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Nick Moser May 2014
You say life is but a dream.
Well then when will I wake up?
I'm tired of living in this lie.
This fantasy.

You've diluted these waters I swam in.
You've poisoned my sweet serenity.
How could you ever look me in the eyes and tell me the truth?
You have drowned me in my own existence.

I'm struggling to wake from this nightmare.
I can barely tell right from wrong all while I'm trying to right the wrong you've perpetrated against me.
I'm struggling to resurface.
You constantly hold my head under while I drown away.

And now I've become the deadpool.

So come and take a swim.
Sometimes, I just wanna put on a mask and scare you.
RisingUp Nov 2015
If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.
When and where did I begin, do I begin, shall I begin?

With vague childhood memories of growing up, in not too wealthy circumstances during the years after World War II, in a small part of a big town house in a little district town surrounded by mountains?
With being afraid of the chicken and geese my grandmother kept in our backyard? Of the delirious fever fantasies I still remember during two attacks of scarlet fever exactly around Xmas-time in two consecu¬tive years when I was 4 and 5 years old? (Must have been a real treat for my parents, and my grandmother, who was living with us!) Or with the fears and nightmares I had about having to go and fetch a bucket of coal from the dimly lit basement, whose dark corners in my imagination were full of hidden dangers and hideous monsters?
Or with the routine of crossing main street to go into the smoky old little pub with an empty mug, worm my way through the forest of trousered legs, hold up my mug and a few coins to catch the innkeeper’s attention, watch the tap beer fill the mug until it made a nice foamy crown on top, and then carefully manage the high steps of the stairway back up to my father´s supper table without spilling any of the precious liquid?
Or with first memories of suffering injustice, of a child´s most ardent wishes coming true (rare) or remaining unfulfilled (the rule), of happily riding around on a bright red wooden fire engine, clutching my favorite cuddly animal (of off-brown cloth, stuffed with sawdust, lovingly made by my mother)? Or with spectacular (and usually ******) crashes with my first wooden scooter, then proudly and even more daring with a precious metal scooter with which one day I managed to crash through the glass door leading from the backyard to the hallway and, miraculously, only suffered some minor cuts?
With the fast years of grade school at whose end where not only my first pair of glasses (much hated) and the then obligatory entrance examination to high school? Or, on  a quite different scale, the end of the allied occupation of Austria and the birth of a new, neutral and independent state - registered by me mostly because of diverse ceremonies that interrupted the school routine and brought unusual treats like ice cream or chocolate bars from parents & uncles & aunts?
With the first two grades of highschool, when I got up at 5.15 a. m. every morning and sleepwalked/scurried to the railway station to catch the express train at 6.15 a. m. that took me to the next Gymnasium 50 km away? With the pleasures & dangers of these daily train rides, the first cigarette smoked there, on the lavatory (with much coughing and a sinking feeling in the stomach); the first strange sensations - sweet and hurting - when a certain girl walked by; the occasional fights with other boys about God-knows-what-seemed-so-serious at the time? Or the memories of the huge fist that grabbed my heart when I saw my best friend, who tried to show off while our train was entering the station, miss the iron steps and simply disappear under the carriage - and with incredible luck resurface seconds later, white as a sheet but unharmed?

