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Lost for words Nov 2009
Call a                          doctor/ plumber/ priest
My heart is               broken/ leaking/ deceased

My life is                   worthless/ so much better/ over
I'm going to              **** myself/ tell your wife/ Dover

How could you         leave me/ not know/ lie?
I hope you                return my stuff/ come back/ die

I'll never                   forget you/ forgive you/ go away
I need                        closure/ a DNA test/ to tell you I'm gay

Your                           face/ crotch/ top of your back
Is                                so beautiful/ lumpy/ unusually slack

Your                           ex/ mother/ best friend from school
Always made me      great coffee/ feel inadequate/ drool

I will                           miss you/ **** you/ stalk you forever
That way we can      be friends/ get away with it/ be together

I'm sorry                   you did this/ I did this /we failed
I promise to               pay you/ dye it back/ get you bailed
Please don't               leave me/ show the Polaroids/ write or call


(*delete as appropriate, just delete it all.....)
Nicholas Mar 2019
Scattered across my bedroom floor,
glimmers of light staccato on wilted rose pedals

Memories of us, 
the faintest slapback of the person I was with you,
flicker with lethargic buoyancy 

Fondness for fondness sake,
denial as a delicacy

Your face, obscured in these floral polaroids
Impressions of who you were;
what you meant to me,
a struggle to behold
but recognizable in ripples across the faces of others

Remains of an entanglement that seemed to answer
why the universe was even formed to begin with

This omnipresent truth laying abed the other
jagged reality of our affair;
it was never you,
it was my self-possessing pursuit of wholeness
Musings on the idea that love can be a very selfish act and that, in it's absence, we sometimes look back on a former relationship, not because we still love or miss that person, but because we love/miss the way that person made us feel about ourselves.
Nessa dieR May 2016
Photos haunt me like the souls of fresh corpses
memories
Victims of time.
The ink poured and pooled on my floor
Smiles vanishing past all the gore.
Polaroids, Polaroids
Help Me Forget!
Loving him was my biggest regret.
Madhurima Oct 2014
The sea, endless, magnificent blue
Reminds me of your deep swirling eyes
Looking at me with mischievous love
Reflecting the big, open skies

The stars of the dark night
Remind me of the scars dotted on your skin
Painting your body in loose touches
Polaroids of everywhere you've been

The Sun, in its bright glory
Reminds me of your smile
Radiating, powerful, from cheek to cheek
Sadly, I haven't seen it in a while.

And finally, I must say, my love
I realize, as I finish this verse
Before, I saw the universe in you
*Now, I see you in the universe
I don't know but yeah.
s Feb 2014
A background noise
A slight ringing in your ears
Just enough to be annoying
But not enough to keep your attention.

Today I decided to climb up the shelves
in the closet in your bedroom
and sit next to the box of faded polaroids
you pretend don't exist anymore.

Except I broke the shelf and the box fell
and the contents spilled all over the floor
along with your words about how I am
always making stupid decisions.

I said I'd clean it up but I got distracted
by a certain faded polaroid that I swear was me.
1989- 16 years old it read and you looked
like you've never hated anything more than that camera.

It was then I realized your contempt is not towards me
but the fact that I remind you of yourself and you
have spent your whole life trying to escape what you
felt at sixteen.

I am sorry I followed in your footsteps
but you never taught me how not to.
Throw me back up on the shelf with
the rest of your faded polaroids.
Jenna Richardson Feb 2012
I think in family photos.
Always looking behind plastered smiles
and matching wool sweaters.
I think in mirrors.
Reflecting the person standing before me
searching for themselves in my eyes.
I think like a schizophrenic.
Deafening skepticism ringing through my ears.
I think in exotic dances.
Colorful and twisting
feeling every nerve in my body shiver.
I think like sushi.
In cold foreign textures sliding down your throat.
I think in Polaroids.
Remembering you the day you changed
before my resentful eyes.
the good things in life seem to stay;
like the color yellow, or a warm summer's day
waking up early, running barefoot in grass
feeling the morning dew brush past

hearing the twinkle of an ice cream truck
if you go, you'll catch it, with luck
eating a popsicle as the sun beats down
riding a bike through a small playground

when dusk comes, once again
we're swimming at night and playing with friends
lighting sparklers that shine brighter than stars
popping cap guns you could hear from afar

running barefoot right down the street
giving the neighborhood dog a treat
taking polaroids like the pictures will stay
but lost them then, by the next summer day

watching as fog rolls slowly ahead
the sun goes down, so time for bed
excitement and thrill, time for a sleepover
the day, for now, will never be over!

