Ben Nicolls Feb 2011

Everyday you are different
Though inherently similar
You show me something each day
That is completely new.

Whether it is as simple
As the way the light reflects
In your ever-changing eyes,
As subtle as a change
In your alluring smile,
As creative as a new thought
That bursts from your mind.

You keep me on my toes,
My pen scratching at the page,
And my adoration stronger
Than the day before

JR Potts Jul 2016

The individual drops of sweat
each represent a small piece
of your former self.

How much longer
before you are the person
you promised to be?

Your muscles tremble,
under the weight of change,
have you forgotten?
I know it has been so long
since you were a child
but growth has always
demanded pain

and it is time you pay.

kaylene- mary Jul 2015

Maybe you do waste too
much time trying to find reason
in your cigarettes.
And maybe you want too
bad to find your heart
inside the sky -
or maybe even in the ocean.
And you're not really feeling
like yourself anymore.
Because you lost a part of
your soul inside of him.
But there will always be
people who cannot handle
your grace,
your beauty,
your wisdom,
your heart,
mostly because they cannot
handle their own.

Nothing is infinite, not even loss,
and you will find yourself again.

VentEmotion Mar 2016

Hoped and surrended through the unbarable,
The unthought of weathery conditions .
Despite it all I continue to strive
to be solid , a thick skinned symbol  .
Hard as a rock.
Cant fold under pressure.
Won't fold me under pressure .
Press any harder , shall garner marbles.
Sculptured crystallized image of my strength.

#hellopoetry #HiiiPoWER

Feliz Espinoza Dec 2015

You aren’t going to see me cry.
You aren’t going to see me cry,
not because I am not crying;
But you can’t see Me cry.

Some little boy has been stuck,
timeless and drifting through the
pre-war era’s of space -
Playing with plastic toy soldiers…

Don’t think that because I am eloquent,
don’t think that because I have gumption;
that I will spare you at the expense of myself.
I won’t over time
                               or ever more.

I will not be an expense to any man.
I set the price of my love: and it’s giving.
I hope it’s the same for you,
along with Reciprocating.

I will not be the daughter
                                              of lies
                                                           for comfort.

If you think that there are things in the dark,
then speak your truth and walk your talk.
Be brave.

A subscription for thoughts that you don’t want
is worst than death.
Better to ask the questions
and put your faith to the test.

I will not be a crushed lily under your thigh.
Though I may bruise, I heal myself with time.
I choose to turn towards the inventory of imagination.
I choose to wrap these arms around myself.
I choose myself in all my self-destruction,
because loving you and me is worth it.

Yes, it burns.

I will not run from my origins
even when you run away from me.
I will look at my ghost with her pockets.
I will look to see the day and it’s green hues.
I will acknowledge that sunset when it calls me…
Because I am worth loving.

You can’t take the thickness of my cry,
not because you don’t carry a handkerchief.
But because you hide behind the lies
that keep the blade in the sheath, tied.
A little girl is lying somewhere,
in her soiled sheets and I stand
besides her as she begs me to leave.

Somewhere these two children exist,
crying and playing with me.

Now we are all gown ups
and it’s easier to look away then to start
because the truth is that judgment is easier
                                                                            then crying.

Judgement is safe like not crossing enemy lining -

You won’t see me when I am crying.
Because you see all of the faces of the people;
who left you there dying.
While I am Rectifying.

You won’t see me, all of this raw treasure.
All you will see are;
plastic toy soldiers
and soiled bed sheets to render.

You won’t see me the other girl in the mirror,
whose world went shifting
because she couldn’t see the same missing tears.

You won’t see the youthful adolescent
who was happy to see her face drifting.

You won’t see that young girl who woke up
without a nose to breathe in the morning.

You won’t see the girl who ate dirt,
because she wanted to see if she was living.

You won’t see who begged for forgiveness.

You won’t listen to the voices she's heard on her journey…
and you will not have cried those first tears of her own self-birthing.

You will not have lived in the wilderness for months on end.
Sat still for days as you listened
nature - until your scars had mend.

You will not have watched my face in that mirror,
of a girl turning into a woman,

whose virginity was stolen

and who now defines
her own sense of defining purity = growing.

No, you won’t -
Because that’s my story.

You are in yours.

With your own actions and darkness,

I am just someone who plays a role.

I choose to be free in this moment.
I am me, and I choose to be free.
With all of my expressions of sin,
lust, defection…

I choose to see the truth of it all,
because that is the definition of perfection.
When the little boy can live without fear,
and when the little girl can see herself
standing next to him in the mirror.

Bigot Parents
Nevermind Nov 2015

I hate that you follow me into my dreams
The fact that I'm "safe" is hard to believe
I can't erase the image of you waiting for me
When all I wanted to do was run to safety
But because of dreadful family ties
Because of zipped lips and petty lies
I gingerly approached you with tears in my eyes
You know my address
And it keeps me up at night

m i a Sep 2016

i remember
being pure and free
but it all stopped eventually
and slowly
and more things begin to pressure me
but i guess
i should be thankful
for these things have
greatly changed me,
to the beautiful diamond i've
come to be.

i still don't know if they changed me in a good way or a bad way.
Tehreem Sep 2016

An external explosion concluded it
She woke up from stagnant sleep
Light pierced her eyes and wounds
Squirming cringing she crawled out
The new day awaiting her existence
Poured her the drink of life
Then she grew straight and strong
Walking on her two frayed feet
Everything was clean blue bright
His blackness stayed in her heart

Buring is the ramification of your searing darkness.
Tehreem Sep 2016

She was curled up asleep
In the world of his illusion
Wounded warrior of dreams
She bled her colours bright
He placed her amongst skeletons
Of fears and unrequited love
Nightmares he planted in her
Pain grew in her lovely bones
He stirred his evil poison cup
She consumed the intoxication

To the pretentious word magician.
SkinlessFrank Oct 2016

came into
my bedroom
a fishhook
and a plastic glove
in her
calmest voice
explained that
it would
have to
come out
mass of
from deep within
my ear
left me
and a little

there are times
when i still
it pulsing
blue veins
tail flapping
scent of

my back
sprouts a fin
and the wound

Setenance Aug 2014

feathered shadows
ripple like the water
in the wind
on which they're cast

molten metal
droplet beetles
dive beneath
the shimmering water

bathed in
metamorphic waves
of bending light

inobservably tiny legs
in a graceful fury

sliding through the world
like slow-motion lightning

or a brilliant spark
unnoticeably extricated
from its source

Rain drop ruins my melancholy
Rain drop brushes my border collie;
his tail wags across my shin,
breaking my ever-building reverie.  

“Smash that”, says the rock to its falling neighbor,
letting it go without attempt at a rumbling tremor.
“Smash your metamorphic protolith,
sedimentary is your bona fide nature”.

The quartzite stone has no room to reject but yield,
but so behold: I catch it with my awakened shield.
Lays in my hand the metamorphic stone,
Ecstatic to be shiny and free.

Broken from my reverie is where I sometimes wish to be,
for there I meet my life’s expenditure,
my loved reality.
There the marks of my imprint awaken; there I become me.

Fall then rain! Do so duly... for I vow to be
the rightful branch of your sprouting tree.

hieronymus jot Feb 2016

i know
a soul
that has a poem
writing inside her.

among other things,
it has written me down, there,
on the backside of her third rib.

i, consumed
by a certain peculiar meanderlust,
curl up
along its
metamorphic edge:
riding those finishing strokes
that forever code your own typeface as such.

dm m
Next page