Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
loisa fenichell Jan 2014
We never ****** on anybody’s ticking bed.
We didn’t even **** up, although we did. Who gives a **** about romance?
These days I am letting my mouth slide right off my face. Letting my fingers bleed
onto bathroom walls. Peeling my skin into the bathroom sink. My
brother complains about it. Tells me I need to be cleaner. I shower
everyday for two hours. You’re still sleeping in my hair, my
flesh is still crawling with your sweat. Please don’t think that I
ever held a door open for you. “Write about me.” Well, ok, *******,
I’m not crying. I’ve never cried, except for that one time when my mother
threw my lunchbox at the wall. The lunchbox was shaped like a spaceship.
Now I know that she wasn’t mad at me, just at the sky
and how quickly it could change and how she wasn’t ready for it to change,
wasn’t ever ready for it to change. But I still liked that lunchbox. I don’t
eat much these days maybe because she broke it. I mean I no longer
have a home for my food, so what’s the point? Two weeks ago
the kitchen was dark and my feet were undressed and I was scooping
peanut butter out of the jar like a nightlight. It’s one of my top five
embarrassing moments even though nobody was there to watch me.
I watch myself so well. Also not well enough. Please tell me what I
look like. I want details, sometimes I think I want your face but
then I remember you’re still climbing the stairs like a ghost. I
almost let you be my ghost.
i mean i don't think think this is explicit
*cursing, references to not eating/eating in secret,  don't read if any of that bothers you
Ashley Dewicki Jan 2019
Tears…so many tears after my best friend
died. I was 17. Light brown, coarse hair from my
puppy snuggled up to me each night. Crumbs
from many late-night dinners, coupled with
doing homework until the sun peaks
through the sleepy darkness.
My mom’s old white tennis shoes, falling
apart at the seams. Bobby pins.
Snoozed alarms. Text messages I didn’t want
to say goodnight to. Screams,
from that nightmare that felt all too real.
Tears…so many tears. The nightlight I kept
on ever since then. Books. Stories. Adventures.
Gatsby’s blind love. Harry finally defeating his demons.
The matching sock I didn’t have time to find. Dust.
Lots of dust. The phone call when her grandmother died.
My wandering mind dreaming of what the future might hold. Poems,
written and read. The dizzy night I told you
“stay,” and I let you have what you
wanted. Then you told me, “I’m not ready for
a girl like you.” Tears…so many tears.
My mother’s constant disapproval of
me, and my time spent
wasted in her hazel eyes.
Countless nights I wished you
laid with me under my cold lavender sheets.
Misplaced earring backings. Baby blue nail polish dripped.
Bittersweet dreams of a future with you. My puppy’s hidden
treats that he forgot once existed. Phantoms.  
Monsters. Phone calls and Facetime’s that felt like
a moment frozen, but lasted hours. That bright pink
Homecoming dress my mother said I looked
heavy in. Tears…so many tears. Darkness. Months later when you
came back, sleeping peacefully next to me. Forgiveness. Hope.
All the boys I thought were worth my time. Love.

You.

It’s always been you.
Danielle Shorr Apr 2015
His laugh, a summer carnival, spinning rides that make our stomachs do the same, cheeks kissed soft rose by blush of winter air, hands dyed permanent blue from weather, the absence of circulation, rough palms but soft touch, a red nose when seasons change, the outline of muscle pushing through skin, hair pale from the sun, and too much patience, always

My silk sewn blanket from childhood tucked into bed with me every night

The dog with a slobbering mouth and a human-like smile

The German Shepard with a grizzling bark mistaken for violent

He tells me,
"I don't wanna love somebody else"
He says,
"I don't know how to"

The copper guitar pick, the candle we dip wax fingers in, the Polaroid print from an angry night out, my crumpled side of the sheets

I grab the back of my neck like the hold of it will keep me grounded
I bite my lip until it bleeds for a sense of familiar pulling

In between the pages of a dust-covered book, kept quietly on a shelf,
This,
is where I hide love.


I am piling these moments like unread obituaries, unnoticed loss to someday be recovered
Maybe these deaths were never written down to begin with

Off somewhere in mountains, a place I could not pinpoint on a map, the outline is as faded as time has swallowed us whole

I still sleep wrapped up in childhood but the nightlight is missing now

A grave by a train track holds the body of the animal that grew up with me

I am no longer fearful, but understanding of creatures and the sounds they make, unknowingly

These words are lingering on a lightless street beneath the tree that holds all of our secrets, there is no place else for them to breathe open

Mementos of months without marking, I am thankful for not keeping track

When anxiety asks to speak to me,
I dig fingernails on thick skin above ink
I place a lip between teeth and
press down slightly

I tuck all of this away in a new home, miles from origin, path drawn like dots connected, it sits quietly on a shelf waiting