karaoke on beds at the crack midnight
crashes of thunder, scary stories, and fright!
still, pretty soon,  we get used to it
or in the summer, it all happens quick

never sleeping, don't want it to end
even though there's the weekdays and weekend
glowing lights hang above the bed
sleepy eyes remind us dumb things said

summer, now, doesn't last forever
even if we must change the weather
we must savor it, you and me
and kiss summer hello thrillfully!
i'm so ready for summer! this is just a little peak how most of my summers go!
fray narte Sep 2021
Eyes. Heartbreak is her sunlit memory barely held by a wooden clothespin. It hangs and glares before your eyes, mocking as it fades into an empty filmstrip. Heartbreak is a lost soul left to perish in her ghost-town, and warmer sunsets are lifetimes away. A wonderwall left standing, pinned polaroids, desperate scratches. You had fought hard and long, for this, but homes are made for breaking and crumbling and leaving, especially in the losing side.

Mouth. Heartbreak is a paper-tag of a goodbye caught in her lips. It is a metaphor that melts at the soft space under your tongue, a certain bittersweet taste made for drowning with a cold lager, a stranger’s whispers, and the perils of his unfiltered cigarette kiss. Heartbreak is taming a manic scream into a delicate, defeated sigh, out of sync with the way she breathed. But then sighing still hurts, and breathing still hurts because you’re alive – you’re so ******* alive for this unbuffered pain.

Chest. Heartbreak is begging your chest not to break amid a listzomaniac rush. Heartbreak is a prosaic throbbing, a treacherous ***** stuck in your ribs, begging to be held like it doesn’t hurt. Heartbreak is a site of buried lavender lithiums, asking for a eulogy; but silence is equally as oppressive. It is your body betraying you, like a city undone by its smokes. It is a quiet word – not a poem, because poems are beautiful despite the pain, and this isn’t. This isn’t.

Hands. Heartbreak is your shaky hand flipping through the last three pages of a tragedy — a heroine dies, a stray star falls, a maiden leaves on a horse-drawn carriage. There is no changing of the ending. Heartbreak is reaching for the empty space in bed, leaving your fingers in technicolored bruises. How can emptiness break one’s bones? Heartbreak is scrubbing your skin dry, raw, and untouchable where she once laid her kisses. Heartbreak is your nails digging through her letters in utter despair — for invisible ink, a promise in the postscript, an estranged lover in familiar flesh, only to find torn sheets, spilled wine, and finality.

Legs. Heartbreak is coming home to ***** laundry all over these cold, wistful floors. Heartbreak is walking in hushed tiptoes only to trip and fall down a memory lane – a kaleidoscope of all the wounds that can possibly hurt. It is catching an empty train to somewhere unloving her is possible – doable. Heartbreak is teaching your legs to run away from the chaos of her naked skin, and not to fall at her feet. But still, you fall and you fall and you break what’s left of your bones chasing after something that’s already gone – long before it has said goodbye. So turn your back and hold your heart — it breaks harder, louder, and worse before it settles down and sits as quiet aching: a forgotten filmstrip, a soundless breath, a calm poem, a serene night.
Cara May Dec 2016
The cold December night wind reminds me of your voice,
reminds me of the baggage of polaroids of bitter sweet,
of velvet and grey,
of sleeping pill and happy pill.
I hope the night is kind to you.
i'm here wishing on 11.11 for
the bitter sweet polaroids are eternity.
still the person who hurts you still is in your brain that you hope that person is happy
Erenn's Collabs Jan 2015
Your toothbrush still has the paste on it
The plate shattered in fragments of you
The glass still has your lip stain on
This bed I'm sleeping in still smells of you
Lying to myself that you'll comeback
Leaving him and crying and knocking on the door begging to come in
But hey, who am I kidding..