Or maybe with the hours I spent, after several years of not so enthusiastic practice (which nevertheless provided me with the basic abilities) alone with the piano in my grandmother´s salon, playing sonatas and dances and ètudes with growing ease and ple¬sure? Or with the bitter, bitter tears of pain and disillusionment when, at the age of 15, I had to bury my dreams of becoming a pianist because my hands started hurting terribly after only a few minutes of playing and the doctors told me, after one year of trying all kinds of treatments, that I had developed chronic tendonitis? Maybe with the many hours I spent reading numerous books of all kinds or sitting at the piano as an adolescent, improvising then popular songs (like the Beatles), or just playing some fantasy tunes, trying to give shape to my feelings and moods? With the memories of when I ´courted´ my then girlfriend not with words but with passionate songs played on ivory keys - and of my hurt pride and feelings when she, apparently unimpressed, preferred a more world-wise class-mate of mine and left me almost wrecking the poor piano with violent dissonances in e-flat minor hammered on the bass keys?
Or maybe with the first sobering experiences at summer jobs in steel mills, on construction sites, in the roofing business? And with the first 'wild´ parties during these summers at the garden house of a friend, where only a few years before we had been playing Cowboys and Indians, fighting the neighborhood boys, and where now we were sipping wine and/or gin tonics etc., smoking expertly, dancing to loud and slow music, hugging our partners close, feeling very wise, terribly attracted and at the same time a bit afraid of what might come of it?
Or with the final two year of high school that went by like in trance, filled to the brim with a hyped-up mixture of studying, playing billiards, dance class, dating, promising glances, secret meetings on warm summer evenings and at the skating rink in frosty winter nights, summer jobs, parties, the shocks about the death of John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, organizing the graduation ball, ceremoniously opening the polonaise, living through the ups and downs of the final examinations, getting terribly but wonderfully drunk on the afternoon after the oral finals and recovering sufficiently within two hours to gracefully play the role of the class speaker and deliver the public address at the farewell dinner ...
And then the final trip of the graduating class - two weeks together on the beach in what used to be a budding Yugoslav seaside resort (and now is a recovering Croatian seaside resort), with the sun and the sea during the days, dancing and wine in the evening, my first experience at a strip-tease show (rather pathetic, never saw another one) and, a few days later, a heated but somewhat inconclusive evening with a member of a group of Swedish girls that had arrived at our bungalow village...

... then coming home, parties continuing, but noticing how gradually the closeness of all the years of small class community begins to loosen, the growing awareness that a formative period of your life has come to an end, you will not go back to school again in fall ... and by mid-summer everybody has discovered that ... my highschool girl friend tells me about her plans for the future ... I tell her about mine ... and we quietly acknowledge (looking back, it is almost unbelievable how quietly this is done) that we do not appear in each other´s plans ... years of relationships grow pale and finally evaporate under the hot summer sun ... I work another four weeks in the steel mill, read, meet with friends for drinks in the evening, start thinking about how student life will be, what The City will be like ... eager to get away and yet a little hesitant of the unknown ... playing the piano often, taking my leave from people, from places full of sweet and painful memories ... sorting schoolbooks, putting things away ... already growing out of the room I have shared with my ´little brother´ ... out of my parents´ house, my grandmother´s world, my brother´s boyish affection ... growing out ... growing up?

                                                           ­                   © Walter W. Hölbling
Yanehs MagTa Nov 2012
Awaiting was I,
patience safely intact.
As the wind so fiercely flew, 
it blew my patience, away too .

How rude.

Walking was I, now,
confused was how I felt
as a sudden overwhelming sadness
Tore it's way through my body,
thrusting through my chest spitting tears upon my breast.

I stumble as my pace starts to increase...
it's thoughts of you that surfaces to my brain.. 
how dare you settle amongst my mind
how dare you resurface when I had this all sorted out
How dare you pretend you know me when I no longer know myself
How dare I contradict the very essences of my being through, thoughts of you.


A way with you distraughting thoughts, for you have always had a way of fracturing my fragile mind...


The rain she came and put me to more shame.
lame is my heart as my thoughts would not depart.
You may not be the first but, my God, I hope you are the last.
for you make the sun shine through my rain you are the stillness to my day
you are the laughter that chokes my throat.


I know you are with another, but I'm not just any other.
I don't wanna be with you for that repulses my conscience brain, even though I feel for you so. 
I want you to take this all away way, shove it in a bottle and chuck it out to sea
for the lovers that we will never be, to greet.

The echo of your "tomorrows" still ring in my ears,
Tis the creases upon your smiling face, I would still love to embrace. 
I know i said tis the happy you i'd chose and refuse the grump that most times appears..
but i fear that it's the all of you i'd like to greet when it shows to my feet. 

I heard me beat in side your heart once upon our time... 

Don't tell me it's normal to feel this way.
Don't tell me this is how it was all meant to be
and that you were meant for me
For it's still her untouched body that i crave 
what happen to my brave.. 

did you take that from me to the day i spoke to you...


