children
You target me, fill my inbox with threats
You are a terrorist
But you will never succeed in breaking my nerve
I fear nothing
For everything I do is out of love
And I know that I will either be victorious
Or join my ancestors beyond
And look on from high as my brothers bravely march on in my stead
No matter where you look
All you see is hate
If you want to understand your own twisted perspective
Perhaps you should turn your gaze inwards
This goes out to everyone whose voice has been gagged by politically correct thugs.
raingirlpoet Feb 2016
What happened a week ago
I’m still recovering
Some have told me I’m in mourning
when you lose something that was a part of you for so long
I feel like I’ve lost a limb or
a big chunk of my heart
what happened a week ago
friendships severed, felt like an amputation without the anesthesia
sawing and gnawing
whittle by whittle
the pain, never less than searing
what happened a week ago
I feel the phantom limb
I think it’s still there
I go to my inbox, check the chats, click one and
BOOM
shouting matches and f-bombs being dropped like the a-bomb on Hiroshima
my words, arrows dipped in poison
I flung everything I had
poured my chopped up heart onto a silver platter and let the blood drip drop for all to see
what happened a week ago
I said some things I shouldn’t have
I let my heart speak instead of my head
letting my anger and red flurries get the best of me
what happened a week ago
is an awful lot like what happened 11 years ago
I’m six years old
piecing together a puzzle of forgiveness
walking back to my room after a yelling match with my sister
I scribble I’m so sorry I got mad at you on the back of my homework
slide it under her door
and wait
Sam Conrad Jan 2014
My skin is seeping salty feelings, and cooking warm under the pressure of anxiety.
I just typed a series of monologues to your inbox again, but you don't seem to hear them.
It's 3:46 AM. I'm almost delirious. What is sleep? I spend about 14 hours in bed everyday.
I usually get 1-2 hours of sleep.
My tears have stained my pillowcase. Like, I don't turn the light on anymore because I see the stains.
In my room, it is very cold. I guess it's cold like me. Or is it really, just cold like you?
I'm lost and alone, and I'm afraid you'll never come back.
I need you back.
What did you not understand?
When I told you when we were still together, that I'd love you until the day I died?
When I told you after you forcefully dumped me, I'd have this problem until the day I died?
Because the day I die, in my last moments, I will finally be able to decide to give up on you.
At times, I've wanted to commit suicide.
Because if I'm not waiting for you,
I'm waiting until the day I die.
Oh look, another monologue.
Don't read this one.
Go hang with your girlfriend instead.
You already decided that's whats best for your health.

— The End —