Put the car in reverse as you slipped into neutral
A gear must've rusted; I trust the machine busted
because things became mechanical, to be truthful
Major malfunction--our junction ceased to be lusted
by my soul's circuits and tired wires proved to be liars
I thought I knew what I wanted, but I was wrong
My cogs, guts and screws became loose in the mire 
of our muddled love, where I did no belong


What worth is living when everything ran rampant silhouettes of you
Running through these polaroids on the wall
I did get out, but it's you everywhere I go
You have etched this fire in my heart 
When it burns when we're in love
And when it burns my soul 
To ashes remnants of you
Trying my best to get out
I knew you were trouble from the start
But my heart's like a glass thirsts for that lust
Now broken brittled into pieces
Fragments no longer could be fitted 

Puzzle pieces and Polaroids for the incinerator
A conflagration consuming our condition
where you fail to see what I fail to do
I may be coldly pieced together, but I'm no traitor

*My love was just another raggedy rendition,
But your eyes are the demons haunting you
Frank Ruland Italics
My first ever collab with talented Frank Ruland!! I was reluctant at first to collab with him as I feel my writes are not up to his standards. But he still wanna collab and I hope this will be good. Tell me what u guys think :)
Check out his account guys!
http://hellopoetry.com/frank-ruland/favorites/
Lauren Fehr May 2013
vintage polaroids
mountain air
girl scout cookies
summer hair
ed sheeran lyrics
mint lemonade
blowing bubbles
christmas parade
harry potter
winter park crew
biscoff spread
morning dew
british accents
plaid shirts
old castles
chocolate desserts
breakfast for dinner
big bang theory quotes
shakespearean language
cape cod sailboats
sweet nostalgia
the smell of books
longing wanderlust
forest nook
80s movies
neon lights
time with friends
caramel delights
the great gatsby
walk the moon
old typewriters
plumerias bloom
bombay bicycle club
chinese cuisine
abstract art
seafoam green
vineyard vines
life of pi
scuba diving
monarch butterfly
just some little things that i like
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2020
Kept in a box
Back of the closet
Remnants of time
Curios of place
Before she was
Someone's mother

London Bridge
Houseboat
Out on the water
Fun with inner tube
Pink lipstick
Little black bikini
Games afoot
Cocktail in hand
Sunny smile
Saucy wink
Natural grace
Hair let down
Playful air
Provocative pose
Naked as a Jaybird
Happy as a Lark
Lunar Apr 2016
1) We might have met with a hello, and I might have brushed it off by saying "later", but you were patient and waited for me. That's how I came to know of and learned to love you.
2) You keep telling me I was a carat in your diamond, that when I'm with you, you shine brighter and become stronger. Up to this day, you still make me feel so appreciated, needed and worthy, that I have learned to value what it means to live.
3) You adored me so much, that even with dried lips, you never failed to make my day with you smiling so wide at me, telling me over and over again that I'm the one you love, despite me telling you to stop because it was getting a little too cheesy.
4) And when you raised your hands up in the air, cheering me on, I  felt so much support, energy and positivity to get me through the hell days of life. "Long live us," you said. And I cling on to those special three words for the hope of future.
5) To win a race in life, you pushed me on, endlessly shouting "Ah yeah!" with every accomplishment and dream I fulfilled.
6) Being a risk-taker, you beckoned me to venture out with you to experience new things, moments, feelings and places. I never knew I could jam into myself so much in one day, but I did because you were there to help carry it all.
7) Even from our teens, into and past the twenties, I know we'll be here for each other. We've waited for each other for so long; finally we have a chance to be the mornings and nights we dreamed of.
8) When we grow up all the more, we'll understand each other more, and the both of us will change. But wouldn't it be true love already if our love for our changed selves still stay the same?
9) When you danced and took my hand in yours, I swear that was the time when you entered my heart with admiration bursting out of me, feeding my five senses alive.
10) And you were both a bliss and pain of mine. Whatever bad or good you've been through, I felt it all because we belong to each other.
11) Sometimes you fool around, but I love how you can be such a gentleman. Telling me to cover my knees, wear buttoned shirts all the way to my neck to prevent my collarbones from peeking out. But you don't know sometimes I like to see your collarbones, or neck veins. You're only human and I just stare in awe at your jawline, with my jaws dropping so in an unladylike fashion.
12) Who could forget February 14th? The first day you called me yours. I love how smart it was of you to do that; every Valentine's will be our anniversary. You were far away on that day, but you sent me flowers. Polaroids of you holding flowers, to be exact. I love how you were funny like that.
13) And chocolate. I love chocolate. You sang me songs about chocolate. Sweet, rich and just the right texture-- both your voice and chocolate.
14) The time you've spent staying up all night for me and my happiness; honestly was sometimes making me sad to see you weren't getting enough sleep or rest. You sacrificed so much for me, but all I can do is just love you more and more each day. Tell me, how can I make up for it? Appreciating every talent you have and every single thing and detail you created, was not enough. Even this writing is not enough.
15) There are countless times where you danced for me. Til now, you have never failed to sweep me off of my feet. Literally. But that's okay, if I fall. I know you'll be there to catch me.
16) And here is a new era. In the past, no matter how many times you complimented how good I look, I never really took you seriously or believed such words. Who knew a song about calling me pretty changed my viewpoint? At times, I don't get myself too for changing my thinking so quickly, but you still accept and love me anyways.
17) I may have been here since day one or not, I may have been here since the fourteenth or not, but rest assured, I promise you: I will be here until the end. And as cliche as it sounds, or as overused as it is, I'll always say the most raw and barest line of affection: I love you.
Here's seventeen reasons why I love you, Seventeen. But these reasons, and so many, many more, cannot amount to the love I feel for you. Even if I was able to write millions of books and get them translated into 50 languages, my feelings won't be enough. But I hope these words reach you one day, because you deserve to hear and know them.