-Yanehs magta
This was written walking home one evening, when suddenly an overwhelming burst of emotions hit me as the rain feel in the same split second it was crazy, i tell you. Suffice the present moments pain i sat on the sidewalk and wrote this. This poem's a product of a few dramas in my life its not one I'd choose to share but I know few can relate to these feelings of being so I share my weeping words, with a smile
Jaclyn Jan 2015
Drowning is the feeling
Where you can't catch a breath
Where your eyes fill with water
Where you can't resurface
Where your darkness surrounds
Drowning is the feeling
Of struggle
Drowning is
Where you make peace with death
Valarola Nikola Aug 2019
The alcohol ***** me up every time,
And I just can't seem to find,
My sanity in the calamity,
Of my ever loving mind,
Because when it's drowning in tequila,
I just want sleep with a fella,
I'll invite over random people from Tinder,
Thank the Lord I haven't been murdered,
Or worse, yes there's worse,
Because I'm suicidal, find me a hearse,
I've been this way,
Since the fourth grade,
When my innocence was broken,
And now I'm just too woken,
To the ways of the world and the **** people in it,
And I just can't seem to find my place among it,

Relapse on the horizon,
If I can't find a way to survive this,
Please someone save me from my drowning before I die,
Because I don't know how to swim in my own mind,

I've been in pieces lately,
Crying sometimes uncontrollably,
And that's just not me,
I'm usually relatively happy,
Cracking jokes, to cover my hurt,
So no one knows just how far down in the dirt,
I really am these days,
How much I just want to fade,
Into oblivion, and never resurface,
Because I put a mask on my face,
And tell everyone I'm okay,
It's like an automatic reaction to say,
To never tell anyone how I really feel,
Which is like garbage if you can deal,
With the truth, but most people can't handle it,
Most people don't want the real ****,

Relapse on the horizon,
If I can't find a way to survive this,
Please someone save me from my drowning before I die,
Because I don't know how to swim in my own mind.
Maddie Jun 2015
You open your mouth
And sputter your poison
Dissolving into others' ears
Climbing it's way up
Up into their brains
Just like a tumor
I hear the rumors
That resurface too often
And explain the truth
Denial, they tell me,
Just proves it's true
What do they know?
My mind is mine
My thoughts are mine
And I like to
Keep them that way
But you reach in
And grab the truth
Then spin it with
Your snake tongue into
Your weaponous poisonous acid
Contaminating other peoples minds
You're supposed to be
A friend of mine
Until you join in
Why won't you stand
Stand up for me
Set it all straight
Because I can't deny
Or it's considered true
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, PO Box 1866, Mountain View, CA 94042, USA.
I cannot take the pain away
From missing you.
And I cannot interfere
With these recurring memories
The ones I thought I’d buried deep
Inside my boundless ocean.

No matter how many songless walks,
Or bottles of wine,
Poured down my long blue sundresses.
From behind my dark brown curtains,
Beneath my raging waves;
Resurface.

And keep smiling to me.
Emily Pidduck Dec 2013
Rocks and trees
are no match for bees
they are too similar
there is no controversy
neither is worthy of the other
                  why...?

the world needs spray
from the crashing waves
to pound against the rocks
and warn off the flocks
of birds battling survival
               are the birds always so reckless?

everything holds danger
to bring out the braver-
for the souls who are lost
too afraid of the cost
but the gravity
of depravity
is unbreakable
                but you've said the chains are heavy, not tight...?

then, unbearable
but that's why there is two
so while one holds the weight
the other regenerates
but neither has the strength to move along
and this goes on
                 but there must be a loop in every cycle?

that's the struggle
but why rise up
when the sky is black
and just that
             can't they see the stars?

aye, but those lights
are part of the night
that never reaches daybreak
in the stillness of late
                       then later, they will resurface?

                                                    ­I stare long and hard at her.
                                                    So simple and innocent
                                                    and persistent
                                                    
 ­                                            She's reached the age of twelve
                                             and the universe is her limit
                                             and she dives in with suggestions
                                             to questions
                                             that I have faced
                                             and crushed
                                             while my reasoning
                                             has imprisoned me

Alright, your turn
I can't answer that last one
I'm still sunk under
these waters

Let's see
if you can bring clarity

                                                        ­   Normally, my pessimistic side
                                                           would shoot down positivity
                                                      ­     and I don't believe
                                                         ­  that she could know
                                                           the words to break my cold

Well, my words aren't as big
but I think simplicity
is the path towards
enlightening

                                           ­     ~giggles/chuckles~
                                                ~our eyes meet~
                                                 Reeeaaallllly?