This is where I hide love for
If I ever go to look for it
Again
Amanda Stoddard Nov 2014
I try to ask you how your day is going
but the bravery slips from my lips
and I am worried those are not the right words-
all I can muster up the courage to say is whats up?
I tip-toe around your emotions like this is minesweeper
waiting for any move I make to make you explode-
but it seems the only thing I'm sweeping is my mind
in an attempt to rack yours.
Am I yours anymore?
Because these days all seem to blend together
and I try to avoid the explosions
but they seem to come anyways
always hiding behind passive aggressions
and misread text messages
because you don't like texting
so I tend to keep quiet.
Try to stay silent as long as I possibly can
but with every good thing that happens I want to turn to you
and every bad thing, I want to run to you.
Is that a crime?
Am I a nuisance for sprinting to you with my issues
and am I naive for thinking
that you would welcome them with open arms.
I feel like this is high school again-
because I think that was the last time
I was actually scared to talk to someone..
See my heart beats out of my chest for you
but it seems everyday I am struggling
more and more to keep it beating less
because I am an anxiety ridden mess already
and not telling you about it makes it worse-
trying to make you understand makes it worse-
you not believing I can't control it makes it so much worse
and these things I wish I didn't go through
I ******* do
so why should I have to keep them from you?
BOOM.
Another bomb dropped at my feet
and all I can make out is the ringing in my ears
I'm so ******* tired of not being me..
I just warily wait in the corner for another explosion these days
and you keep telling me to talk to you
but the words come out muffled and I am flustered.
I'm not sure how to explain to you
if I can't over-explain it or make it a big deal
because these things, to me, are a big deal
I'M A ******* BIG DEAL!
I am the bomb ready to explode,
I am the snake in the grass nipping at your ankles-
I am the ******* 4am phone call crying for help.
And I am worth every single ******* star
in the entire universe because I shine just as bright
and provide you with a way out of your own darkness-
so ******* treat me as such.
Wrote this a while ago, I liked it so I posted it.
rachelle lee Apr 2013
this is the color of sunshine and innocence,
of freckle-faced children running through the dry grass
as butterflies flit and grasshoppers bound.
it is the shade of the center of the daisies
their older sister plucks from the earth.
a reserved smile tugs on her lips as
one by one the petals fall to the whispered words,

"he loves me,
he loves me not."

it is the color of lemonade and buttered croissants,
and the dance the mother makes across the kitchen,
floral skirt swaying as she sashays to and fro.
a grin flashes across her face
as she remembers the color of the dreams she chased in her youth;

the color of her name up in lights
the color of camera bulbs and the afterimages
that creep across her vision
when the paparazzi descends.

this color makes it way down the hall and into the study,
where the father sits at his desk pouring
over numbers and figures while furiously
punching them into a calculator.

it is the color of post-it notes scribbled over with important dates,
of the faded coffee stain on the front of the man's shirt,
of the potted flowers doing their absolute best
to brighten up the austere space.

when the day reaches its end
this color seems to disappear...

but it persists

in the most subtle
of places.

it wraps around the tiny nightlight in the youngest son's room,
providing a barrier between him
and whatever goes bump in the night.

it chimes in the nervous giggles that attempt to dispel
the fear that comes with a late-night scary story.

it emanates from the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets
stuck to the older sister's ceiling--
there they remain
despite her insistence that she it too old for them.

this color is most certainly not the color of darkness,
but,
rather--
the moments that break its emptiness.
Part two of my color series! Once again, this was originally written in prose so please bear with me as I try to restructure them.
bex Nov 2014
I'm sorry that I cry a lot
and that my hands are too cold to hold.
I'm sorry that I get so sad that all I do is sleep.
I'm sorry that I stay up for 3 days straight sometimes.
I'm sorry that some days I just can't eat and all I do is drink water.
I'm sorry that I cry a lot and that I'm such a *****.
I'm sorry that I won't let my wounds close and that I pick at the scabs.
I'm so sorry that I avoid leaving the house because I can't stand the thought of socializing.
I'm sorry I can't pay for your gas when you drive me places.
I'm sorry I can't get a job because I smoke when I get sad.
I'm sorry for begging for ***** as a present.
I'm sorry if the nightlight keeps you from sleeping.
I'm sorry I stood in the middle of the street when I saw a car coming towards me
and I'm sorry you had to pull me out of the way.
I'm sorry I **** at writing and won't show you what I wrote.
I'm sorry I won't tell you how I feel and whats going on in my head.
I'm sorry that I can't make you feel better when you're down.
I'm sorry that I would steal things I didn't need from stores I didn't like.
I'm sorry I punched the wall multiple times when I thought about you.
I'm sorry that I refuse to see a therapist.
I'm sorry I shower with all the hot water.
I'm sorry that I say "what if..." so much.
I'm so sorry that I exist.
*I'm so ******* sorry that I exist.
Clemence Huet Mar 2012
I could not help but drool
All over the milky surface of the moon
Reaching a hand into that sticky bag
Only to withdraw sickly black beans
Little hell babies
Laughing at the incandescence of my depression
I allowed them to ooze in the heat of my palm
Bathing in their own sinful syrup
Bubbling idly in a blissful stupor
As I watched
An eyeball propped between the lids
Of the soil and the sky
Perhaps I should have told you I was lying
Horizontally
On the grass I chose for my own tomb stone