I dedicate this to Seventeen, and to Carats. If you've noticed, the 17 reasons are derived from past experiences, moments, and their song lyrics. You just have to figure out which one is which (haha). You can read this "from me to seventeen", or "from me to bias". I tried to generalize it as much as possible, so that everyone, even non-carats could relate to it. I hope you enjoyed reading this, as much as I enjoyed writing it (and crying while trying to collect myself and my feelings). Here's to Seventeen and a successful era for them and us!

(c): @wnjnhi on twitter
Sudeshna D May 2018
​Is this your heart
Or a Polaroid?
Thick white borders hiding
The true picture inside.
JR Falk Sep 2018
the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.
3:16pm
9.21.2018

youre giving me so much more inspiration than i think you intended
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
of course i ******* every night,
otherwise i'd be wondering
about the next Laika in space
with some next soviet conspiracy
Sputnik hovering while i chance
abbreviate a change on hairstyling
thinking: jeez, this is a little bit too
afro frizzy for a brainstorm,
maybe i better opt for Jamaican dreads?
economics of shampoo usage,
suddenly a large bank account.
i do get the idea behind treating nouns
like albinos... bleach the *******
hang them to dry in Polaroids...
while commercial flights fly at a certain
height, and the rich buggers fly high enough
to jet-stream in the cirrus uncinus bracket...
and they lie to children,
they're talking about strange satellites...
i can't see satellites, not without Galileo's
excommunication apparatus,
satellites, as far as i am concerned
orbit the earth in a non-visible spectrum
of the vacuum... hence their orbiting outside
of the visible spectrum atmosphere of
the earth, i would not be able to see
a satellite for the love of Michaelangelo.
mythie Nov 2017
Your polaroids came in the mail today.
At first, I didn't know what to say.
Your body makes me hot and bothered.
You act as if you want me tortured.

I set the photos ablaze.
Never again. I'll forget those days.
I'll forget when you touched me, and kissed me all over.
I'll forget the time you picked me a four-leaf clover.

More polaroids you sent to me.
I didn't want to say it, but I'm filled with glee.
But I won't forget what you did in the past.
If I wanted these photos, I would've just asked.

I set the photos ablaze.
Never again. I'll forget those days.
I'll forget when we flirted, and you would get flattered.
I'll forget when you said I was the only thing that mattered.

Why do you post them every single week?
But I couldn't help but give them a peek.
Your body sets my ***** on fire.
Your voice sounds like an angel's choir.

I leave the photos on my desk.
A small part of me doesn't want to forget.
What we did, what happened, all you've done to me.
I thought that I was safe, that I had been set free.

Today I touched myself, looking at you.
It's your fault, you know? You cause all the crazy things I do.
Your thighs always call my name.
That's why it's you to blame.

Why did you send the photos?
When I saw them I completely froze.
Did you want to **** with my mind?
The past is the past, leave it behind.