Yeess, but you've got it wrong
right from the kickoff
so I'll have to start
with rocks

Rocks are the bottom
so trees will grow on
and bees feel safe
'cause the trees are strong
and this composite
of opposite
makes it worth
having both

and the spray of the waves
leaves intervals
so the gulls
can find hide-holes
in the cliffs
while awaiting the fish
see? - survival
...of the fishest


                                                      A­s I wait out her cackle-fest  
                                                      I am uncomfortable
                                                   ­   the simplistic
                                                      ­seems realistic
                                                      w­hich means I was only pessimistic...

And certainly the danger
makes people braver
but it can't be so unbreakable
if you think hard
there can't be such a high cost -
if people are braver
'cause then the danger
just isn't as dangerous

and if there are two people in chains
don't they stand side by side?
i'm sure if you do the math
upholding each other
makes each one strong
and the time they withstand
is twice as long

and if struggling
seems hopeless
when you can't see the sun
can't you feel grateful
that night
hides the demons

eyes can see
only angels fly
with wings that shine
in a darkened sky

                                                                ­                  My brain is scattered
                                                       ­                           as my thoughts are rattled
                                                         ­                         because right now
                                                                ­                  my shadows seem so friendly

It's not hard to resurface
if you know this
and I promise
your scars will heal
because time is the boss
and love is the cost -
and the easiest to pay
'cause each day
it regenerates
until it's all okay


                                                          ­                          I smile at her ending
                                                          ­                          maybe simple, but what I wanted
                                                          ­                          and as she traces the scars on my wrists
                                                          ­                          i'm thinking golly goodness
                                                        ­                            I am a vast pit of empty knowledge
                                                       ­                             I wonder how long she's listened to me
                                                              ­                      and how long she's known I's wrong
                                                           ­                         and I ponder what I know from me

Okay, that seems believable
Ah, crap, you can say it
or, I suppose I should...
altogether you were, completely, entirely, 100% thoroughly and perfectly right
and I
quite...
wasn't

sigh
                                       ­              ~lays head in my hands~


sigh
I'm lost

All I know
is rocks and trees
and trees and rocks
and bees
                                          ~ she giggles~    ~grabs my hand~
There's one more thing
*It's me
I tried to combine poetry and story while keeping both very obviously, so I hope you like it :)
Also, this is between an older brother and his little sister, I pictured him around 16.
Pauline Morris Jan 2016
Floating out in infinite space
Far above the sadistic human race
Drifting in the cosmic flow
No knowing which way I'll go
But I'll be free
As the galaxies

Way past Neptune
Out in space I'll be immune
From sadness and corruption
Way out there, there will be no interruption
From my happy thoughts
From all I forgot

I'll keep on sailing through all the galaxies
I'll do as I please
I'll dive into the stars
Resurface by Mars
Backstroke through the cosmos
I will swim to the utmost

Will I come back
To feeling like I lack
I doubt it
Not without a fit
A fight
Till this world fits right
Till then
You find me on a heavenly wind
I might never come back again
Unless it's on a whim
Asphyxiophilia Jun 2013
She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor,
A brush in one hand and a blade in the other.

She ran the brush through the dull brown,
Dishwater hair that framed her thin face.
Her eyes were sunken in from a recent loss of appetite
(Recent as in the past twenty-four months)
And her cheek bones protruded from her skin
Like the fist of an unborn fetus reaching out.

She fingered the blade in her other hand,
Memorizing each corner and edge,
Pressing it against the pad of her fingertips
And feeling the skin give.

She put down the brush (but not the blade)
And stretched out her legs on the hardwood
Studying her translucent skin and
The waterways of veins that ran beneath
And the concave curves of her knobby knees.

She traced the faint lines
On her paper thin thighs
Made from dull blades
From previous days.

Her failed attempts numbered
More lines than cracks in the
Floorboards, but not this time.
Not anymore.

She lifted the razor to her wrist
And whispered a silent prayer
Between shaking lips and
Closed her eyes and
Pulled back her hand.

