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Jack L Martin Aug 2018
I like to laugh and smile
like any other kid
but you decided that

I was undeserving

of being liked
of being loved
of being myself

I wasn't cool
I wasn't trendy
I wasn't sporty

I was just being myself

I am quirky
I am intellegent
I am creative

You Don't care!

You are relentless
You are misguided
You are ruthless

Who hurt you so bad?

You have friends
You have fashion
You have popularity

Is that not enough?

I am now untrusting
I am now anxious
I am now depressed

It still hurts till this day!

I have grown to resent you!
I have grown to hate you!
Why aren't you dead yet?

I'm sure the feeling is mutual

You hurt me
because
Someone hurt you

When does this vicious cycle end?
I was bullied relentlessly throughout my entire school years.  It was torture!  I deal with it the best I can to this day.  I survived!  Please love your neighbor, but more importantly, love yourself!
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2013
An online Poetry Site is like taking a Lover.
At first everything is new and exciting,
Our juices are flowing.
Our heart beats a little faster,
Endorphins abounding.
We romance and court her,
Our best foot forward,
Play to our strengths,
Beat on our chests,
Try to avoid foolish mistakes.

We get drawn in,
Dazzled by the allure of her attention.
We become intimate,
Embrace her charms,
Confide our inner most Secrets,
Whisper unashamedly our Fears.
But she can be fickle, change her mind,
Love us one minute, ignore us the next.
We invite her to judge us,
Then we resent the results.
We fight and withdraw, vowing to quite,
Then find that we are caught in the web,
And can’t follow through.

She commands far too much of our time,
We can even become obsessed, knowing
That we should back off, if only we could.
We begin to resent the time we spend with her,
And yet cannot get through a day without checking in.
In spite of our protests, when gone, we miss her.

So we nearly abandon old friends and family,
Preferring her company instead.
Lose needed sleep to stay up past three,
Just to hold her hand.
Hanging as we do,
On her every word.
Forget to mow the lawn,
Or wash the dishes.
Enthralled and distracted.
Neglect to shower,
Remain all day in Pajamas.

It’s a romance of words on a screen,
Not a living, breathing thing,
But even with this knowledge,
We can’t let her go.
Can’t leave it alone.
I know, because I have tried and failed.
And here I still remain,
Caught like an animal in a trap.
Or is it, a fat happy bird in a gilded cage?
Who would not know where else to go,
Even if the door were left open.

I am conflicted to say the least.
No doubt my need for self-expression,
Is stronger than my need for cessation.

We love what we do,
And do what we love
And **** the consequences.
The good part is, as far as I know,
No one ever got a social disease,
From Words on a computer screen.
There's a person I don't speak about
I try to push them from my mind
But there's a self-control drought
I can't leave the past behind
They introduced me to something dark
Something steeped in despair
And when the knife hit its mark
When I needed help, they weren't there

It began as curiosity
But grew into monstrosity
Now our friendship is spent
All I can do is resent
The person who ruined my life
**Who showed me what you can do with a knife
To a friend from long ago
Breanna Smith May 2012
How could a father hurt his daughter while telling her she means more to him than the world? How can a baby be neglected by his mother?! How can a lover cheat with another!

At times like these it would be better to let the world stop turning, to breathe the last breath, to say the last word, to make the pain stop forever...?

A heart that hurts with every breath, a baby that stops its cries because mama isn’t coming, a love that dwindles, snuffed out, and dies.

At times like these wouldn’t it be better to end it all? If the world stop turning, if pain stopped hurting?!

A little girl grows up to resent her farther, a baby boy grows apart from a world he feels he isn’t a part of, a family is torn apart.

At times like these wouldn’t it be easier for the world to stop turning, easier to breath the last breath, to say the last word, wouldn’t it be easier for it all to be over?!

A women who is strong for herself and others, a family grows closer, stronger than ever before, a boy who knows the harsh truth about this world he lives in.

So it is asked again would pain stop hurting if the world stopped turning?
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,
  Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
  Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;
  Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
  While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line
  Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
  Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent,
  Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,
Were still alive—thou dost great storms resent
  Before they come, and know’st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath
  Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
But this thy strange resentment after death
  Means only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
Leo Pold Dec 2011
can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own

self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area

i can hear bad music 

coming from the room 
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something

it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)

like a dairy queen in
late september, 
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces

i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face

my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality

i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account, 
too because
it reminds me of myself
Frank DeRose Jan 2016
Do you even love me?
You say you do.
Point to your work,
Your sacrifice,
Your humility,
Fortitude.

I guess I believe you,
Empirically.
Objectively.
But it doesn't feel that way.
I feel...

Dismissed.

No, that's not the right word.
Resented?
Yes, I feel resented.
You resent the pain I cause you,
The hurt,
The torment.
I don't know where it comes from,
How I cause it.

But I do.
It comes from my stubbornness,
Inherited.
It comes from my belief that I am right,
Learned.
From you.

I wonder,
Do you feel you would be happier without me?
Without us,
Your family?
Would you not be so tied down?
Able to live your life for yourself,
As you claim you're so unable to do,
Always?

It feels like you resent me.
Us.
But mostly I think you resent yourself,
The choices you've made.

You say you don't.

I don't know.
Maybe you do,
Maybe you don't.

I am not you.
I cannot know.

But I am very much like you.
We are both stubborn.
Resolute.
Strong-willed.

Good qualities in small doses,
Poisonous in large ones.

We take them in horse pills.
Too large.

You say you love me.
Love us.
It doesn't feel that way.
But I know you do.

You're too strong willed not to.
You wouldn't care this much if you didn't.