You're naked in every single one of these.
Although arousing, they fill me with unease.
I don't know what you want from me.
What the **** do you want us to be?

We ended years ago, the past is the past.
I need to get out, I need to fast.
Your face is everywhere I go.
This is all your fault, you already know.

Why do you wish to torment me?
Why can't you leave me be?
Yet I always come running back.
Maybe it's because you're a snack.

You're unhealthy and bad for me.
But you're tasty and don't cost a fee.
Maybe it isn't so bad.
Maybe I'm a little glad.

I hate the photos that you send.
I hate the fact we were never even friends.
But if you ever stop loving me, I'll break.
Everything you do, causes me to ache.

What the **** is this?
I constantly melt into your kiss.
What the **** do you want us to be?
I don't even remember who I am anymore.
Cali Mar 2013
it's too late to fret
about decisions made
and ties cut, past tense.
it's hard to see it
without the glaring minutiae
of my demise.
I'm scanning the walls
for a change of subject-
Polaroids and butterfly carcasses,
city skyline sketches
and old cigarette advertisements
in gilt gold frames;
satisfy yourself.

my mind is saturated
with degenerate cogitation-
a stew of pantheons
and painstaking nihilism.
my bones are brittle
and begging to break
and my eyes are growing heavy,
with the weight of it all.
Amanda Kay Burke Dec 2019
I need to stop comparing pictures of the present to polaroids of the past
Memories of first day we met to the reality of the last
I want a Polaroid camera soooo bad
Danielle Shorr Dec 2014
It is tonight
That I realize
For the first time
I am starting to forget you

I am beginning to mix up pieces of the past
Like undated polaroids
In a box that is too big-
I am not quite sure
Where exactly they fit in

I don't remember
Your laugh very well
I can only vaguely recall your smile
I see it in updated pictures
But it is not the same one I knew
It is not the one that spent hours
Folding into the crook of my neck
Or humming against the curve of my spine
The smile I see in pictures
Is different
The lips belong to someone
I am unfamiliar with
Someone I have never kissed
And the once clear snapshots
Of our moments
Are now shaded over and blurry

My biggest fear
Used to be losing you
My biggest fear now
Is being unable to
Remember you
To have you stripped
From my consciousness
It is the reaccuring nightmare
That wakes me suddenly
In the midst of comfort
I fall asleep to the same songs
You used to sing to me
But I don't even know the words anymore

There is nothing more terrifying
Than realizing
You are moving on
Nothing more frightening
Than realizing you have to
Eventually
But I don't want to forget you
I don't want to embrace
Your disappearance from my thoughts
I don't want you to evaporate
Like the rain we used to sit under
With our hands open
To catch the remnants of summer heat
I can still smell the air
And feel your warmth breath on my cheek
But the reality is
I am starting to forget
And I have never been more scared in my life

This is not about
Letting go
This is about how memory
Has the ability to shed its skin
It has been so long
That I am starting to forget how yours felt
Against my own
Your marks and your scars
Your freckles
Used to be my territory
I knew exactly where they stood
But now your body is a map
I no longer know the coordinates to
I used to take that path home
Every single night
But now I cannot even remember
The route to get to your house
You are slipping through the cracks
Of my fingers
And there is nothing
That can be done to prevent it
I super glued them together
As tightly as I could
But closed hands aren't good for much

I wonder if the people
I pursue can taste you
On my tongue when I kiss them
I keep you in my mouth
Even if the sweetness is gone

I don't want to erase you
Completely
You are fading like the end credits of a movie
I have watched too many times
I am trying to change the plot
But I know that it cannot be done
And realistically
You have been away
For quite a while now
I would ask you to stay
But my mind has already shown you the exit
Most of you
Has already left me
And tonight I am wondering
If someday the rest
Will leave too
Tonight I am hoping
That if it does,
It won't be anytime soon.
marina Feb 2014
i don't need photos to
remember you;
you are burned
onto my
heart
[ ]
Question 1.
can you escape the words that so easily want to roll off your tongue
can you put them away
see them off on a ship

have them cross into the horizon and dissipate
under the burning red sun
of the east
Question 2.
Can you replace all letters of an alphabet
that easily taught, rolled off your tongue
can you put them in a shoe box,
seclude them in a corner of your new life,
where 80% of the time you are fine
Do you think they will cross too
cross the horizon, like the things you wish would
and then dissipate
Question 3.