Having swallowed too many pebbles
There was nothing left to do but sink down
To that place in the subconscious
Sewn off in some kind of cerebral bypass
I keep the shutters closed now
Where I let my broken nails pile up
The place where we bit down on our lips
In skins that did not belong to us
Holding no recollection of who we used to be
But our voices echo on like daisies falling
And when I sleep my shadow leaves me
To converse beneath the nightlight with yours
While only the hazy delirium clings to me

With willowy limbs entwined
He lifted that blue dress over my head
Like delicately peeling back the papery shell of an onion skin
******* to the raised eyebrows of the discontent
He said
I would have given you my innocence
Now I will keep it
I ate him up
Another to hang over the mantle
A magpie searching for spoons
Yet fit was never good
So I spat them back out onto the pavement
The moon man’s goo
The confectionaries’ crystals

Your loveliness, oh so lovely
I want to drown in it
I’ve attached the evening's tears beneath my eyelids
Heavy and waiting to drop like a bomb
Make your misery known
Splutter it out at the drunkard lady
The wicked *****
Your discontent is a dire idle
Dangling like dew drops  above the pacifist's reach
The moon knows more than you’d care to confess
In cohorts with the sun as they crossed paths
He reached out his tongue to lick its back
Confessing all but a single syllable
Here’s a question I've addressed to only you
Did you tape over, or would you mind if we rewind?
Verbatim Lynnie Mar 2018
Tell me I'm not this. The blue began to flood
inside a room once painted black. Tell me I don't
see this. The orb of morning peering its start right to
my eyelids that can't even close. Tell me I don't hear
this. Birds chirping for sunrise, playing lightly as my
lullaby. Tell me I'm dreaming. My leg still twitches,
seven in the morning, because I'm afraid I'll lose myself
before dawn. Shedding emotion in fast waves of flight,
tell me I didn't run through time, making stars out
of daylight. Orange in the sky, and not from shy
headlights in insomniac cars. Yellow, making its fellow
opening for my uncomforted sleep, not a nightlight like before,
no. Tell me I'm not this.
All feedback is welcome
Onoma Mar 2019
when daylight secludes

my moon--

she stares out of a

blue window.

when she climbs through

that blue window,

her face's a nightlight.

to see dreams come true.

she's my falling form

of love.

unwitting as deep sleep.
Scotty bruner Jun 2023
Moon is our nightlight
when the day turns to dark
it soon becomes night
take a walk in the park.
The stars are sparkling white
skies are dark blue
we're in each other's sight
stuck together like glue.
We'll make this night last
make do what it's worth
never forget the past
and what our love is worth.
Our love we have to give
we share every day
for every day we live
love is here to stay.
Love was meant to be
when we first made eyes
future for us to see
knowing where our love lies.
BY SCOTTY BRUNER
I need to whisper sweet somethings to nothing of importance,

Spell out rose petal kisses up the arms of Morticia Adams,

I need to take  a romantic walk through a graveyard,

Sit in the dark and think of white,

I could always fall up a hill and roll to the top,

The elevator down eventually hits the basement and that’s what I’m counting on,

Pinky finger through thumb, I’m counting.

Other thumb through pinky finger, I’m counting.

Sometimes you have to eat your Johnny Walker and drink your dinner.

Today, cigarettes… tomorrow, the world.

The convenient thing about tomorrow is it still can occur 2 years after yesterday.

Don’t count on it.

Tomorrow, the world… Friday, a whole wheat bagel and coffee.

I think I might garner a relationship with vampires, built on trust.

Turn off the t.v.

Love is a nightlight.

Love is a nightlight…
A Mareship Nov 2013
They were married in a seaside town that Morrissey forgot to bomb. The groom, spot lit white, held his bride by the waist. Dee, the groom’s younger brother, grasped an empty wine glass warily by the stem, like a dangerous flower.
The band began to play ‘Blue Velvet.’
“Oh.” Dee said, with sudden fairies in his eyes. “I like this song.”
“You do?” I asked.
“Mmm, yes.” He replied, and the fairies were gone. The bride and groom swayed on the dancefloor. “Get me another drink, will you?” He asked, holding out his glass.  “And be quick about it before I change my mind.”

