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Cindra Carr Jun 2011
Eighteen misses and three survivors
Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love
Two warring sisters and too many brothers
Numbers don’t always make the lives of another
Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs
Gone are the days of each of those
Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled
Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication
Ghosts of the past
Harried, busy, and distant
Buy back the time
Patience, hope, and acceptance
Crowding the cast
Three lives play out creating six more
One life still here caught in time
One life locked in with ghosts of the past

cc062611
It's all just numbers, isn't it?
Day by day,
Year by year,
Always counting.

Day by day look at the number on the scales.
Let the caloric calculator count until your head is filled with numbers.

Minute by minute count the seconds it takes for him to text you back.
Let the doubt and fear multiply until your head is full of him.

Term by term let a percentage on a piece of paper define your worth.

Don't we have better things to do than count?
Tea Oct 2013
I remember crying during lunch my senior year of high school
My math teacher’s eyebrows colliding turning one plane into a fractal image
He had sat there every day for nearly four years
Helping me struggle through an unreal number of numbers
Literaly and figuratively
And again and again the numbers on my math test said
You are less than average
You
Are
Stupid.

But behind the eyes of a determined math teacher
Never read, what my insecurities where screaming
Refusing to believe the numbers, I sought one thing
Some unspoken meaning
I almost found it the day of my graduation
I almost found it between my teacher’s eyebrows
Wearing it like a point of pride
I was the first of my family to hold
Such a light thing as a diploma
Instead of a heavy head
Weighed down by ******
It nodding under all the pressure
The first to feel the lightness of feather
Instead of a sixpack
A lame back, from manual labor
I was flying
College was my next undefeated feat
Again I let an institution tell me what I was
Test scores tell me what I should meet
Intelligent measured by something
That couldn’t understand its diversity
Trying to tell me I was less than average
When I was just an individual
Above a point of comparison
Excelling in conceptual understanding
Debating and good energy

I could construct social interaction
Like gold, I learn to read people
The power in my phone
I learned that it wasn’t the diploma that I should be proud of
Not the thing I sought after
Not what I would show my little sisters and brothers
To show them how to live better, how to be stronger
Burn brighter. Burn longer.
So here I am
Red faced and scared
spoken word
was hiding, but always there
in between my math teachers scrunched brow
Was the answer
I could have cheated if I had known how
If I knew what question that needed answered
Had realized it was never in his book
I should have listened to what I saw
Not to the math test I took
I
Am
Not
Stupid
I haven’t failed by choosing something outside of school
That I am not defined by the score
By numbers or lines
By this institutional rules
Test scores or even rhymes
I am not less than average
I just don’t average out
That power isn’t really in a piece of paper
Power is found in your words
And chosen behavior
That silence and insecurity
Means nothing really
The answer wasn’t in his book
It was in his look
And his persistence to prove
I
Am
Not
Stupid
He just wasn’t good enough with words to prove it.
em Jan 2016
A steady minded person might tell you that everything can be measured, calculated and converted into a language of black and white, solutions worked out with sharpened pencils.

How do I measure my heart breaking?

Tell me,at what rate did my heartstrings snap when he told me he was leaving?
How long until all of my broken bones turn into dust?
Calculate at what speed the tears rolled down my checks.
How many doctors will it take to sew my heart back together?
Was it when he crumpled me up like a wasted idea etched onto a piece of notebook paper that everything started to bleed?
What part of my brain did his gentle hands touch that woke my monsters from their slumber?
How many days until this aching in my swollen chest turns into a gentle throb?
When will I be okay again?

Takes this pain and your sharpened pencils and rip the numbers from the dead hands of his name. Do away with the emotion like he did away with me.
I'm temporary.
B L Mar 2013
My hands still ache –
I’m convinced it’s my atoms splitting
No one asked me how I got addicted –
They said the focus was on quitting

But I’m here in the present
So I must have a had a past
It’s too bad “Where’d you come from”
Is a question never asked.

I went through hell to get here
So it should matter where I’m from
I tell them “it should matter what I’ve seen…
It should matter what I’ve done.”
He then responded like a father and began his sentence, “Son…
It’s the shock, not the trauma, that makes the body the numb.”
He said, “The thing you search is silence.”
“And yet you let your monsters drum.”

You start to figure things out. You know --
When you’re locked up all that time.
But you learn not from what you’re taught,
Instead, you learn from what you find.
And I found mine in the written word,
I found it in a rhyme.