Does the pollution amplify the heat, if so can the heat burn or melt old Polaroids
this is a writing experiment how close can you get to the space between the source and conception of a question my answer was to play with grammar usage asking questions that need no grammatical indication of their querying because i want the structure to more adequately reflect the state of mind i’m in while i ask these questions. obscurity. I do not know what I seek by inquiring, and so these questions do not know their own purpose, thus by not including a question mark the statements above never fulfill all the grammatical prerequisites of a question, the statement has yet to realize it is a question and just lingers somewhere in between.limbo. If you’ve made it this far, give feedback please. What else can I do to deconstruct the structure of a question? Do these above statements feel like they are real questions?
Photographs that remind me of when you were happy,
Before the resentful hatred and depression takes over,
Cascading us downwards,
Cascading you further down than me,

Reach out lover,
For our hands are closer than once before,
If you tried, just once,
Maybe I could save you

And death comes without warning,
You only awake when it’s nighttime,
I don’t think you want to be seen at all anymore

So I’ll take the photographs and walk for miles,
For there was a time when you were at peace

But now you’re gone
James Jun 2019
jealous of that taxi you rode. jealous of that man you rode.
jealous of the shelf space you made for him.
jealous of the polaroids of polaroids taken.
shame he's prettier than me. jealous of your mirror.
jealous of your curtains.
jealous of your tibia.
jealous of the light switch.
shame we weren't prettier.
Joshua Haines Jun 2014
When the thunder collapses like my grandfather's love,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
As the lights begins to stain and drain my eyes,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
Skeletons fell with the sea shells in the air.
I hope I'm falling asleep.
To no longer be here
is to be fair to everyone.

Art gallery in my head,
where the paintings hang above
polaroids and used condoms.
Where it's okay that I'm there:
the picture of a *******.
Where it's okay to love me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to know me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to get close to me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to believe in me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to be me.

In 2003 I was molested.
I want it to be okay to be me.
I detached myself from lullabies
and sorry eyes, only to realize:
I could have been dead in March,
right before the summer glows
and everyone would know
It wasn't okay to be me.

Why did you have to do it
My flesh tastes tainted,
and my eyes are painted
with the disgust of distrust
and the disgust of your lust
that corroded my body
and ate my blood
Am I any good
I want to be good.
I want to be pure.
I want to be more
than what I am.
****
There's acid in my veins
There's ******* acid in my veins
My body ******* shakes
Even when in love, I shake
When I'm safe, I shake
Am I ever safe

God isn't real, and neither am I
I am about as real as the dream I can't even buy
My talent is irrelevant, my past dictates my decisions
My love is the only redeeming quality,
and even that lacks precision.
I want to be perfect. I'm sorry that I apologize for anxiety;
it's not so much that I'm asking for forgiveness,
I just want to hear that there's no need to be sorry,
because it's okay to be me.

Oh. Hey, my eyes are watering; isn't this cool?
We're all having fun. Yippee.

The sun bursts rays, and there are twenty-three different ways
to stay alive inside when I'd rather hide from the sun's naivety
Searching for warmth on the walls with blistered palms,
as I lay in bed, naked. Removed of clothes and hope.
Blood in my mouth, new starters with broken shoelaces on the floor
Dreaming of different places. I said: dreaming of different places.
Cryptic words. In other worlds. In fire, I learned to drown.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Reentering the room, drunk.
H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P
Hide behind the bloodied bunk.
Q-R-S-
T-U-V-
W-X-
Y and Z
Now I've learned my lack of harmony,
next time won't you spare me, please.

Roses fall from the ceiling. There's no way I'm feeling.
Detach yourself from this room, this nation, this planet.
"You're too fragile to talk to, Josh." Thank you.
Don't allow yourself to ever be hurt again.
Regain your focus after I count down from ten.