I guess you do.
I only wish it felt that way.
Please explain inflation
Why do prices rise
For when I go out shopping
They change before my eyes
I just don't seem to get it
why some go up and down
Why a red car's more expensive
Than a new car that is brown
I tried to do some simple math
I went back to the books
Now I think that all economists
Are just white collar crooks
Follow me on this one, now..
A buck in 1970 is now worth near five fifty
I don't know how they did it
But I think it's kind of shifty
A funeral costs much more today
But this one is a pickle
For in western movies I have seen
My life's worth a plugged nickel
That hasn't changed in many years
So, I made a decision
It has to do with the new math
And that ****** new long division
Wheat is up, and so is beer
And theres one that I resent
To put my worth in when it's asked
It's still just two **** cents
A house...well, that's a nightmare
Some cost more than you will earn
You'll be owing for a lifetime
Your mortgage you won't burn
Water, there's another thing
It's now worth more than gas
But now, our nice tap water
It's quality won't pass
Six cents would get you postage
To send a letter, that's not bad
Today..it's almost ten times that
And that is really sad
But here's one that's confusing
Of all the things you've bought
This one's never varied
It's still a penny for your thoughts
two bits could get a haircut
And it would also get a shave
But now to get this combo
It takes two weeks to save
Hockey cards they cost a dime
And baseball cards did too
But, now they're an investment
And a dime won't buy you two.
Please think on this real hard now
It's a tale that's really old
Let's find how Rumplestiltskin
Could spin straw into gold
Inflation is a ******
It's all over the earth
I say smile, and then bend over
And that's my two cents worth!
Dad Poet Society Jun 2014
Vulnerable is what I am
When I let the real me outside
It's not safe, sometimes, to be so carefree
Should I risk hurt, or play safe and hide?

But people who love me keep asking me
To open my heart up to them
I don't know why that's so uncomfortable
I guess vulnerable is not what I am

The few times I've worn my heart on my sleeve
My words never came out right
So I've practiced being less vulnerable
And kept my real thoughts out of sight

People keep saying to use more words
But I fear I'll be misunderstood
Maybe I won't express myself right
Or I'll say way more than I should

Words, I've found, are containers for thoughts
I don't know why I sit here and hoard them
When I store them unspoken, my thoughts sit unused
Unshared—a container unopened

It's a little like having a pantry of food
And keeping it all to myself
Food's meant to be shared, and if it is not
It helps no one—just rots on the shelf

And that's how it is with my words kept inside
If love doesn't share them some way
My thoughts stored inside these containers called words
Can spoil and turn bitter someday

I used to complain that people didn't understand me
And for that I would silently resent them
But the silence, I now see, is of my own making—
If they don't know me, it's because I haven't let them
To my quiet kids, and to recovering introverts everywhere.
Blake Bumpus Jan 2012
It seems as if
I have no time
for time.
I do not make enough time
to read all the books I have bought or
learn something genuinely new on guitar.
my short efforts on learning the ukelele
violin and piano have failed.
Not enough time to study and understand
philosophy, or read
over history
Not enough time to dedicate to both school and art,
Not enough ardency for my job.
I have fallen into mediocrity
I resent it. I resent it so.
My album that I am recording is not good enough.
My reading habits are almost nonexistent
My photos are starting to look the same
I used to be above the rest but
they have caught up and are now excelling pass me.
Where am I then?
Am I just the typical hipster philosopher musician
Who’s greatest work will only be seen through
the narrow window of a tumblr poem?
And oh look, another aggravated, angsty poem
on tumblr, how special.
Frankly, I do not know how to balance it all.
And deep down I know even if I found a way,
I might cease to care.
And however many years from now, even if
my album is on the top charts
I have read dozens of books
And learned and experienced so much
I think I will always believe
That I do not know, or do
enough.
Anonymous Mar 2015
My love is destructive, vile ,and bitter to the taste
It will drag you in and under.
It's sporadic and vicious, a damaging fate
Run, before I need you most.
My love is jealous, selfish, an unforgiving gate
It will resent all you do wrong.
It's needy and bloodthirsty, forcing your affection
To where Infatuation is all you can hope for
My love is a scary, passionate, unjustifiable thing that will break under  its own pressure
It was not nurtured, comforted, or taught to stand straight
It is an evil, inhumane, alien trait
Run, please, please, get away.
Sometimes you need to tell someone the worst things about yourself, and there's just nobody there. So hello hello poetry, you are now that person.
Shannen Bremner May 2014
We drink. We love. We drink to pretend we have love. We fake love to feel loved. We know very well what we are doing. We have no idea what we are doing. We gather in groups. We push outsiders out. We know very well what we are doing. We can’t get a hold of what we are doing. We hate each other. We hate ourselves. We hate outsiders. We love our lives. We very well might hate our lives. Stockholm. We drink. We love. We **** ourselves.

We slosh through days. We get sloshed through days. We could be certain that we love the way we slosh through sloshy days and pretend that we have it under control. We have it under control. Do we have it under control? In thirty years there will be a phenomenon. We will all drop dead. We will all drop dead and we will think back to this time when we hated how much we loved our lives because we loved the very lives that allowed us to hate each other and wish we were the outsiders. We push away the outsiders. We are killing ourselves.

Then there are those who are unaware. There are those who might be naïve enough to think this is how the rest of our lives will play out. There are those who believe that the rest of their lives will consist of sloshing through sloshy days and pretending they aren’t killing themselves. And then there are those who very well might have the lives that allow them to slosh through, living and dying because we are killing ourselves. Peter Pans. They will not make it to thirty years before dropping dead. It won’t be a phenomenon at all. They will **** themselves. The outsiders will live on.

We do not know what love is because love is sloshy. Love is sloshy because our minds are sloshed. We pretend that what we feel is love. We pretend that these people are our friends and our lovers and they watch us **** ourselves and they **** themselves and we are all dying together. We are dying for love. We are dying to live. So we slosh through our sloshy days seriously not giving a **** that we are dying. Seriously giving too many ***** about what others think. Seriously ******* around. ******* around is serious business. ******* each other. ******* up. *******. *******. *******. We are killing our plans. We are killing ourselves.

We know very well what we are doing. Except the few that have no idea what they are doing. We live in the moment and pretend not to notice that in thirty years we will all drop dead and the outsiders will live on and love because we kept them out. We kept them out and saved their lives. They resented us because we ***** up and ***** around and ***** each other but we never ***** them and it saved their lives. We resent them because they live. We pretend we do not resent them because we think they don’t live. They don’t live like we do.

We pretend to love our lives. We love our lives. We think we love our lives. We do not know what love is because we are *******. We do not know what love is because all we do is *****. We do not know what love is because we are dying and we know very well that we aren’t well, so we hurt each other and pretend that it is the outsiders we hate. Pretend that we don’t envy them because they aren’t dying.

Some will get by. Some have plans and money and parents to put their screws back where they belong, so that their bookshelf can hold up the book of their life that was written for them. They will live on and slosh through their lives and make money and make babies and make fake substance. They will get married and get jobs and get divorced and get depressed. But they will be rich. Their lives will not be rich. They will be rich but they will lack richness. These people will have everything. These people will have nothing. I will have nothing. But I will have everything. If I do not **** myself the way that we are killing ourselves.