She waited.
And waited.
She opened her eyes.
She cautiously looked down
To see a **** running
Vertically down her arm.
But nothing was pouring out
As it should have been.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

The blade hit the floor as she bolted out of her room,
And down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

Her mother was sitting at the table
With a cold cup of coffee sitting sadly beside her,
But it wasn't her mother,
But the shell of the mother she once knew.
Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands were bony
And her nose was red and her fingers were swollen.
And sitting in a high-chair beside her,
Was a child with wide-eyes and
Shrilling laughter.

The child seemed to sense her presence
For it looked into her eyes,
And it gave her goosebumps.

She ran to her mother and
Waved her hands in front of her
But her mother didn't seem to register
Her daughter before her.

"Mom! Mom? Can you hear me?"
But she didn't make a sound.

She noticed a picture on the refrigerator
So she slowly approached it.
It was a 5 x 7 of her sophomore year,
Six months before her disease appeared.
Her face was full and her hair was long,
Her eyes were bright and her smile was strong.
She could hardly recognize herself, anymore.

She noticed another picture beneath,
A newspaper clipping dated September thirteenth
The first day she ever played
"Trace the Vein"
With her blade.

And right beside the headline titled
"Young Teen Commits Suicide"
Was the picture of her full face
From sophomore year.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

She felt a throbbing in the back of her head
Like a hand nudging her brain,
Or a distant, forgotten memory,
Trying to resurface again.
But she shoved it back in.

She ran back to her mother,
Again waving her hands.
"Mom! Can you hear me? I'm sorry,
I never meant for this to happen."
But her mother was quiet
And the baby just stared.

She turned back to the staircase
But her knees started to shake
And she fell to the ground,
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Like streaks of fire,
They started to burn.

And she screamed
And she screamed
But she didn't make a sound.

She lifted her hand,
To wipe the tears from her eyes,
But her hand was breaking,
And cracking and dying.

She watched her fingers
And then her skin
And then her veins
And then her bones
Break like brittle and
Fall to the ground in a
Mound of dirt and ash.

Her hair drifted down
Like dead leaves in the fall
And her rib cage cracked like
A crumbling wall
And her body caved in
And she wilted away
Because she was already dead
And buried in her earthen grave.
k e i May 2017
her patience was starting to wear thin, impatience growing as one of the pervs from the table across his eyes preying on her. she gave him the finger and her hardest glare.

where the hell are you  she typed out, texting him

be there in ten i kinda just got out of bed...sorry

she just sighed looking out the glass panes that gave a view of the busy street, letting her thoughts wander. sam was waiting for her bestfriend, noah to show up. she was going to help him find a flower shop that caters black roses. he was going to give it to jean, the girl of his dreams as he liked to call her (sam just knew how much of a cliche he was underneath; they barely had a conversation in which he didn't insert her-sam stuck up with it and listened to him, always assuring him that he's going to get her who wouldnt)

"sorry im late" he says, panting as he arrives, varsity jacket slung in his arms

"you owe me" sam says cooly, ignoring the drum pounding in her chest. he looked like he always did; and gave off the same effect to all the girls in town (he had quite a following though he didn't mind)

playfully he rolls his eyes at sam and the two walk their way into his beat up camaro (which was very good at overheating and taking too long to start)

"bet this thing would come up with its tricks again" sam started with their usual banter

"oh hell no it's got my back"

"your flat back"

"my bootiful ***"

sam scoffed "wanna bet?"

"game on" noah smugly retorts with the smug smirk on his face that showed off his angelic structures

"on three two....." sam had her fingers crossed please don't work please don't

noah tried gunning the engine a few more times, turning the key into the hole over and over again but the engine kept dying. he tried for one more time;it was a miracle that it did. he faced sam who's face turned down into a frown. "ha you owe me now"

"i owe you none" she says slumped in her seat though deep inside she was enjoying this. their friendship had alot of these immature playfulness which she usually started.