Ten.
Reasons to stay alive.
Nine.
I want to live, I don't want to survive.
Eight.
There's nothing about me that anyone should hate.
Seven.
There's no god, but right now, I can make my own heaven.
Six.
I detached myself from lullabies and sorry eyes only to realize I love you.
Five.
"You're still there, right?" Dial tone silence, followed by fist to wall violence.
Four.
And to know you, is to know everything.
Three.
Adaptation without reclamation I find you in my translation
as hurt yet elation.
Two.
I want to make love in love. I want to die and donate a part of myself;
my backbone, lack thereof.
One.
When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Intermission:

Do you like hurt? Do you like pain? Is a happy poem not your game?
Well, read a poem by Josh Haines and never look at him the same again.
And don't look at yourself the same, because it's okay to be you!
For the price of absolutely nothing, you can look at his words!
Wait, and that's not all! Validate the 'beauty' of his words by
touching that heart and making it red!
Make it as red as the bloodied bunk that stained his back and heels!
Only for the price of absolutely ******* nothing!
Hurry, though! You only have until the end of ******* forever, so act fast!
The number is
1-800-I'M AVOIDING A LAWSUIT LIKE I DO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE

2nd.

Hey, do you like your parents?
Yes!
Trick question. Do you looove your parents?
Yes!!
Do you like seeing your grandmother in a wheelchair?
Yes!
Do you like being hurt by the people that you care about the most?
Yes!!
Then grab some popcorn and cola!

End of Intermission.


Trying like you're crying at the end of the film that documents your life
To divide a knife into your skin like it's a sin to feel this way
I just couldn't take it, bones in the corner of the room.
Inside a skeleton's eyes, flowers bloom.
Chicka-yay-no way. You swear? You say:
Ti-ta-time is on my side, but that's not how it feels inside.
An internal measure of the pressure of the world
and it's bound to run out like the sand in my hands
at the precious beach that would **** me if I stepped
into the blue, for me and you.

Let me turn back time to when I first met you.
Don't be afraid.

I remember everything. To never forget, is to realize every lie,
smile at every face, and to remember every goodbye.

I hurt my hands, I need to talk to you on the phone.

My insomnia lives off the thought, that I hurt you.
The room is blurry, and I'm sorry for being cold.
I am warm. I have the sun inside.
I guess I'm just afraid of burning you with it.

The drums pound into rhyme,
Diamond casualties
Rewind, wound, rewound
To scratch the surface
until there's nothing but sound.
Rapunzoll Feb 2016
Sunday morning,
the air froze, the dahlias
once bloomed angry,
now they shiver and sigh.

Autumn breeze, faint but still,
the padded ghost-steps
of your laugh, running wild,
like vintage photographs;
scattered Polaroids of
my memory - a smile here,
a grimace there.

How the heat of
emotions buries itself
in the clothes of yesterday,
How difficult it is to
fetch from the seams.
The needles only *****
at a faint feeling.

I wonder; do you forget me
as winter forgets the living?

Because once an old man
told me I had sad eyes

Sunsets melt to chalky lines,
like cigarette stubs, they died
when you met her.

These days only my fingers
remember summer,
I touch the hearts of others
to warm them too.

My voice wind chimes,
the eulogy of the storm,
when I breath your
name I shudder...

And listen-
because I am in
the echoes
of her, of us.
© copyright
Sehar Bajwa Oct 2018
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
The Indian air force day is celebrated on the eighth of October.
Just a little something I read out in assembly .
annmarie Jan 2014
If I had the chance,
maybe I'd go back
to when our Polaroid was still dark.
There was more possibility then.
I was looking at you
through a rose-colored lens
and what [I thought] I saw
was amazing.
I snapped a picture
(possibly too quickly)
and wrote my favorite four-letter word
on the bottom of the film,
mostly because I liked the way my hand felt
while forming the letters.
But we've developed now,
and I'm not sure I like what I see.
Only part of you made it into the frame,
and you were blurred around the edges—
almost like you were moving.
(And most of the time I couldn't tell
wether you were coming or going.
I think I know now.)
Your hands and your lips,
those were the only parts of you
that came out clearly.
Your eyes and your heart
we're the hardest to see.
*But I noticed someone
in the background
that came out a lot clearer
than I had expected.
And maybe, because of him,
the Polaroid isn't so bad after all.
for India
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
Flecks of violet, patch-quilt  loofah skin of  sponge-green iris, gold dusted
Emerald  eyes... wet stones in flesh tone, parachute baskets; paratroop lids
Descend... thin paradigms slip ; adrift upon a Seam of Tears. A saline Sea - with
Glass floor; lensing starlight over mint pink trampolines
covered in tiny copper filings,

And two Black Pools that Expand.
Two Sunbathing Night Blossoms -

Dead center. Unmanned...