Why does time ***** us over? Everything is changing. Everything is staying the same. People are sloshing by with their sloshy minds. It will remain this way. The way it has remained this way for as long as we can remember it remaining this way. We have terrible memories. We have wonderful memories. We have these memories and then we have some memories that we cannot remember. We will get by. We will get out. We do not want to get out. We do not have a choice. Do we have a choice? I need to get out.

We do not want to leave the lives we hate but love because we are sloshing through and pretending we are rich. We are not rich. We are salty. We are salty and messy but we are happy. Are we happy? I am happy. Sometimes I am happy. Sometimes I slosh through my sloshy life and wish it were over. I never want it to end. I am the some that are naïve enough to have hoped this would last forever. We are the Peter Pans. If we never grow old we can never drop dead and blame it on the time when we hated that we loved this sloshy exclusive mayhem that we call life. I survived my youth, I will get out. I do not want to get out. I hate the love I pretend to love because I hate that I love it so much. Stockholm.
Meant to appear in the style of prose.
Final Project for my English 472 class.
I am sorry for all I caused you.
I saw you sink in my eyes and I lost you.
Thought it cost you,
To see me breathe in broken souls,
Never knew about the love I sold.
I ripped up all the truths in my head,
Wished me dead in a bed
Where I bled,
And the wind spoke.
All the secrets that I had inside me
Beat on the doors till they shattered and the lock broke,
I always felt like a flower on a hillside,
Mercy to the wind and you till I
finally died.
The sun set in my throat,
It rained in my eyes,
I had no where to go.
I am sorry that my anger left stains on your skin.
But you cut me with the lies you told,
And you broke me with things that we never could have been.
I sinned,
Serpents sliding down my cheeks.
When I speak,
Its like the tide is in my mouth,
The waves moving south until they're gone.
We build up our bodies,
Broken promises,
And whispers we hear in our head.
The foundation we've set is shaking,
It can't handle us breaking,
And can't handle us faking so tell the truth.
I have never lied to you.
But you took the love I gave and you threw it.
I never knew how my half a heart craved your hand but now I do.
You are like the greatest poison.
Moving through my own veins with no noise and,
My hands shake wothout my fix,
But you can't fix me,
Its true.
I need you to stay here now,
While I fly away,
Leaving you standing on the ground,
Don't frown,
You never needed me,
With concieded tragedy
Trembling from your lips.
And I know you can feel it,
Can taste materiality when you kiss.
My head is crashing,
My body thrashing
on the ground till its blue,
I'm not saying that I want to leave,
I'm just saying that you can't love me like I need.
I know it might be hard
But I'm looking so far
And all I can see is my tears.
How am I supposed to live this way?
Waiting day by day
For you to reveal all my fears.
You know I hate my future,
As much as I hate your present suture
You're letting dive into your heart.
I don't know how to start,
In a world where you're my world
But I'm not yours.
I say that I will leave and close the door,
Leave it a crack,
So I can see your light in the dark,
And find my way back.
All I asked of you was your hand,
Press it to my chest,
I know you can.
You make me resent all the words that I've said,
Went through your ears,
Passed by your brain and out your head.
You said,
You don't know how to help me,
I'm not the titanic that's sinking,
Just a person that's wishing,
that someone had taught me to swim.
I know you don't get me,
Don't understand what my head thinks,
Well darling that makes two.
Maddie Fay Jan 2014
you can tell by the way she swings her hips
and pulls your hair
and licks her lips
and whispers in your ear
that she's easy.

you'll know her by the short skirt
and the tight top
and the high heels,
by the butterfly tattoo on her lower back
and the drink in her hand.

if she carries condoms
or takes birth control,
if she can't say no,
if she takes no convincing,
you'll know.

she's the girl at the party who drinks the most
and laughs the loudest.
she's the one you discarded the first night you met her,
when she gave you
the only part of herself that you deemed worthwhile.

you'll figure her out
from the tar trails of mascara,
the untouched meal,
the word "worthless" carved into her thigh like a brand,
marking her flesh as property
to which you are entitled.

pay close attention to her need for validation.
a **** will have the audacity to seek your approval
just because she's been told all her life
that she is  nothing without your love.
she will measure her worth
in units of attractiveness
and desirability
because that is the only system she's ever been taught.

you'll know she's a **** when they find the defendant
not guilty,
and he arrives at the ten-year reunion in a limo.
you'll know she's a **** when she doesn't arrive
at all.

it's easy to spot a ****
in a society that teaches her that her lips are for kisses
and not battle cries,
that her hands are meant to be cradled in yours
and not ****** into the sky,
that her body is your wonderland
and not her home.

it's hard to miss a **** in a culture that paints women as ****** objects
while condemning any expression of female sexuality,
that glorifies the "good girl" who becomes whole
when the right man comes along
and stakes his claim.
the women you ****** in the lifetime before you met your wife
weren't marriage material;
you need a girl who's saved herself for you because
a girl who lets you **** her
crosses the threshold from ****** to ****
in a bizarre coming of age ritual in which your **** is so ******* important
that its temporary entrance to her body
renders her worthless.
you can tell she's a ****
because for her, there is no right answer.

you can find your **** at rallies
and in body-baring photographs,
alive in the anxious triumph
of finding something in herself that she can love,
of digging through a lifetime of rubble
and reclaiming small shards of forgiveness from the dirt.
her self-identified status
rips away your long-established privilege
of dictating who she can be
and defining her worth;
your resent her new autonomy.

you can march beside her,
or you can step aside.
she has stolen back her power.
she was made for revolution.
2014: 3
Steve Page Jul 2016
Father is a verb.
- Let me explain:

Father's Day; and
Father Christmas 
have tried to convince us,
but don't be fooled:
You can, may or will father, 
depending on your mood.
For father is a verb.

It only works in the transitive;
you can't father alone,
only in relationship.
It doesn't resent hospital trips,
and offers wrap-around comfort
when a partnership splits.
It's touch-line volume
drowns out all rivals.
And belly laughs come standard
with jokes on recycle.

[insert joke here]

Yes, father is a verb.

It's something we each do,
despite the hour,
it drives right on through
the night when life’s gone sour.
It'll hammer ten finger nails
to get the job done.
It will dance, heedless of decorum
forgetting reputation. 

It turns manliness
into awesome-men-ness,
It tempers strength 
with a dose of gentleness, yes
father is a verb.