"just buy me an extra waffle cone and we're even"

"*******"

noah laughed and sam heard the lilt in his laugh that she grew fondly of. they drove off the road with only the radio to filter the silence for a while. sam started tracing patterns on the car window.

she felt something for noah and it wasn't something she expected, neither was it something she was looking for. the first time they ever interacted was in a class they both had. his eyes had that mischievous spark that day and  he wore a devilish grin-sam thought he was the perfect guy to turn into one of her casualties or better yet get his heart broken. but all they did after class that day was hangout and drive around town. sam was quite shocked with the numerous things they have in common. since then, they've meant alot to each other. although it was different for sam. sometime in their friendship she started feeling something for him, someting more than friends do .she hated it; the thought of it made her want to rev her guts out;

she was never the type to like guys or girls and fantasize about them being together or even feeling the same way. she was the type of girl who played with guys for a night (a week was her longest) whenever she felt like it. she toyed with their hearts and felt satisfied when she saw them with tears in their eyes. she felt no remorse for leaving them in the gutter. she was never vulnerable  she was a heartbreaker. she was that type of girl. but with noah it was all different, it was all new. it was like being on the other side of the spectrum

it frustrated her, all of it. most of all the fact that she couldn't do anything about it. she couldn't just steal him away from jean especially now that he stood a chance. plus, he was serious about her, sam could tell-even if she tried making moves on him, he'd leave because that wasn't how he knew her-they went so well together: her being on the cheerleading squad with her perfect friends and her perfect grades, perfect life ahead and him being the quarterback of the football team and the perfect college waiting for him, heir to his father's company someday-they were the power couple. they deserve each other sam thought bitterly. she could be one of the "perfect" girls in her school if she tried. but she didn't, didn't find the need to because why bother? she'd rather be on the outside and deal with her own company and just resurface whenever she felt like it. he had dreams;she didn't. she was just a heartbreaker, a mess.

yet she didn't want to lose noah; couldn't lose noah-it wasn't a risk she was willing to take. around him she let down the high walls she usually was encaged in and instead had vine trellises wrapping around her almost as if caressing her. it wasn't like in the movies but it was a **** cliche which she felt in gradual waves.she could hear wind chimes in the edges of her nicotine corrupted lungs whenever she was with him and none of the nails splintering against board in the emptiness of her house she felt in the dark while her sister slept soundly in the next room, none of the stale unfamiliarity of her mother working herself thin in her round the clock shifts, staggering home the next morning smelling like alcohol. she felt something other than the hollow in her stomach when she's out partying with strangers, the bass sounding too much like her heart breaking and her existence decomposing. she felt none of the filth she did when she slept with guys and let them make love with their exes through her body. she felt none of all the ugliness, heard none of the monsters' calls. noah made her feel pure. made her feel bliss. there was no irony, no catches, no waiting for the other shoe to drop in what they shared.

some days she's accepted that they'd always remain platonic, that it was better for them to stay this way. but today wasn't one of those days, for it was one where she wanted nothing but to plant her lips against his and make him tell her that he feels the same, for him to wrap her arms around her and bury her face in the crook of his neck, drown in all their memories, become the memories become an us. it wasn't love but he made her feel loved.

her daydreams were cut short when noah parked the car infront of the flower shop near the outskirts of town. she smoothed her hair as noah opened the car door for her. she felt her palms sweat, immediately telling her brain that he was really just sweet and it's jean that he likes stop spewing up hurricanes and thunders for every sweet thing he does.

"so first stop"

"i still don't get why you can't just buy her a bouquet of plain roses and spray paint it black. i'll help out yknow" she replies in her usual mocking way as they enter the shop, the floral fragrance enveloping them.

"because you gotta put all your effort and your heart to get her"

"yeah right, hey you gotta put effort in spray painting too yknow like shaking the can and making sure the roses are all covered. we can cover your heart in black paint as well if we still got any left" she replies sarcastically as they start perusing for black roses.

he rolls his eyes at his best friend, throwing one of the discarded dandelions at her direction. she picks one up and throws it at him quickly. it was only a matter of minutes til they were both on the floor laughing, sneezing in intervals, dandelions scattered around them. the florist scolded them when he saw the mess they caused and made them pay for a daisy and a petunia boquet that was haphazardly upturned in their rowdiness-no black rose in sight.

sam laughed as noah took out his wallet and paid the florist who's face was now red. she heard him mutter a sheepish apology and for a moment, she allowed or tried to let herself get lost in the fact that she and her bestfriend were spending the day together she tried to forget that she was spending the day with him to help him be with the girl that he likes.
hi this is my first time here
and this is a new writing style of mine
let me know what you think about it
x
Young Soda Nov 2015
wake up from your adventures, and take a dab.
don't take it far, thats not your job
the dab will take you as far as needed
and you're blankets will resurface.

put on your garments, and take a dab.
the day is new, and its age unknown
its crispy mood has woken your hairs.
You'll need to wear those socks.