Numbers always helped me think, so I looked for something to count
And as I pondered that man’s words, the room’s only light went out.
So I counted the only thing that I could feel aside from air,
And his seven words made sense, as I counted the one thing
That in the dark was always there.
I’m my own favorite number, so I began counting,
“One…”
But this time I didn’t count to two.
And the monsters didn’t drum.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t rely on someone else
For the first time, in the dark, I counted on myself.
I then knew why “Where’d you come from” was never asked --
Both they and I lived in the present; we couldn’t act upon the past.
It doesn’t matter where you came from, or even why you’re here.
For your past dictates your penance, but the present is your frontier.
Fullfreddo May 2015
~


not a fan of reality TV,
plenty of "unreal" episodes
of my own direction stored,
available for further review
in the storage units of
neuronic black and white prison brain cells

which is why I have free~will chosen
to enumerate my poem~videos;
for easy retreat retrieval resurrection
of the travelogue of mind own insurrections

a garage of mobility devices,
car, rollerblades, cross country skis plus,
a potpourri of escape methodologies
that by definition are all round trippers,
returned to their storage unit after use

and I count them Noah~like,
two by two, as they come on board,
and when they disembark for days of
rest and recreation


this one, #4,
is born
among headstones,
just anther memory storage unit
specialized,
flag decorated,
but different

This is a one-way,
no return,
unit

but
it can be viewed at anytime
by those who care to be users,
by speaking this:

Read to me poem number four,
on a day we celebrate,
about free men of every color and persuasion,
who are calling out to
open the door to storage unit four,
so we to can perform
our once-a-year
Tour of Duty
to the those who called,
and answered with limb and love,
for by their glory,
we are
free too


to remember in any way we choose



~
memories of a veterans parade,
on a May Memorial Day
Gilly Sama Jul 2016
Two tables apart,
Two books on your hand,
Two persons in love behind me,
Two dark brown eyes gazing at me
As my two big eyes stared back.
You took two steps forward
When you lean two inches closer,
Two hearts beat in rhythm.
Then you said those two words,
Two words that normal people say
But when you said those two words,
As if two worlds crushed down on me.
*"Hi love."
Ming Sama| July 19, 2016
Sanjali Mar 2018
11
-Numbers 1 to 9-

I am happy to be here,
Where I can find numbers each morning.
Sun shining through my window,
I walk barefoot downstairs,
Even though my bones crack
I am quiet as a cat.

With warm coffee I can sit,
And as I nibble on the food
I fill out all the blanks.
My pen is black in color
Just like the ink on paper,
They both match each other.

I recall my resolutions
I made a list just days past,
But writing is so much fun.
I write numbers one to nine,
When they are correct I feel fine,
But some numbers I cannot find.

I have finished all my food,
So I go out to sit in the sunshine.
I cover up my face,
Place the paper on the grass,
I let the noise fade at last,
But I must consider every remark.

With criticism one can be better
But then why are these tears around?
I can’t find seven and eight.
I need those numbers,
I need to make them match,
I need to complete these lines.
Wrote this in January, hence the resolution part \o/
Noon Otto May 2018
One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Fi-

Or...

Was...



It

four?

Better

start

again,

being

safe..



One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.



Start

Again.

Counting.

Every.

Single.

Thing.

He­re.



Cracks.

Wait?

How

long

was

that

there?



One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.
­


Scratching.

Poking.

Prodding.

Anxiety

makes

me

tick.



­Breathe.

One.

Out.

Two.

Breathe.

Three.

Out.



Four.

Brea­the.

Five.

Out.

Six.

Breathe.

Seven.



Haiku.

Seven.

Five­.

Sev-

Five.

Seven.

Five.



Seven

Doesn't

Have

Seven

Freaking

Numbers



Crap.

That

was

six.

Need

to

revise.



Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

­One.



In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.



Ignore

it.

But
­
I

Can't.

You

can.



But

I

simply

don't

have

the

strength.



I

just

can't

stop

ticking

right

n­ow.



Help

me.

Gonna

drown

and

die.

Save

me.



Seven.

S­ix.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.



Now

it's

too

late

to

save

me.



The

numbers

have

already

won

this

one.
Uhm so this is my first post on here, because I got accepted like two days ago. I know I'm trash btw, and all of my poems are super long. Sorry.
Jolan Lade Oct 2018
1
Simply just too slow to outrun
34
Had absolutely nothing to worry for
57
About to end in a cliff recession
89
Killed himself while waiting in line
100
Still hidding, still hundted
...98, 99, 100! Ready or not, here I come!
Jing Xi Lau Nov 2018
They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.

They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.

I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.

Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.