Be sure, whoever you are, 
it works in the singular:
I can father;
You can father
    (I'm not talking *** here;
     that takes a partner.)
But also, 
-  it works in the plural -
we can father;
and they can father,
because, you see, in this village
it's an joint activity:
we father (and we mother) 
collaboratively.

It works best in the present tense,
happening now, not "LATER!".

It can be said in a gentle voice
or something - even - quieter;

sometimes active:
directive, protecting;
but often responsive:
just sitting, listening;
...holding, and, hugging;

it responds to need, you see,
but works best proactively,
works great 
sacrificially.

For example, 
though it cost him dearly,
God Fathers us
and through us daily.
And one day, suit pressed, 
He'll proudly walk 
with the bride of Christ.
And as Father of the bride, 
He'll host the party and blow the price;
(- BIGGEST - bar-bill - EVER)
And we'll be sure to save at least one dance
for Father.

Oh yes, you heard,
Father is a verb.
This is written with thanks to all the men who have fathered me over the last 50 odd years and as a salute to those of you who father without borders.
With thanks to Godfrey Rust and his poem, Church is a Verb.  Go on, search for it.
cristina Dec 2020
my mother, dedicated to flowers.
and by dedicated I mean she despises flowers with a passion,
a fiery repulsion so strong
that friends and family alike slowly started to mistake it for love
her marriage to my father.
my mother hates my father just as much as she hates his flowers,
she says they are the worst flowers she could ever wish for
and god do I hope those flowers will not make it,
wilting away in the palest beam of sunlight
it is the worst torture that could ever be bestowed upon such beautiful creatures
to live and to grow and to blossom
cut away from their roots
dried and whithered and frail
but my mother, my mother, she grows her flowers with uncanny care
fuelled by voluptuous rage and blind regret
some people still say it’s love
as the flowers shrink away into their own seeds.
so the flowers will surely survive
they’ll survive and they will live to see another day
day by day, night by night
in a place that is so loveless
one might mistake it for lovefull.

my sister, dedicated to flowers.
my sister, a lovely florist
a full-blown head in the clouds heart on her sleeves florist
and by florist I mean my sister values all her flowers so much
she sells them away to whoever might pay back just enough
for them not to feel as worthless as her father’s flowers
which her mother always reminds her about
so she just sells them to whoever.
she tells me her flowers are cute when they treat her to dinner
beautiful when they mend for her tremendous rent, you know?
life is never easy
but her flowers are only majestic, she says, when they are made into presents
cut and pressed and shriveled into tiny scattered pieces so sublime
they attract all kinds of unwanted attention
which reminds her a bit of herself, she says
gifted only to those who will never know how to properly care for something so broken
one might mistake it for whole.

my grandmother, dedicated to flowers.
except she never truly was
willing to take care of something that is fated to wilt away, that is.
my grandmother didn’t despise her flowers like my mother does
she understood them – felt them even
and therefore knew not how to take pity
with thorns of self-loathing
she molded herself into becoming one of her flowers
the only way she knew how to love herself.
my grandma knew how to make wondrous dresses out of petals and leaves
a disguise so colorful and blinding
one might just forget to look at all the right places
you’d have found nothing but pesticide.
grandma’s flowers were the most stubborn
born on a desert island of broken promises and scraped knees
where they were buried too
when the time to hide away the corpses left in her wake finally came.
sometimes I wish she had not left her son’s flowers to rot
coloring them so violent
one - such as his daughters - might mistake it for gentle.

I, dedicated to flowers.
I, anxiety ridden daughter of all flooded fields
blooming in the crevices and rocks dandelion -
I learned to resent the flowers that were  entrusted to me at birth
the detested gift of lifetimes of pain
as if that could ever be just enough to mend
for the moths and worms that made a home out of my belly
I was born with no flowers of my own
no illusion as to what i 'd have to expect from life
my mother’s, my sister’s, my grandmother’s
and my father’s too
my garden is the fullest
and the most painful to care for
kneeling on the seeds with sand in my eyes
no gloves to fend away the thorns
the pesticide fills my lungs
nobody cared enough to ask me
but I never liked gardening.
this is old, but i think it has some potential still & i pretty like it
The meaning of true is false
blinded by brainwash and ignorance
reminds me of the ways you made me repulse
masked by a thing of brilliance
I hope you see what you need
It's me
I see it in the way you can deceive
God, your naive
I don't mean to rhyme
but I thought it was time
to put you in a place I've been for years
Lonely, disgusted back to the tears
You were divine
Made me be blind  
best friend, not
who would have thought
That I would be writing this thinking of you
But no none of this is new
should've seen this new present
hot flash, think back, and make me resent
But now we're though
Don't you see the meaning of false is always true
I wrote this about someone who i thought defined forever
braelynn Jan 2019
You.
You were a breath of fresh air during a humid hot day.
One where if you ran too long it would take a few painful minutes to catch that oxygen into your lungs again, a day where sweat seemed to build up in places you had yet to discover.
Yes, you were that breeze that made my hair lift off of my shoulders and bounce all the way to my ears.
You made me feel light and peachy.
You.

But then I realized that you were the one adding all of the extra weight.
You balanced off the scale every once in a while to make it seem like you weren't holding me down by the shoulders.
You tricked me into thinking I was smaller than I really was so I felt vulnerable and trapped.
Made me think the world was too big for me to explore.
You made me think I would get lost.
Made me think I was lost.
You.

Me.
Maybe I am lost,
That could be on me.
I want to find you.
I want you and I to be happy.
And it may seem silly that I do feel this way.
But I miss being able to breathe, and I miss seeing you every day.
I do.