Her cheekbones encroach upon Cataracts of Vacancy.
Lipid lathes of Lethe ; lips departed... red zeppelins, moist and mute . pontoons
Plump and mindless. Bee stung -
Open.

Soft mimes, glide
Over bleach and stain; over -
bone white; glide
Over Nicotine sigils, hiding -
in off-white
Enamel...

like anonymous petroglyphs for Dentists.
or Rosetta Stones for a lethargic Tongue.



II


Theta-wave turbines, throw rods and spark nods ... as others speak.
She resembles a dream-catcher’s mitt.
Words hiss now, and solid mist, twist the tell o' gram.
Into Fable's Armada !

Fog.... fog rolls in...   She rolls in, Beneath  a New Between. of Chasms
Hazardous grammar spasms, stammering -
Deaf tones of Diction -
All This ....In the Good Ear.
An Ear Of Cornucopias Delete.... The Dry Cob
Of  Annulled
Speech. [ but Morphine ]

Maybe a half-dozen kernels of distinct cream ; velveteen vague...
Or vivid - pleats in pure radiation.
?
Perhaps,  varicose inanities are expiation enough to drown a Kraken ?  Maybe God Happens ?

Let Ampule be the Judge.  Let Pack Mules be Priests.

As Others speak, Our Lily,  decrypts languidly left of linear... dislodged -
from Lexicons ....with long Odds, Against...
She Relents, Relentlessly-  And Utterly

Utterly Regardless...

She aborts pregnant ( .... )
pauses.

All this Fog rolls in... Agnostic.
She Robs
The Cuckoo... She De-bones the Soup
with Disjoint Comments.
And Scuttles
The Broth.

She's all Starlings and Polaroids.... Savage Pinwheels  and Aurora Vandals.

She's  All Plasma...
And Rapture -
with No Handles ...

She's Both Ends ... Burning
NOooo Candle .

A Wee Atlas; Shouldering A Loss
Ever Since Her World  
Was  Dismantled ..  A  Burden ( ... )
Lily
Phantom
Shrugs  

And Random Drugs..Atlantis.
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
stupid living boys
     and their hummingbird hearts.
stupid dead boys
     and their lingering stares.
supermarket polaroids,
     cold apartment poetry,
faded glassy eyes,
     ***** fingernails.
M Harris Mar 2017
Butterfly Desires & Fictional Highs,
Magnetic Spells In Her Emerald Eyes,
Bleeding Perpetual Fire & Toxic Cries.

Lucid Screams Of Her Plastic Love,
Paper Towns & Serenity Above,
Refracting Into An Apocalyptic Dove.

Postcards Of Her Estranged Serenity,
Diffusing Into Polaroids Across Infinity,
Rhythms Of Lusts Erupting Obscenity.

Bluest Shade Of Her Misguided Confessions,
Uncharted Fragments Amplifying Obsessions,
Profane Prodigies Detonating Desecrations,

Digital Dreams & Fictional Desires,
3D Symphonies Inside Her Crystal Wires,
Purple Streams Translating Fires.

Tunnel Visions Transmitting Reality,
Suicidal Trance & Static Eternity,
Molotov Solution Is Her Lighthouse Of Ecstasy.

- 04:19AM -
Nirali Shah Feb 2015
Rays of the morning sun
Encroached the attic
From a very notorious
Broken piece of window
Exposed the little specks of dust
Suspended
In the rotting wooden walls.
Some sticking in the peeling paint
Some lying
On her mother's once famous cookbooks
Now being devoured
By selfish
silverfish and fungi.
The dust
Telling stories of her childhood
Settled upon the rocking horse
And her favourite little music box
And a carton full of holiday polaroids.
The dust
Such a dry commodity
Moistened some old memories.
Reminiscence.
Isn't it amazing?
February 10,2015
I wrote this little piece after a friend of mine suggested the word "Dust" to write about :)
xvy Nov 2015
It aches me to see
How memories can fade
Like smeared pages of a book
Yellowed and crumbling
Like the falling leaves of autumn

It aches me to see
How misty the images are
Like freshly printed polaroids
Preserve but then forgotten
Like old baby albums

It aches me to realize
Though how hard we try
Memories just wane
Even the most precious
Even those we treasure the most
Luna

— The End —