I was in Room 12.  
The key-card blurred in my hand. Dee was falling over, laughing.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him drunk. As a rule, drinking was just another enemy - and in the same way that he pretended to drag from a cigarette, he would pretend to swig from a ***** bottle. He’d leave parties untouched, passing the alphabet test with colours. His lips would be wet, but he would never get ******.
I always wanted to get him drunk. For selfish reasons, mostly. He didn’t know how to lose control. His discipline made a mockery of me.
When I was young I thought that willingly ‘misplacing’ yourself was the pinnacle of artistic freedom - that you could not be found until you had been lost. It’s a funny thing – I envied him his self-control and yet I undermined it constantly, because sometimes when the moon was right and the computer monitor shone like a nightlight, he would open his mouth and let me push my tongue in without a fight. I wanted this from him, always. It was such a feeling of conquest; like my germs had won. I didn’t want to be another cigarette, another bottle, I wanted him to put his lips on me and give in, get a lungful, get a mouthful, get a hit. I wanted to scupper all his plans.

He flopped onto the bed of Room 12. He was too drunk to get undressed. I began shrugging off my clothes, rooting through my travel bag for toothpaste.
“Art?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Toothpaste. I can’t find my toothpaste.”
I looked over at him. He was smiling, very ****** and as blonde as hell.
"Aren’t you going to come over here and take advantage of me?” He asked, still smiling. He’d unpinned the flowers from his lapel and tucked them behind his ear. I let go of my bag and abandoned the toothpaste hunt.
‘Do you…want me to take advantage of you?”
He laughed without laughing, something that he was talented at.
“I don't know. Do you want to take advantage of me?”
Of course I did, that was a stupid question and he knew it. When I first met him, I wrote in my journal that I had met a very serious angel. Angels can only fly because they take themselves lightly, and so very serious angels are stuck to the earth. That’s how I saw him, stuck to the earth and meant to be flying. I romanticized him of course, like I romanticize everything. And now on the bed, with his hands in his lap like doves sleeping off a magic trick, how could I say no?
“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re incredibly ******.”
And I remember the way he smiled and closed his eyes and opened his arms, drunkenly embracing the air where I was meant to be, with the sheets creasing beneath him and his suit creasing too. The flowers behind his ear stayed put like they’d been painted in. I ambled over, half drunk, and I lowered myself onto his body. I kissed him. His mouth opened wide, he pulled me closer. My hands dislodged the flowers. My germs won just like the wine had won. I pinned an angel to the earth, and he was never meant to fly anyway, because for someone so light - he was far too heavy.
old, needs work, a precious memory all the same
Mel Holmes Dec 2013
Sweet street lamp, you dwell to ***-
ide the left & right hemispheres of the fall tree’s
mind, your lone arm reaches out, fixed,
like one of an aspiring actor,
acting like a soup ladle; your light nourishes,
as the neighbors’ broth in the night.

Sweet street lamp, you craft shadows for
puppeteering in little Ann’s bed-
room, the Rorschach ray on her wall
does the Peter Pan, creeping in through the blinds,
manifesting a makeshift nightlight.

Above you, branches move in mazes:
All in the possibility of the dark.
Haley Harrison Aug 2020
A full Moon on the horizon of a powder-blue sky

The gentle breeze of Dawn passes me by,

caressing my cheeks like a lost lover,

soft as the clouds which in the distance hover.


I turn around, my back to the Moon:

the melody of daybreak begins its silent tune.

The first gossamer threads of Dawn's embrace,

cobwebs of brightness, Light made of lace.


A lonely bird towards the Moon flies,

hoping in vain to stop its goodbyes;

and my romantic soul melancholically sighs,

attempting to imprint the image in my eyes.


As the sunrise ripens, a celestial fruit,

it robs the lunar ambience, grabbing its loot.

And it basks in the riches that it slowly steals,

in brilliant ombre shades, as the Moon - defeated - reels.


The night's companion quietly fades,

ethereal pallor on now greyish shades;

no more powder-blue, grey turns to white -

it's the bed of clouds, prepared for the nightlight.


You've done your job, illuminating the way,

to travellers and dreamers, lest they go astray;

Rest for a while, take a little break,

until Sun retreats - then you can awake'.


The Poets' Lamp, nocturnal glow,

you'll shine again, with stars in tow.
20.4.2019.
Lucy Ryan Dec 2015
waking
newly human
strange and soft;
pinpricks, feelings -
the crawlings around inside you
shiver as your skin becomes real

a nightlight for daytime sleeplessness
carry the seas inside yourself
like people:
walking barefoot
drinking sunstreams
and braving the dark red nights

hark, choir voices, still
slurring miss you discrepancies
howls in empty skies
wolves die

a misunderstanding of your insides
bones
more sand than rock
crumble at a press too hard

on this,
last day of your first life
hung on a boy’s fingers
the edge of a cliff
taste the water in your nerve endings dragging you home
you splinter,
and you rise -

when the bruise blooms, you shine
Eleni Feb 2019
The moonlight peaks through the small gap, between the curtains.