I rather have that weight on my shoulders, even though it felt like a ton.
It kept me down on my feet, made sure I didn’t run.
You made me think I would get lost.
Now look where I am.
I feel so small, and I know it may be my fault.
But I want you to know I don’t resent you at all.
You can always talk to me if you need some fresh air.
You can forever come to me, I’ll always be there.
forgive love miss
cable news video brilliantly captures
the blood washing Parisian gutters
glittering in City of Lights sparkle

images of carnage coagulate in my mind
clotting my heart with searing resent

in desperate need for release
from the abject scorn
that boils within my veins

I flip the channel to
watch a Predator marathon
but light entertainment
fails to satiate my restive soul

I turn down the volume
and click back to News

My iPod is audio ready
to soothe the savage beast
with some righteous death metal
I blast my earbuds,
Culture of Death's new CD
prepares me for real action
  
ever at the ready
digital recreation
has me *******
my controller
mustering up my
Call of Duty
comrades

I am a recognized
high score battlefield hero
taking out godless apostates
in the global war on terrorism

I'm usually eager to
baptize Iraqi jihadis in a
Holy Ghosting
bloodbath
but tonight
Black Ops kills
fails to thrill
my controller and I
stand down

opening the gun case
I cradle my Bushmaster
the smooth barrel and rugged stock
feels so right in my hand

it pleasures me to know
I am one of the good guys with a gun
I relish the fear and respect
I garner during open carry
troops to McDonalds
the hairs on the back of my neck
sometimes titillatingly rise

one day I hope to
take out an active shooter
at a movie or the supermarket
that would be way cool

I place my Bushmaster
back into the cabinet
and carefully rearrange
one of my Glocks

yet even with this
considerable armory
I still feel insecure
it may be time
for a trip to Walmart
to secure another Glock
*** more ammo

my heart recovers a bit when
I think about tomorrows recon trip
to my tree stand in the Jersey Highlands

Bear season starts soon
for the past few weeks
I've baited the area with
Dunkin Donuts and bacon grease
I've detected lots of bear ****
can't wait to drop one of those suckers
I visualize one in my gun sights
should be easy pickens

my CD ends with
some real raucous ****
removing my earbuds
I turn up the volume
on the News

footage from last summer's
Black Lives Matter demonstration
runs in continuous loop
members of the
New Black Panther Party
are yelling into the camera
a woman in a black burka
her eyes squinting angrily at me
from underneath her cover
sends shivers up my spine

when we take our country back
they will be served some
Second Amendment justice

News flashes Ted Cruz
condemning Muslim
refugee resettlement,
in a Christian Nation
only Christians should be
allowed in...

News breaks back to footage
from the concert venue
highlighting the
blood stained mosh pit

News flashes ISIS Jihadis
riding in Humvee's
routing the fleeing
Iraqi army once again

News highlights a smiling Putin
firing off Caspian Sea cruise missiles
into the bleeding Levant
examples of decisive leadership,
if only Obama could grow a pair

News flashes to a Rose Garden Obama
bragging about killing Jihad Johnny

the drone strikes and
active bombing campaigns in:
Syria
Iraq
Libya
Somalia
Nigeria
Mali
Yemen
Sinai
Afghanistan
Kenya
Congo
and other unspecified locations
are working says the Muslim Prez

By the looks of Paris
any real American Patriot
would think not

we need to send a message
a quick strike fix
some major shock and awe
to placate a nations troubled soul

if that offends any Christian
turn the other cheek
wimp, so be it

I say go
Old Timey Testament on their ***
let our vengeance is mine God
**** them all
**** them all
**** them all

Culture of Death:
Cystic Dysentery

Barry McGuire:
Eve of Destruction

The Doors:
The End


jbm
11/17/15
Newark
lots of hate going round since the murderous tragedy in Paris....
let cooler heads prevail.....
be still and know that I am God....
Andrew Rueter Dec 2017
You made a visit
For a tidbit
That couldn't be called a date
And your portion was low rate
Like the unkempt hair above your lip
What the **** was that ****?
Inside is your invasive tongue's home
This is my mouth get your own
They're all connected to your stupid brain
That doesn't entertain
All this to say it didn't go well
And I'm searching for a way to tell

I'm so desperate for love
It seems absurd that I'm rejecting anyone
But that's the odd situation I find myself in
While searching for light and yours is dim
I have to deal with the frustrations
Of both of our expectations
And regret my instigation
While experiencing deflation
From a needless iteration

I say there's no spark
You call me a shark
You call me a farce
You keep calling of course
Calling from your high horse
I call the police to enforce
A restraining order
By explaining sort of
Our brief exhausted history
How you weren't a fit for me
They heard my story
Then gave you glory
For being rejected
You're viewed sympathetic
While I'm stuck in jail
For my ******* fail

I said I'd give it a shot
You thought I was caught
This is why I had fought
The ideas you brought
For a love you sought
I hope a lesson was taught
But I suspect that it's not
You just hate me instead
You didn't hate me in bed
But now that it's done
And we've had our fun
You resent me for not being your possession
I tried to let you know that wasn't my intention
So now I resent you for not learning your lesson

We go our separate ways
Both living in a hectic craze
I begin to naively call my loneliness freedom
After I convince myself that I don't need them
So to avoid a future locking latch
I start to say no strings attached
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.

It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shameless a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead

Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.

It's cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People's Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.

Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.

For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn't have happened did.

Occurring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:

But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
Julia Elise Sep 2014
I think my lips are chapped because I've kissed so many boys who don't love me.
You ask me 'what do you taste like?' I don't think its very **** to say regret and sadness.
You say 'when can I taste you' My taste has been passed around so many tongues there is nothing left for you.

He tells me 'I'm here for you, I'll always be here for you' as he kisses my neck. The next week the bite mark on my belly is fading and I can barely remember the colour of your eyes.

My sister says 'you will change your mind' she says, 'all woman want to be mothers'.
I have stumbled in at 4am with the taste of strangers in my throat to see my mother sitting upright waiting for me, I think of the night I spent crying on my mothers lap in a&e;, certain I couldn't make it through the day, the way my brother scowls at my mother, my sister telling her that 'you could've done more, you could've walked away.' I. Dont. Want. Children.

My mum tells me she is old, she is tired. She desperately needs a man to hold doors open for her and carry her shopping. I am trying to remember that needing someone does not mean you are weak.

My grandmother gave me waist beads to encourage fertility. She says 'god gave you those hips to birth children'. Ive never told her that i lost my faith in god the year i lost my virginity.  And if there is a god, i don't want his ******* fertility. I want to break these beads and let drugs engulf me to prove my grandmothers blind faith wrong.
I laugh and pray before our meal and kiss her forehead, 'god bless'.

He tells me 'i know youre *****, its natural'. I laugh and play along for his delight. 'women are just like toys, television, easy puzzles'. I think of my father beating my mother, my fathers face all the men ive walked past in the street. My mothers face is my own.

'if you don't want boys to touch you you shouldn't wear tight clothes'. I think of all the boys who have run their fingers over my back when i was dressed in clothes from neck to ankle. I wonder if god is a sexist man. I wonder if there's any men who aren't implicitly sexist.

He tells me, 'I'll spend hours on you, I'll make you believe in god again'. There is nothing I can do but laugh. I ask him, 'does your mother know you speak to girls like this?'
He ***** his teeth, 'do you always have to be so difficult?'  
I kiss him but I think of his mother, foreign and lonely, 2 sons and no husband.

