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neha Nov 2016
The typical 2 a.m. poem is messy
because middle of the night thoughts have no structure

The typical 2 a.m. poem is deep
because darkness is perfect for existentialism

The typical 2 a.m. poem is raw
because it's hard to edit when you're tired

This 2 a.m. poem is just another 2 a.m. poem
desperately trying to be unique
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
As a slob, I see no reason to pick up my own messes.
I’d rather just sit amongst my problems
allowing them to marinate
in a puddle of negativity and self-hatred.
I’m such a pathetic slob.
A mess.
A disgusting freak just
bathing in my own
filth and *******.
Decaying along with
my grime and trash.
Dimitris Sarris May 2018
Like indolent dream washed away
by the sea's uprising
passivly yielding
into a sheltered thought
for i can't explain
this weathered plot
it feels like years since we've touched.
Maybe in another life
a better chance
maybe in another dream
with a sweeter glance
maybe my heart
with a different stance.
Another day of
gibberish grouse..
grace Jan 2018
Words morphing on paper
sentences being rearranged,
torn and torn again,
your emotions will be the ink of your story
papers strewn all over the desk,
ink splotched anywhere you please,
the words morph from my fingers
they are being sentenced to their destiny...
my beautiful,
beautiful mess.
Dinodust Apr 2018
She’s imperfect
But at least she tries

She’s messy
But lovable

She’s good
But she’s ******* herself

She’s sweet
But she lies

She’s happy
But lonely at times
Steve Page Jan 15
Forgotton memories stomped in like strangers at a funeral, uninvited and unwanted, smiling like they belonged, but no one recognised their songs. As they talked, as they drank and sang, as they told their stories they became more strangely familiar. We found their smiles infectious despite our resistance and started to recognise some of their tunes at their insistence. Faint but familiar laughter echoed from fathoms below and slowly our mourning began to losen its wet hold. Our sadness became tinged with a happiness long forgotton and scenes from years long gone rose from the bottom of our dark well of emotion, lifting our faces to the surface, giving us a glimpse of a greater hope and clearer purpose, to tell our stories, with laughs and tears finding an uncomfortable coexistence as we danced and shared this messy remembrance.
Grief is a messy business.
thelemonpolice Aug 2018
I'm waiting for the day I feel as alive
as I remember how I felt
when I realised
that behind everyone's eyes
is their own story and sadness
and family and happiness and goodness and badness
and we are connected and ******* in knots
entangled but some of them don't even touch

I'm waiting to feel that again, because ever since you last touched my skin
I can't see that little glint in my eyes
in the mirror that lets me know that
I'm getting by
and I'll be alright
because I'm here
and not dead and
I'm living again and
I'm swimming in thoughts
I can't kick past this tense
speed of current that's currently washing over me
stressing me
with unlikely
that I'll fail
and I'll crash
and ill end up just trash
on the bathroom floor
with nothing more left to slash

How can I think like this?
is there nothing left
of the ***** beating
inside of my chest?
Is it saddening me I'll spend most of my life
surrounded by people at the end of their lives?
Could be anyone
anyone at anytime
be a bus or a car
or a sip of wrong wine
could be her, could be him at the brink of the bridge,
could be family, friends
a mother with kids

I am waiting for me
to start thinking again
that each moment's a blessing,
not a thing to restrain,
not something I dread in the morning to wake to,
or something I try just to read too much into.

Get living!
I want to be living again.
If I've swallowed a nut, hand me my epipen,
If my throat closes up, insert adrenaline,
If I'm gasping for air, let me take it all in
I need you to understand that it is okay to have a soul that is both tender and tired. I need you to understand that it is okay to be gentle with yourself, that is okay to feel what you are feeling. I need you to know that it is okay to not be okay, that it is okay to feel sad even if you do not fully understand it. I need you to know that you are the product of what is both hopeful and haunted within you, and it is okay to exist in this world as someone who is simply figuring out how to balance that.

Because this is what they don’t tell you — being a human is a confusing and messy thing. Life will amaze you in the most stunning ways, and it will also break your heart. Life will gift you the kinds of lessons that grow you and build you and help for you to bloom into the person you have always hoped to be, but it will also carry within it the kinds of losses that stay with you, that change you and mould you in uncomfortable ways. Life will demand for you to heal even when it hurts. For you to be brave, for you to fight for yourself.
Because at the end of the day, bravery isn’t a battlefield. It isn’t fast cars, or stunted risk. Bravery is the quietest thing you will ever know. Bravery is getting up in the morning when your bones are heavy and your heart does not want the light to crack within it. Bravery is being gentle with yourself, especially when it isn’t convenient or easy, especially when you are not a shining example of the person you strive to be.

But most of all, bravery is the way you stretch towards the light. It is the way you bloom in the direction of goodness, even when you may not know what you are reaching for. Bravery is allowing yourself to believe that you are growing, even when it does not feel like it. Bravery is knowing that there is more for you, that you will save yourself like you always have before; that you will survive.
Katinka Sep 2018
the one with messy brown hair
brown eyes
with you birthmark over the left side of your face.
You who left me crying.
You who made me believe in love for the first time.
You who stole my first kiss
first time

with your straight blonde hair
blue eyes
and that stupid smirk
You who left me broken
You who showed me a new way of living
You who left me being second choice
second best

with your dark blonde hair
hazel eyes
you with your beautiful hands
You who left me angry
You who showed me a different way of love
You who went with me on my third concert
third love

with your curly brown hair
hazel eyes
with your cute braces you never liked
You who left me questioning
You who showed how hard love can be
You who decided I wasn´t worth it
You never happend
We never did.

with wavy dark brown hair
hazel eyes
with freckles on my face

I who loved everyone of you
but still couldnt forget you,
number two

I who loved everyone of you
but you left me wanting more,
number four

I who loved everyone of you
was being loved.
but not anymore.
Usally I write my poems on paper first, and then I will reread them and think about them, may make some changes and then upload them here. But in this very second I am just so full of emotion that I want to write and I want it to be honest so no rereading or correcting. Just me.
Anya Nov 2018
Hey, past me from so close yet seeming long ago...