In the still of the night, the waters of the mind are nothing but turbulent.
The child from the past, she weeps so silently; she is audible to those who hear her out-

except I am the only one who hears her cries.

A child with nyctophobia, she leaves the nightlight on to ward the darkness.
And yet- she can not escape it, for it stalks her mind with a bitter sharpness.

A waning moon weeps in the dusty clouds
And a waxing fear, she will fail to shroud.

Pretend- as if nothing haunted her past
You would never know- even if you asked.
Keeley Golden Apr 2014
you're everything
you're the blankets that wrap around my body at night.
you're the moon and the stars and the earth and the sun, the reasons i'm alive.
you're the nightlight that keeps me safe.
you're the busy background noise that keeps me sane.
you're the moon and i'm the ocean waves.
you're that perfect amount of sugar in my morning coffee.
you're the sun that soaks up all of my energy, just to wake me up the next morning.
you're the music that plays in the car on the way home.
you're the shot of ***** on a friday night, keeping me on the edge, while pushing me to my very last inch.
you're the rush of adrenaline that pulses through my body as i sneak to your car in the middle of the night.
you're the low volume music that hums me to sleep at night.
you're the comfiest sweater in the long winter months.
you're the perfect summer storm.
you're the blast of caffeine that opens my eyes.
you're the imperfectly perfect painting that has always been my favorite.
you're my favorite song that comes on shuffle.
you're the mystery that i don't mind trying to solve.
you're the thing i'm most proud of.
you're the bustling city traffic during rush hour.
you're the sound of my heart beating.
you're my favorite movie, the one i love to watch on repeat for what seems like forever.
you're the goosebumps i get when you say my name.
you're the flicker of candle that i feel when you walk by.
you're the notebook filled with poetry that i carry, making your way into everything.
you're the perfect book on a sad day.
you're the nighttime darkness that keeps me from getting caught.
you're absolutely everything.
Sarah Bat Aug 2014
when i was a teenager i fancied myself an adult
even when i was younger than a teenager
11, 12, 13 years old, barely not a little girl,
i thought i was a grown up
because functionally i was an adult
i came home to empty house and cooked for myself, cleaned up after myself, did the dishes while i was still afraid of all the knives, did the laundry when i was barely tall enough to reach the bottom of the washer

And at the time, i thought this was a good thing
i talked about how mature i was, how together i was
in high school i was all about how well prepared i was for life because i already knew how to cook and clean for myself
i already knew how to care for myself

and then i went away to college
and at first i was fine, i was right, i could look after myself
i got good grades, i cleaned my dorm room, i cooked myself dinner
i was functionally and legally an adult
and then my mom got cancer
i was 400 miles from home and my mom got cancer and i didn't want to be an adult anymore

suddenly i was nine years old crying alone in my bed
except i couldn't cry alone in my bed because i had roommates
so it was one am and i sobbed on the porch being careful not to cry out too loudly because i was afraid of what the neighbors would think

when i started going to therapy one of the first things she said was that i was a parentalized child
that's someone who, as a child, was forced to act as their own or someone else's parent
a psychiatric diagnosis of 'she just grew up too fast'

i grew up too fast and now i'm twenty one years old and trying to remember how to be a child again
but i can't remember something i never was
i feel like i'm trying to hold onto water

there's a part of me that's young and scared and a part of me that's old and fakes being well adjusted
and for a long time they coexisted
not in harmony, just in separate parts of my brain where they couldn't see or speak to each other
but now someone's gone and introduced them and they won't stop fighting
the screaming in my head is loud and never ceases and i'm never sure which one of them is winning

i have to learn how to be a child and be okay with crying and asking for help with things i should know how to do
and i have to be an adult and be responsible and wake up on time
and i don't know how to do all those things at once
because as much as i like that shel silverstein poem, our ages are not pennies in a bandaid box
i can't be seven or twenty one based on when it suits me
i do not know how to reconcile the warring parts of me

my mother lived through cancer
and i haven't spoken to my father in almost two years
but i am still dealing with the shrapnel that's taken the place of the blood in my veins
and if anyone tells you that growing up quickly is a good thing
that it will make you well prepared for living alone
don't listen to them

i listened to them and now i'm twenty one years old and i can't go to the doctor without bringing a teddy bear
and i can't sleep without a nightlight
and sometimes i even drink from sippy cups because i find the familiarity soothing
because the little girl inside of me never learned to be an adult
and the adult that made itself my skin can't remember how to be a child because they never were one
i am two separate halves that cannot figure out how to be whole together