He says 'you need a real man' I think of all the other boys who have told me that before leaving me.
He wants to know why I'm in hospital so much, 'how are we going love each other when you can't tell me what's wrong with you' I don't want to tell him that I've cut my arms so badly I can see god in my blood, and sometimes the voice in my head screams so loud I black out. I kiss his chest. He doesn't ask again. I resent him for that.

I've been ignoring my fathers phone calls for two weeks because his voice sounds like absence and I don't want to hear another 'I love you' from a man who doesn't know my secrets.
Cancer isn’t catchy so
I can ride in cabs and
Work for a
While longer
Try not to
Resent the
Unaffected
Cancer isn’t catchy so
I can hold our
Daughter and
hug her when
She cries
And borrow her Teddy
When I need him
Cancer isn’t catchy so
You can stand
By my side
Eat with me
And let me
Wear your shirts
And boxer shorts
Cancer isn’t catchy so
You can kiss me
All the time
Lay next to me
And dry my eyes
When all this pain
Is just too much
Cancer caught me so
I’ll have to
Leave you soon
I want your face
And hers
To be the last things
I ever see
all rights reserved
What if I told you, Jesus came to abolish religion?

What if I told you getting you to vote republican, really wasn’t his mission?

Because republican doesn’t automatically mean Christian,
And just because you call some people blind, doesn’t automatically give you vision.

If religion is so great, why has it started so many wars?
Why does it build huge churches, but fails to feed the poor?

Tells single moms God doesn’t love them if they’ve ever been divorced

Yet God in the Old Testament actually calls the religious people ******

Religion preaches grace, but another thing they practice,
Tend to ridicule Gods people, they did it to John the Baptist,

Cant fix their problems, so they try to mask it,
Not realizing that’s just like sprayin perfume on a casket

Because the problem with religion is that it never gets to the core,
It’s just behavior modification, like a long list of chores.

Let’s dress up the outside, make things look nice and neat,
Its funny that’s what they do to mummies, while the corpse rots underneath,

Now I ain’t judging I’m just saying be careful of putting on a fake look,
Because there’s a problem if people only know that you’re a Christian by that little section on your facebook

In every other aspect of life you know that logics unworthy
Its like saying you play for the lakers just because you bought a jersey

But see I played this game too; no one seemed to be on to me,
I was acting like church kid, while addicted to *******.

I’d go to church on Sunday, but on saturday getting faded,
Acting as if I was simply created to have *** and get wasted.

Spend my whole life putting on this façade of neatness,
But now that I know Jesus, I boast in my weakness.

If grace is water, then the church should be an ocean,
Cuz its not a museum for good people, it’s a hospital for the broken

I no longer have to hide my failures I don’t have to hide my sin,
Because my salvation doesn’t depend on me, it depends on him.

because when I was Gods enemy and certainly not a fan,
God looked down on me and said, “I want that man!”

Which is so different from religious people, and why Jesus called em fools
Don’t you see hes so much better than just following some rules?

Now let me clarify, I love the church, I love the bible, and I believe in sin
But my question, is if Jesus were here today, would your church let Him in?

Remember He was called a drunkard and a glutton by  “religious men”
The Son of God not supported self-righteousness, not now, not then.

Now back to the topic, one thing I think is vital to mention,
How Jesus and religion are on opposite spectrums,
One is the work of God one is a man made invention,
One is the cure and one is the infection.
Because Religion says do, Jesus says done.
Religion says slave, Jesus says son,
Religion puts you in shackles but Jesus sets you free.
Religion makes you blind, but Jesus lets you see.

This is what makes religion and Jesus two different clans,
Religion is man searching for God, but Christianity is God searching for man.

Which is why salvation is freely mine, forgiveness is my own,
Not based on my efforts, but Christ’s obedience alone.

Because he took the crown of thorns, and blood that dripped down his face
He took what we all deserved, that’s why we call it grace.

While being murdered he yelled “father forgive them, they know not what they do”,
Because when he was dangling on that cross, he was thinking of you

He paid for all your sin, and then buried it in the tomb,
Which is why im kneeling at the cross now saying come on there’s room

So know I hate religion, in fact I literally resent it,
Because when Jesus cried It is finished, I believe He meant it.
purple orchid Apr 2014
I've often wondered if sometimes, if at all
There's a part of you-even if just a tiny bit
That resents me for the things I've taken away
Without your knowledge
It's justifiable you know,
I'll understand if you do
I mean I resent me too at times
I wouldn't blame you

But you, with eyes wide closed,
Heart open look beyond all of me
And I realize,

Things aren't always black and white
There's a thin line in between
Harboring all that's good within,
Looking beyond the imperfections,
And it's you.
You're the warm blanket we all need,
A perpetual calendar of inspiration for me
And most.
Let your aspirations guide to better things,
Be drawn to success like a moth to a flame,
Careful not to burn your wings,
Or to let people step on your cape
You're more than what you see in the mirror
The love you have within you radiates
To form an everlasting echo that transcends
Beyond definition
Finding reflections of each other in our hearts
And that's where , not anywhere else
We'll keep each other safe, warm and protected
For someday, this is all we'll have-memories
I love my sister
Reagan Williams Aug 2016
If I were a flower

Perhaps if I were a flower, you'd pick me to be yours.
Of course you would pick the flower that was the most exquisite,
Luminous in every spectrum,
But more importantly the most Beautiful blossom,
Therefore plucking me from my survival.

See, the anticipation was your acceptance,
However, your admiration was a free ticket away from my existence
Because I am a flower,
And You removed me from my stem.
Now,
I can't breathe.


But I love you...
And I've always loved you.
And as each day passed you kept me stashed in the darkness
Every heartache, a petal would deteriorate.
Which left me withered and pale as cotton

See, I lost my beauty tangled in your insecurities.
Not to mention my vulnerability,
That created this reality.
Oh but how I wish I could turn back the hands of time,

Perhaps,

Make me intangible,
Invincible from you're grasp.
Cover me in thorns and levitate me to the highest branch,
Away from those resent less eyes.

Perhaps?!?

However, I remained transparent in your world.
No longer the center of your love.

What was once a flower became the remains of a petal-less spud.
Crooked Youth Aug 2015
I resent the fact that my life seems to have become a constant struggle against Repetition.

I resent the fact that my life seems to have become a constant struggle against Repetition.