A knot from my sweater's bow I regret tying despite how unkempt the ribbons look hanging by my sides because now it's digging into my back

The hair I can't decide if I want out where it's pretty and makes me look less like a generic nerd yet gets in my face and food and life

The jeans I insist upon wearing without a belt even though their slipping down my **** may actually outweigh the pain of loosening the belt

The tennis shoes I'm too attached to give up that emit a constant squeak, squeak, squeaking through the hallways whether it's caused by residual rain from outside or not

The glasses, fond of slipping down my nose at frequent intervals, covered in smudges I rarely notice till they get out of hand

The phone whose screen happened to crack at the most inopportune moment and takes forever to read my finger print

The jacket that should be a highlighter blue but rather presents itself as a canvas of the week's tomato stains

The face covered in acne-
The stomach with fat instead of muscle-
The arms lacking muscle-
The legs with too much hair-

I've always acknowledged that perfection is not possible, yet I have to at least try to strive

I think, as I sit at my desk, fingers typing fragmented sentences, attempting to convey thoughts speeding too fast to grasp

Yet, just a simple poem of reflection brings to light these numerous deficiencies, many of which I COULD fix were it not the invisible fiend upon whom I stamp the label-laziness

These deficiencies, many of which aren't even noticed by those around me, some of whom are better some are worse

But it's not as simple as that, I've known I can't just be "one of the people", I need to find something, some identity, some way out of my seemingly impossible to escape label of "just above average"

In academics, in extracurricular activities, EVERYTHING, I seem to be at a stagnant

I've done bad, I've done "just above average", but never above. What is the point if you get plenty of losses and plenty of "fine" but no victories?

It's something about me though, somehow I believe, subconsciously, I'm impeding myself. I'm holding myself back.


A rant. The use of long sentences which I rarely use was inspired by Marie Howe's "What the Living Do".
esridersi Oct 2018
I racked my head for a poem;
some stack of words to say "good morning, pray you are well", but stacks swell and topple messily on my hands to your eyes, so

    to wake to
  one star,
and not
Get your finery on and let the games begin,
Does it look like you'd trust him?
Blackout suit, purple shirt,
Crimson tie, dangerous eyes.
Sly, slick, sardonic and wicked
wearing a gentlemanly disguise.

The dinner was alright
now get ready to fight.
White powder on the counter,
A dusted card and a rolled-up fiver.
Finish up your line
and get out there.

Codine chills, calm is instilled,
Colorful lights, relaxed thrills.

No chats so I'll settle for that.

A while later
and we're back in black. Hometown
Lets get completely smashed;
Go hard or go home.

Messy nights never get old,
River of glass across a broken road.
Tonic wine is best served cold, though
the medicinal properties remain unknown.
A bottle of B from Buckfast Abby, they always
blame it on the buckie, infernal commotion lotion with its cough-syrupy sweet nectar.

Just the end of another debutante night,
Staying classy while we drink and fight.
Making hedonistic debauchery stylish
'cause we're Irish.
lorainne Dec 2018
i am sorry if in
any case i brought
out the worse in you
i know i’m a lot
to take in
a lot of responsibility
and sacrifice
and if in any case
i have unpaid debts
my mind could not rest
how will i bring out
the best in you
if our relationship was
put into a test
Yassine Feb 18
Never regret anything but avoiding
Those face expressions that told me everything, on a girl’s face that I’ve never met.
Cause I know, some of these expressions could turn to be love, magic or a redemption story that changes who I could be,
or maybe just Cause I know what the presence beside a lunatic girl will do to a poor like me.
But In the end, What do u wait from a ruinous man that has no patience nor interest or even the will to get attached to emotions, intellect or life.
Manuel Apr 1
Waking up somewhere new
Feels like I have lived here for ages
I know this person, I know who
Wrote in this diary, filled these pages.

I look out the window,
The same neighborhood as in your pictures
And you know I know,
I've seen my name in your calendars

Even when you rest, you're flawless
Someone I need,
You're my goddess
So peacefully, you sleep.

And so I turned alarms off on your clock,
Carefully I closed the door to your room,
You know I'm here, you don't have a lock,
You welcomed me, nothing bad you ever assumed.

I will lie here till I dream again,
And hold your hand
I'm so lucky cause who can
Who can ever hold this hand?
aj kamari Jul 2018
i can leave you alone.
i won't text you or call you.
i'll sit as far away as i can from you.
i will no longer tell others of how you're mine.
but the distance cannot stop my brain from recalling memories.
all the distance on the couch cannot stop my eyes from wandering to your messy hair or piercing green eyes.
it won't guard me from remembering your voice
or how in love with you i am.
a love as powerful as mine cannot be damaged by such a measly tool as the distance you want.
luna Apr 22
a girl
growing up.

every step
of the way.
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