your life is a building with a hundred stories and no elevator
you have to go to each floor before you can reach the top
if you skip too many stairs you might just fall down to the bottom
and i promise
there is no shortcut worth dying for
Stevie Ray Oct 2014
Red Light shining bright through the window in an edgy ally, where you can smell the sin and witness
lustfilled eyes of corrupt and narrow minded men.
Watch how they pick their flesh, a desperate attempt at relief of the madness lying within. A brief escape from a screaming consciousness's plea for help.
Young girls ostracized,productized, capitalized sitting in symbolized shelves. Behaviour manipulated to seamlessly service the brainwashed consumer's shallow needs. Cattle literally abusing human innocence in a legalised system.
A caged bird, where tears can only fly freely behind void eyes.
Desperate to the point they would sniff the coke from the dollar bill in search for small remnants of solace. Ironically it's the thought behind that dollar bill that put her there in the first place. Ironically it's that same dollar bill that might bring an oppertunity to escape.
Might leave a small opening in the cage. Emphasis on might.

A bedroom, where the nightlight shines darkgrey
A small boy sitting, fetus position, under his older sister's worn out desk
Never before have you met someone so young
weighing the options, positives and negatives
about life and death
testing, poking the knife he has in his chest
nobody has taught him anything about coping
good thing he knows everything about math instead
broken, his sister pinned down in father's bed
last time he accidently walked in
he was nearly beaten to death
He grabs the knife and seperates his soul from his flesh.
Society labels him and million others 'A Tragedy'.

Delivering freedom on the spot, dropped from high altitudes
by B52 Stealth Bombers, Lockheed AC-130's, F16's and unmanned MQ-1 Predators.  The Democratic system crashes into farmers, families, children and other people waiting for the food drop today. The explosion burns everything away.
Their souls desperately in search for their bodies which now lie scattered in ash, they can't go back to the physicall plane. They are forced to break away from their 6 month old daughter who 'miraculously' survived that day. Democracy making way for western influence, orphans turn into kids who perceive their nightlights dark grey.
Soldiers spot a baby, in a bloodbath, sitting.
Militairy lights hover over the scene, the blood reflects back a bright red.
This part of the city turned into a Red Light District.
The epitome of irony was a spark of creativity in the mind of a mad architect.

The kid is swooped into a country whom mercilessly obliterated her parents. Little brothers and sisters send to their dusty graves with the President's consent. Sixteen years later she meets her fifth one, social workers don't know what to do with her. Another two years later she's institutionalised, filled to the brim with drugs satisfying the needs of pharmaceutical companies. Trapped in a straight jacket, between four white walls. Being used to purchase meds to keep the production going. The least the useless can do is a word invented by capitalism: consumerism.
So they shall consume, such a harsh forced fate. Everybody's mind would break.
For those who's sun shines grey, where salvation waits on the thin line of a sharpened blade. I'll tell you, suffer needlessly. The world thrives on you.
Someone Jan 2016
I want you to love me. Or maybe I just want to feel the emotions that come with shaking hands running up my thigh. I want you. I want you like the planet wants someone to care about her. I care about you. *******, I care, but you don't call me anymore and I don't think that my mind is strong enough to hold the weight of your broken promises and your ******* excuses. No, my mind isn't strong enough, but I'll probably just ignore my intuition like I normally do. Like how whenever you kiss me, you disappear. Yeah, like that. I'll ignore the voice in my head telling me to leave and I'll bury my ambitions in your curly brown hair, because you're so enticing, and you know what you do to me. When we're laying in between my sheets on a hazy Sunday afternoon (always a Sunday- you loved the irony) with your arms wrapped so tightly around me that I can't ******* speak- i'll keep my mouth shut and quiet my thoughts and try not to think about it, because I want to get to know you, the real you. Not this ******* dominant charade you so cleverly act out. I want to see your mind, your soul. I want you to feel the rush of falling in love and I want it to frighten you. So- tell me, what fuels your writing? Who hurt you? Do you like dogs? What do you do when it rains? What are you afraid of? I hope it's not me and all the ideas I have collected at the bottom of an old dusty jar. And I hope you aren't afraid of the way i scream when it rains and how often I cry. I hope you aren't frightened by how I always keep quiet about my sister and what happened to her, and how I just stare out of the window for days. I hope it doesn't anger you- how I keep quiet about my ex lovers because every time you ask me about them, I can still feel the sting of a slap across my face. And I'm sorry I don't talk about my dad, it's just all so fresh and I'm sorry I'm not good enough for you, and how I'm so distant on occasion. I hope you aren't afraid of long walks and nature, because that's the only way to calm me down and stop the anxiety from spilling over my tightly sealed lid and- I hope you're afraid of space, because *******, I just want to be close to you. So tell me about your childhood, your fears, tell me about how you still sleep with a nightlight and how every time fireworks go off, you cry. Tell me about how much you love your family, and how much you hate yourself. Tell me about your longing for love because I promise, I promise I could give it to you. And tell me about how badly you want to be whole again, and how embarrassed you are of your dating experience. Tell me about how you're afraid of open water because it reminds you of all the space you have in your heart that isn't being filled. Tell me about how you never know how to end a poem and I promise, I promise I'll help you.
She kneels by her bedside
Whispering her nightly prayer
So gracious
So beautiful