I resent the fact that my life seems to have become a constant struggle against Repetition.

Dont let it consume you.
You've simply got to spice it up a little.
Larry dillon Jan 2023
The gods let this baby be born
As a thing they could reclaim
One day with cruel delay
Boils from black plague desecrated her skin
Right before her second birthday
A lesson on how a life can be stolen
Shortly after it begins
Or how we're without hope to the whims
Of the bored gods before us

To save the last of his kin
The father implored the science
Of the village sage and physicians
He was turned down at every door
Their medicine was not meant
To save the poor nor destitute
  
Resolute in his faith
there were good gods who gave grace
Unto children without sin
He next beseeched healing power
from varied institutions of the miracle men
Preyed over by priests, rabbis, and sheikhs
He sacrificed and spent
every cent he had saved
And their churches took his tithes
But did not take her pain away

Grief striken, defeated, with no recourse
Liquid sedated in a pub,he feels remorse
" our child will join you soon,
my dearest departed wife"
a pubhand overhears him saying,
"you can still save your daughter's life!"

"listen as I entail
The hidden trail you must trek
before the antelucan hour strikes
Her magiks are only ripe
in the dead of the night
Nestled within that loury forest
Her cabin obscured from mortal sight
Resides an occultist of such cunning:
A bog witch named Blight"

The pubhand helped him to more mead for free
Unprompted he then proceeds to lead
The father through that place he now seeks
-claiming his shift had come to an end
As they drew closer to the cabin
Something happened most curious and queer
The pubhand turned into a black cat,
Scurried off into the brush- to dissappear

Influenced by fermented spirits in his blood
He pays heed to their whisper
-Her cabin door is ajar
And they beckon he enter

Now in Blight's place of power with his offspring.

"oh hapless father when you sing,
How the gods do smile
You worshipped the very ones
who wish to **** your only child
they're vile and malcontent
All they know are delinquent tendencies
They'll torture her spirit for sport,
When she dies you see
But by my incantation
That needn't come be"

"drain the blood of a bat
with deviant intent
Recant the name of your gods;
You now resent  
The blood will brew all the while
-in my elixir
When the little girl drinks:
it will fix her
It will turn her pale white
You will fear she has perished
She will stalk this earth
Forever parched with ravenous thirst
And a stark aversion to sunlight
NOW YOU MUST CHOOSE:
A dead child!
...or a creature of the night?"

The father did as directed
He did not second guess
Unaware of the sorceresses subtle gesticulations
-Were creating a hex
He's blind to machinations set in motion long ago
The wiccan pours her will into a binding circle
As the child drinks the concoction slow

His daughter's vitality returns
The plague is receding
Fangs sprang forth
as she bites into her father's neck
Blood trickles down in specks
The girl keeps feeding
And feeding

all gods once assembled to fight Blight
The powerful mad goddess would direct
her sadistic debauchery at their human subjects
-human praise appealed to the god's vanity-
Her godhood sealed by the Parthenon
in a prison comprised of flesh
Divinity bound;
betrayed by other gods
There were too many for her to resist
A former god trapped in mortal form
Blight's punishment was to simply exist

For 300 years Blight had waited for a night like this
An ancient curse she could wield
As revenge for imprisonment
Finally obtaining the last two ingredients:
A child that was pure
And a father's consent

A direct strike of lightning sets Blight's cabin ablaze  
still in her binding circle, she's indifferent
And unphased
From threats of fearful deities who see
She's about to set her nocturnal creations free
Undeterred by their show of force
she releases her two vamps
with a flick of her wrist and no remorse

Iightning strikes within an inch of Blight
She leers at the heavens
Much defiance and mirth
In the distance a village screams
As her fiends burn it down to the dirt

The Parthenon replies:
Bellowing cumulonimbus clouds
decries her decision
Such chaos;
now her scheming REALLY has their attention
The.Ones.Who.Watch. Above

See all.

Throughout panoptic thrones they peer
pained fury for this village culling:
Blight jeers
Sanctimonius thunderstorm brings fervent rain
Their vain,pious tears-
The skies can not contain

The gods cry.

"Oh, how i wonder what will worship gods then,
When humanity dies?"

Luminous surges of lightning bolts strike
Tries to smite this emboldened bog witch
...Yet, in spite of their wish,
she somehow stays unhurt...

Blight smirks.
I story of a father's desperation abused and a scheming bog witch's revenge.
SW Jul 2015
Does it make you feel powerful to tell me that
I do not own my body?
Do you get satisfaction from looking down on me
from the pedestal you’ve clawed and crawled your way onto?
Tell me,
does it make you feel good to threaten me
with words that come out of your mouth so empty
but land on my shoulders so heavy
Tell me,
do you get high from the nauseous look in her eyes
as she meets yours, slowly trespassing along her body?

Does it sound like music to hear the tremble in her voice,
look like art to see her to resent her femininity,
feel like silk to touch what you have no business touching?

Tell me what it is.
Tell me what you think you can get from me,
what it is you think I owe you.

Tell me that it is necessary, justify your theft –
Do you feed off of dehumanization,
can you pocket the profit from her sense of security,
shelter yourself with their rights, their body, their life?

Where did you learn to value your impulses over her innocence?
Where did you learn to assert yourself where you do not belong?
Where did you learn to rip a woman apart piece by piece
starting with her dignity and ending with her self-worth?

Tell me,
what does it feel like to own your body?
Fred Feb 2018
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.

To My Valentine

    by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.

The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.

HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.

More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.

As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.


I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.

The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.

TO MY VALENTINE

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Hope you enjoy comparing these three. They all have their virtues but I prefer the last. I feel the ending is the best and the truest sentiment.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
I want to want someone. I can’t remember the last time *** wasn’t casual. But after two nights ago, I have hope for the future. He’s instilled hope once more, the hope of making love.

I once had *** with a thirty-three year old man in a storage unit.
I once had *** without kissing at all.
I once had *** with a man who I loved who never called me again.
I once had *** with a boy just in spite of his older brother, who I loved.
I once had *** just to have ***.
I once had *** just to have *** with a ******.
I once had *** just to see how big his **** was.
I once had *** because I wanted to have *** with a black man.
I once had *** only because it was New Year’s Eve.
I once had *** because I wanted to get back at my boyfriend for cheating on me.
I once had *** because I was drunk.
I once had *** because I wanted to have a ******* with two guys.
I once had *** because I wanted to have *** with a girl. We were both fourteen.
I once had *** because I was on the rebound.
I once had *** because I wanted to say I had *** with my brother’s best friend.
I once had *** because I wanted to be in control of having ***.
I once had *** because I’m a ****.
I once had *** because I’m sexually liberated, and I don’t give a **** about what society thinks.
I’ve had lots of ***,

But two nights ago was different. We didn’t have ***.
We didn’t even kiss. He held me. He told me he liked me, and he wanted to feel my body. It was only my back, stomach and ribs, but it was nice to feel touched without having ***. It was nice to feel **** without the ***.