Infinite.
Sonya Dec 2018
Up up up
Up the numbers go
Raising high my spirits
Drowning out my woe

Higher higher higher
Reaching to a peak
Then crashing down to none again
And leaving me to weep
Andrew Dec 2017
I use numbers to grade
Your varying range
From strange to deranged
Until you're a number in my brain
And I become numb to all the pain
That's the total sum of your game

I am in heaven
When you turn it up to eleven
You give me a five
To keep me in line
You tell me I'm average
I tell you you're savage
You're no longer my hero
Once you hit zero
You fall off the scale
After you bail

There is no number
You fall under
After I hear your thunder
And I can't feel your heat
I grade you incomplete
Or maybe that's me
Thinking of what we could be
Tommy Randell Nov 2014
Up steep streets
I repeat
In a dream
Words seen in windows
To myself
Sub-vocally

Turning right
And Northward
Left and Westwood
Checking number plates
For initial surprises
Numbers for primes

Multiplying
The number of years
By the number of days
Adding the leaps
The few left over
Beats

To arrive in the viewfinder
To stand on the edge
To look at the scene
To breathe with the light
To know finally that I am
The lens
Tammy M Darby Oct 2014
What do you think  xy would do?
If he dressed in red and high black shoes.
One fine summer day A = B met
Exactly alike in elements
Produced their own sets

With a ...
Everything keeps on going.
Out jumps { },
Nothing is showing.

So natural numbers are the same as counting
What other kinds are there?
Tell us quickly please
The tension is mounting

Did you say members or elements?
Are there many?
What a find.
Infinite or finite sets,
Numbers in a line

Taking the time,
Oh woeful occasion.
The struggle of learning
Mathematical expressions.

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 22, 2014
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
rgz Mar 4
I
Sat
Waiting
Listening
For the rarest song
Finding only dull distant chords
Of listless fabrication, fell whispers on the wind
A terrifying soliloquy of tortured indolence, torrents of buried dreams
Rendered inaudible by the ears they fell upon
Each deaf as the silence before
Call of the doldrums
Enchanting
As I
Sat
Inspired by lateralus and the fibonacci sequence, the syllables in each line are the sum of the line before then the pattern reverses in the middle
Amanda Mar 4
How many of our smiles are fake?
How many of us wish our own lives to take?
How many people out there feel alone?
Or even worse feel like they are just another clone?
How many souls are crying out for another?
And how many of them will meet each other?
How many loved ones have passed away?
How many deal with depression each day?
Or another mental illness they carefully hide?
How many of you out there are broken inside?
How many humans are truly at peace?
And just when will that contentment cease?
How many of us have cut out our hearts?
And destroyed it so no one else could hurt that part?
How many of us have watched those we love the most,
Change over time into an unrecognizable ghost?
How many people have each one of us used?
How many words have we said that left others ego bruised?
How many friends have we drifted apart from?
How many of us are horrified by what we have become?
How many goodbyes cut good people open wide?
Leaving them gutted by the empty space by their side?
How many hours have been wasted by sorrow?
How many todays ruined by yesterday or tomorrow?
How many questions has mankind really asked?
How many people walking by are wearing an ornate mask?
How many of us are able to say the smile we don is real?
And mean it when we tell another how it is we feel?
The answers are only numbers with an unimportant sum,
They don't matter because the tragic fact of every last one
Is that they all show us our harsh reality;
The truth most people cannot accept or see

We'd rather make-believe our lives are as happy
As we know they will not ever be
Actually thinking about other people's problems for once..
ManyStanzas Aug 2018
They rate my intelligence
on a scale of 0 to 36
and decide what I deserve
for my future.
They don't care if I'm strong,
or if I can create things that cause a fire.
If I give my time to those who need me,
or if I really care about my success.
All they see is a set of numbers.
They didn't see me struggle
they didn't see how hard I worked,
they just take the number's word for it.
It doesn't matter if my friends constantly left me,
it doesn't matter if I lost myself along the way,
the number tells them the whole story.
The number shows them everything.
But,
they never saw how many times I cried from exhaustion,
they never watched me as I fell to my knees
on the living room floor after countless long days.
They never heard me scream after feeling so much pain,
so much unbelievable pain.
Many people say, "It doesn't define you!
It's just a dumb test anyway,
and you will be fine either way."
But,
if that's true, why does it still carry so much weight
that pushes us too many of us into this place
of insecurity and anxiety.
It doesn't seem fair
to give kids a test that's designed to point out BS.
It doesn't seem fair
that it costs so much money
in order to get the tools to succeed on a test
that "doesn't define you".
It doesn't seem fair
that a number decides your near future
of what school you're capable of going to.
But,
It seems there is no other way
to **** out competition.
It's official.
Numbers speak louder than words.
This was kind of a rant because I hate the ACT :)
Joni Sep 2018
Lucky number, number three
All good things come in three’s
Like three wise men and three blind mice  
If you loose one, you still have twice
One dear friend and one a spare
Though no need for you to stay
However if you go we loose our luck.
Though you may not need them all the time the feeling without slows time
Jing Xi Lau Mar 8
Rain sprinkling on our glasses.
Wind rattling our coats.
We were walking down an unfamiliar street,
Gravel crunching beneath our feet.
You smiled but then you stopped,
A curve that wasn't fully stretched.
You pulled out your hand from your coat pocket,
Began counting on your fingers.
Counting the days we have left.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stop.