Then she crawls into bed
In her Hello Kitty pajamas
Awaiting me to tuck her in

I wrap her blankets tightly around her
So that the monsters can't get her
And I kiss her forehead
And whisper "sleep tight my angel"

She smirks and then whines
That her teddy bear is missing
I pick him up off the ground
And tuck him in next to her
It's good to know he will keep her warm

I flick her nightlight on
And shut of the big light
Walking out, leaving her door opened just a crack

My beautiful little girl
Shutting her eyes and drifting off to sleep
So precious
So fragile
So small

I will forever cherish all the moments I hold her in my arms, for I know someday I will not be able to

I turn around and whisper in her door
"Good night be dearly beloved"
Expecting her to be sound asleep

But as I turn around
I hear a soft muffled voice whispering in the dark
Desperate to be heard

"I love you mommy"
Charlie B Apr 2014
It's dark,
but not pitch black.
I've never been able to sleep
in complete darkness.

The television is on,
my regular nightlight.
It's the white noise I need,
to keep the silence at bay.

My alarm is going off,
in ten minute intervals.
The opening song for
Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift
blares for two minutes.
Shuts off.

A morning like this isn't unusual.
Even after hours of sleep.
I'm still tired.

If I stay in bed
the house
the taxes
the bills
all of it
will cease.

I roll over,
grab the pillow,
and pretend it all away.

It all sounds nice.
I don't get nice.
Life isn't nice.
Adulthood isn't nice.
Sleep
is nice.

Sighing,
I toss the covers,
roll out of bed,
Step onto the cold floor.

Maybe tomorrow
I'll stay in bed.
Wuji Oct 2012
Swinging swinging to and fro,
It'll be black before you know.
The systems will die,
Relationships untie,
While stuck in suspension you are just that guy.
Can keep swinging,
Can keep hoping,
That maybe someday,
Someone will come over to play.
Black halfway there,
I'm still alone.
Might have a million contacts,
But no one cares to phone.
Now it's getting dim,
Still no one is with me at home.
Wishing I had someone,
A consent to keep me company.
But now it's black,
And before I know,
Darkness engulfs me,
Do I want a nightlight?
No.
Sure felt like it.
Rose Ruminations Aug 2014
Nightlight bright,
She has a subtly shimmering smile
In the flurried snow of winter
As she climp-clomp
Passes by: home bound.

With pockets full of peonies
And daydream diamonds
Her words wash over you
And drip-drop wearily
Onto the canvas of cement.
K Jul 2018
They usually come at night
When fighting the battle of sleep
I recall the window, green and purple blankets and sheets
I am a walking video tape
Broken VCR rewinds
Without being touched, my brain is the television on which it repeats

Classroom desk, The Color Purple, Letter one; repeat
2:00, surprised, they usually come nighttime
Video cassette jostled in its compartment, forcibly rewinding
No, please let me go to sleep
The thoughts take my limbs and bind
them to my sides, wishing for the refuge of sheets

How I want to burn those sheets
Maybe the tape would no longer repeat
Take the memories and unfasten
them from my mind. It was never at night
No sneaking into bedrooms, sleep
wasn’t any harder than usual, only rewinding
When we were home alone, rewinding
Inside those sheets
I wonder if he could still sleep
Does the repetition
Haunt him at night?
These memories belong in boxes sealed
in ***** basements like ****** up Christmas presents not meant to be opened, tightly wrapped
Red ribbon on the spool, rewound
like the film tucked away in a cellar without lights, dark as midnight
Upstairs, I am safe, a breeze from the open window blows sheets
of watercolor paper sprawled on the table with repeating
brush strokes. The chair next to the window is a fine place to take a nap.
Here, ill recordings do not interrupt my slumber
Bandage
I’ve read that victims will often put themselves in situations that repeat
the traumatic event. Time is the one thing I cannot rewind.
I sit in a room of strangers filling out sheets
about healthy coping mechanisms. I think of my hard-bedded room; on the wall there is a nightlight

But still. Some nights, it’s on repeat. The boxes open while I sleep.
Some nights my head is still a video tape
They creep up the stairs and into my sheets when I’m not looking. Like tiny spiders that know how to push the << button.
A sestina is a form of poetry that uses the same six end words (words at the end of the line) in different order throughout the poem.
Heres the pattern:
Stanza 1: 123456
Stanza 2: 615243
Stanza 3: 364125
Stanza 4: 532614
Stanza 5: 451362
Stanza 6: 246531
Stanza 7 (the envoi): contains all six words.