I wonder if he thinks about me. He told me that he liked me in the summer, but the way he held me two nights ago I’d say he still liked me. He invited me out of the blue. I’m happy he did. He likes Alternative music. He also likes my favorite band. I snowboard, and he skis. His favorite color is orange, just like mine. We’re both tall. He’s blond; I like Aryan men. Maybe I really am a submissive woman—a complete product of society.

I wonder if he believes in God. I wonder if he’ll look down on me, because I don’t. He doesn’t mind that I don’t eat meat. He said I have a pretty voice. I wonder if he fantasizes about me. I haven’t fantasized about him before two nights ago.

There was one time over the summer when we went to a Hookah bar with friends. We smoked *** first, with a group of friends, before we left to the place in Virginia. I was pretty high, so I don’t remember most of the conversation, but I remember once when he brought up his girl friend. I took a puff of hookah, before I exhaled, and asked, “You have a girlfriend?” He replied, “Unfortunately.” I never understood this until two nights ago.
I don’t know if I want him, or someone like him.

I wonder if he’d think I was pretty without make-up.
He didn’t seem repulsed when I chopped off my long pretty hair, but I’m sure he couldn’t handle my moodiness. We’re both somewhat strange, but my impulsiveness and possible sociopathic nature deviates from the general humanistic thinkers. I don’t consider myself a hypocrite, because I honestly feel as if my feelings change more often than not.

We’re both twenty years-old.
He’s a long time relationship kind of guy; for the two years I’ve known him, he’s always had a girlfriend. There were only two, but he seemed to like them both.
I wonder if he loved either of them. Maybe he loved them both.
Did they love him? Did the resent each other?
I’ve never understood the resentment of women in regards to other women.
I’ve always been for sisterhood; I’ve always believed that men were corrupt.
Maybe that’s because I’m attracted to women.

I just feel like women should get along; they should understand women, given that they usually feel the same towards women. I feel like women hating each other is the result of a sexist society. Some women don’t even realize that they’re victims of a man’s world.
I don’t think he’s like that.
He’s not the kind of guy who manipulates.
He’s not a one-night stand.

He’s not the fairytale of “I once had *** because:”, he’s not someone I would want to forget, use, or manipulate.
I was supposed to go snowboarding with an ex-boyfriend next week.
He lives in SC, and I would’ve had to take a plane down to visit, in addition to paying for the lift tickets.
I blew him off.
Better yet, I told him that being friends was pointless.
We’re so different, and our relationship was crap. He was boring and ignorant.
The *** was boring, and occasionally I’d get off because he’d go down on me.
His ******* was the best part of our relationship.

I bet the guy from two nights ago is a great lover. He’s also tall, so he’s probably got a good-sized one.
I’d like to try it out sometime, not immediately, but maybe in a few months.
Maybe we could build a relationship.
Maybe he’s just like every other guy, and I’m just a delusional idealist who’s alone.
Who’s alone though?
Not me; I can have *** on command. I have, at the top of my head, six people who I could spend the night with (some who I’ve been with already, some not).
If I’m always in company, how can I be alone?

Could I tell the guy from two nights ago all of this? Would he run away like the others who have mattered? Or would he cling onto me like the others who didn’t matter?
Would he give me flowers? Would he think I’m a *****?
Would he view my glass of personality as half-empty or half-full?
Maybe he wouldn’t talk.
Maybe he’d just hold me like he did two nights ago and say so much without saying a word.
We’d breathe together and our heartbeats would breathe together.
Maybe he’ll dream about me.
2012 will tell.
He asked if I’d be around; I told him for nine months, I would.
The amateur poet Jan 2013
I've decided to start the year anew and try to figure out my problems.
Complaining at this moment in time has become redundant. For the only problem I feel is one I have created for myself. Not being able to let go, move on, I am carrying a flaw because I have become attached to. My last known friend who I can truly open up to. I am deeply conflicted with my own thoughts and don’t know where to start to fix this problem, that I have again created for myself.
To start off, I abuse him. Emotional of course, and not intentionally, but abuse none the less. Perhaps I'm subconsciously pushing him away because it’s better for him in the long run. The deeply ingrained flaws in my diverse personality are openly seen when reacting with his nature. When this has occurred with others I’ve simply distanced myself from them, allowing for my weaknesses not to be exposed… but he genuinely cares. As in basic human nature I am drawn to others that care. The romantic way no (not any more at least), for even if I wanted to love him I could not; having all guards down for another requires trust, trust only family can gain. As having only one person worthy of understanding me, well trying to at least, all the burdens are laid on him. It’s such a cruel fate but I could not help myself… before the worst of me came to light I attempted to bring some source of happiness into his life. This was a success thankfully, a beautiful and smiling ray of sunshine. Unfortunately I have come to hate this new relationship, leading to even more confliction. He deserves to be happy, but I crave his guidance and compassion. This almost primitive feeling of replacement and resentment arises, although I have already accepted him as brother, I don’t understand. Furthermore she’s the pretty girl my mind will never allow me to be. I can’t comprehend her thoughts, how can she be so happy, shallow, blind, loveable… how can she be so simple. Perhaps this is a portion of the problem, part of me longs to be more alike to her while the other resent her simplicity. Who knows, surely not I. What annoys me further is my lack of ability to explain. Trying to word all of this to him in a manner where he sees my true meaning…close to impossible. Such confliction of the mind, I see both sides and debate myself over what’s right, impossible to describe unless it is experienced. Individually I love them both, but together… I'm envious of their blind love. To experience to walk into another trap, too young to find it for real; that middle ground where options are few. Going over these things my own self-loathing increases, multiple opinions allow for one to distance herself from her own actions and analyze actions…locate the source of the problems. But here there are too many all pointing back at the ‘victim’. To cry for help when one is creating her own problems… such weakness. Do I set the one closest to understanding me free? Or continue on ignoring the cries… accepting they are a creation of my own mind. Such conflictions.

— The End —