Maybe if you stopped counting,
Numbers would cease to exist.
If numbers ceased to exist,
Whatever we have left,
Could only be measured by moments,
Not days,
Hours,
Or minutes.
But moments.

In each moment,
A baby is born into this mess of a world,
But is readily embraced by it.
In each moment,
A schoolgirl is crying alone in a bathroom stall,
Waiting to be saved from isolation.
In each moment,
A couple shares their first kiss.
In each moment,
Beer bottles are smashed,
Wives are beaten,
Children threatened.
In each moment,
A dreamer stops dreaming,
A poet stops writing.
In each moment,
Hellos are idly uttered,
Goodbyes are not said.

How does one count every moment,
On fingers that are numbered?

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Stop.

You didn't understand.
How could you?
So in that moment,
I grabbed your hand,
Held it in mine.
Our fingers intertwined.

Five.
Ten.
c Oct 2018
I spent last night
Crunching numbers

10
Times you led me on

9
Nights we stayed up talking

8
Weeks since you decided I wasn’t worth it

7
Crushed up poems on the floor of my room

6
Outfits thrown aside to make sure I look my best

5
Days I spent trying to get over you

4
Friends that know what we did

3
3 a.m FaceTime calls

2
Coats of mascara

1
Big regret
Carla Jul 2018
You miss a meal,
Then it turns to two,
A day passes,
And no one notices you.

Craving nutrition,
There goes a week,
Those many hours,
Longing for something to eat.

Using the same excuse,
"I'm not hungry, I just ate,"
The numbers keep dropping,
Was sixty-three, now fifty-eight.

You can't go back,
People are noticing you,
They say you should eat, and you say,
"You have something better to do."

It's harder than you think,
Just leave me alone!
Stop telling me to eat and drink!
If I need you, I can find my phone.
This poem is about an eating disorder, it’s dangerous and those that have it can be greatly effected. Not only them, but those around them as well.
thunder cackles in the morning
a witch is a woman
with any amount of wisdom
your words are as bland as coffee
and the dandelions are talking
for i am permanently amused
by vicissitudes and antelopes
and aggregates of moods
feelings and isotopes
hanging by psychotropic ropes
firmly financed by our fingertips
lifetimes triangulated in transitions
farm the fallow fields
and try to heal the poppies
dropping numbers
and putting aside our copies
a simulacrum of similes and shortages
as field mice and farmhands
dance on saturn’s rings
despite all of jupiter’s complexities
your complexion is never shallow
and i swallow seawater
to embrace the sweet finality of life
neha Nov 2016
i want the soft rain,
the boy next door,
the candles on the cake,
the beating boombox,
the dance numbers,
and the happy ending.
Songs abound in Time as running due paid
We of Merry Emotion dance a Jig
And see you Happy toss-coins on the Said,
Mark farthings for pounds won on Cocktail's Lip
And whilst we Celebrate, what is that Chest,
Eating Sweets beneath the Lottery's Lot?
That's a nice hobby; Dried lollie's possessed
And Playful Numbers tucked beneath forgot
Taking Remembrance when he was Alive
With Chances simply Fun and Truly told
That the Greatest Theme; Not for Profit's Bide
But Storied Values hungry tongues retold.
What such Lesson this, a Blackboard can learn
Gems studded aside; That same Chest you earn.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Who knows, when His Watch will tell you the Truth
And reveal the Sins he refused to Pour
Mostly when the Priest he tries to Conduce
When in Practice their Ripe Karma does Sour
How you Dive and Resist at the same time
Mostly on Cards you purse and refuse Face
Even if they show Numbers worth in-Line,
If not from the Isles are locked in Disgrace
Yet the Wheel-Friend still refuses this Fact
And tries to re-file this False Document
Even at-risk to be billed a Blackheart,
Booting that supposed Good Sentiment.
Daily, no pause, fold my hands for your Health
If you find Creepy, not my loss of Wealth.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
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