My words:
1- Night
2- sleep
3- sheets
4- tape
5- rewind
6- repeat
me gs Nov 2013
Depression is

The Grinch under my bed that would grab me if I got too close to the edge of it

The shark under the water of the lake that would drag me under

The Boogeyman past the luminescence of my nightlight that would eat me if it went out

And the cure is
Love

Do not ever let someone tell you
That you shouldn't love yourself
Because you are lovely and you are worth it

me.gs
Tearani C Jun 2012
I wonder how bright my tears shimmered
Refracting your flickering light,
I wonder what thoughts had filtered,
Through your changing mind that night.
Your smile builds me upright,
Until it quivers and I fall
To pieces under nightlights
Until morning sooths and calms.
But nothing feels quite as right
As crying in your arms,
While laughing at our fears
Pretending nothings wrong,
Pretending that you would stay forever,
Until the day you’ve gone.
Every night without your light
Just seems to dark and long.
Connor Jul 2015
The giants tongue swallows
Suns
/Constellations constant
down the knowledge throat
And Owl perched over velvet
Hollering at the neighborhood
Darklight nightlight window
Still life sillhouettes radiant behind
Metropolitan curtain series bleeding
NEON-

The OWL is receiving words
Back/forth the communal conversation
vibrating thru
tenements and telephone wires.
HootHOOT Italian Voicemail two in the morning
Beep tip & ZAP>>by doorway,
H o ot Hoo t deranged traffic
Menagerie metallic dance of silvery brass
windshield reflection/
Other owl beating wings on the wheel
to Debussy
While lakes become public fountains
and Oceans become wars.

Giants breath ***** up                        atmosphere,
Javelin to eyes
Everything                     ...                      escaping us
“THE INEVITABLE BLINDNESS OF MORNING”
Heavy matter on the soul/
Doomly sandman tossing flowers
down the aisle
during wedding for imaginations
weeping tears of JOY
!AT LONG LAST!
The apocalypse is no longer Faeries
and pamphlets
on the
                Elephants
                          doorstep.

Giants showering with hot water
And
Owls sweating/
Damp feathered
in front of the machinery at that heatwave
boiler room backyard.
The animals have been terrified of existing this way
(owned by our products)
Before commercials
And Cold War nuclear paranoia broadcast in
Ohio (Columbiana County)
                                                         ­                  Owls be dreamin' fevers!
(Dreamin' the commonly non understood methods of which the TV sets turn on, anyways)

Noah's Ark continental
engulfed by
                     the galaxy
and comets
                    --------JUST--------
                 ­    ---MISSING--
          -THE-
[[EARTH]]
(Boy, that one was close!)
The spaceship enthusiasts
with superspyglass
technology pointed at infinity
telling us that September
will be the END OF THINGS AS WE KNOW THEM
the Owls are sleeping in their nests
ticktocking
in whispers



......the answers
to the darkest parts of

<the man-woman-brain
the human-brain
the dumbo-brain
and goof-brain>

"Oceantide inward-
taking everything, even the gold"

Letting loose
giant discovery ******
to           M O O N
and         P L U TO
snapping picturephotographs
“Ooooooh!”
“Aaaaah!”
Trashing rockets/
projectiles capable of decimating
the
CORE
of
the
P.L.A.N.E.T
hundreds of times over
(Jesus Christ!!)
the owls are all too aware
of that
wacky-brain
primate deficiency
and packing their suitcases
to pocket realities
hidden beneath
                                                TREETRUNK­S

The giants
(us)
the blackhole of population
so deep so dark so quiet
nobody can see it coming
(a-million-lightyears-away-i-swear-it)



DON'T FORGET THAT
DOGS ARE AFRAID OF VACCUM CLEANERS
AND I THINK THEY'RE ON TO SOMETHING......
Batya Jul 2012
Memories come to life
in movies cast by furniture,
while my nightlight plays the role
of a projector, breathing life into my walls.
I realize, with a sharp intake of breath,
that my foot is dangling off the edge of my bed 
and yank it back under the covers
that I sleep under, despite the temperature.
When you're little, you're scared of the monsters,
but growing up is knowing exactly who they are.
Everything is so much scarier in the dark.
This delight,
To inhale twilight.
Ride the nightlight to the stars.

To kiss a breath within
each moment
Free from introspection,
doubt and regrets.
It is here, I yearn to dwell.

No fear of neglect.
No fear of offense.
No fear of fear.

Yet, ever vigil,
to a slight variance of mood.
Of circumstance.
Of changes that determine
outcomes and future.

Fear of loss.
Fear of rejection.
Fear of fear.

I succomb to this perception.
Live in accordance
within the rules and structure
that appear to maintain order  
to each of my days

Yet I await, with anticipation...
To kiss a breath within
each moment

This delight.
To inhale twilight.
Ride the nightlight to the stars

— The End —