Have a potato, and take a dab.
theres plenty more, so don't rush
the savory maple cloud, of pancake.
the coffee is void of the cow milk.

greet your neighbor, and take a dab.
His dog will have a bath, the cat
the rabbit, the finch, the turtle, the mouse,
they will all be thinking about oats.

Hop off your bike, and take a dab.
the ocean left you clean, the sun
a blueish green shade of wandering.
you're a person, in their shoes.

put on some tunes, and take a dab.
the day was tall, hungry and sharp.
the yellow sky fogged with milk
is calling you from your bed.

open the drapes, and take a dab.
the dancing wind will have its supper
and your nose will get to drink.
the green air finds your shirt.

Its been a long life of living
so take a dab
and wake up in a new one
to take more dabs.
Bailey B Dec 2009
I step towards the pool.
You look at me like each step is the end of my life.
I swing my leg on the side.
You flinch.

I laugh at your expression.
You didn't find it quite so funny.
I guess it's really not that funny to you,
how your mouth puckers into a straight line when you hear me laugh,
like the picket fence outside the house you were born in,
only the stark white boards of that fence don't curve downwards at the ends.

There's a fine line of difference between us,
the difference being "don't", "won't", "can't"
and other four letter words, such as "fear", "play", and "lame".

I stifle my laughter and try again to coax you to the edge, the edge of the earth.
You frown, and back away, mumbling like that one Muppet.
Beaker, right?
"Come down!" Beaker cries. "You're being crazy!"
Meepmeep.
The thought of this causes me to laugh again.
You. A Muppet.
You would die if you knew.

I take another step, another, another, further away from you,
up the metal rungs to the top of the world.
The ground slaps beneath me, resilient and springy like summer grass.
I remember your face, panicked, frantic.

I dove.
You claimed you couldn't.

From the bottom of the pool, the world is crisp and clear,
like a vat of liquid nitrogen biting at my skin.
When I resurface it becomes blatantly evident.

I dry off and walk away through the counter.
Don't try to follow me.
I tried.
You didn't.
Maybe I AM crazy.

The bottom line is
even though I'm afraid of heights,
I still climbed that ladder.
Jade Jan 2019
From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
sailor
explorer
scientist
poet
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
grievances--
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
imagination--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
unbelievable--
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

now,
they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

{Atlantic}
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

jadefbartlett.wixsite.come/tickledpurple

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Rea Dec 2021
18
any ground 18 stood on crumbled as all once-great nations do.
the flame of hope that had kept the lights on
turned and burned down the wooden roofs,
while the archers left arrowheads in flesh.
lakes of insurmountable grief covered the ruins of who she once was.
in moments of cruelty, she could feel the bottom of the waters,
could feel the glory of the old self.
the wickedness was that she did not possess the strength to lift it up again, could not resurface glimmering gems.
left without sight and taste, doomed to the brush of fingertips.
Every year on my birthday, I write something to summarize that year. This is part of my ode to 18. Good riddance honestly.
Madness is upon us**

and this..
This will be the end as we know it.

The stratosphere has kept the heavens to quiver
Thunders roared
Lightnings have struck
Rain blissfully starts to shower
The men and their atrocities must drown

Days upon days
We are left to surrender
Lost in a bermuda of the past
Never to resurface in the light

Give in
Never give up
Fight
Accept
Surrender

It's time for us to truly live a life.
ryn Apr 2021
If spoken words meant the same

and if they still sing the memories of

full breaths and shared palms,


the steady elapsed ticks of the long-sunken

hand will resurface once more to chronicle

the suns of days and stars of nights.
topaz oreilly Jan 2013
There is a brisk  discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface  buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.
andrea rose Jun 2013
In the wake
of your words,
the embers burn.
Feelings, thoughts, my ideas of you
smolder all around.
And I'll toss your ashes to the wind.
Maybe you'll
resurface again.
Tess Mar 2014
Return and
Resurface
To tell us that our
Lives our worthless
Our doubt will
Set fire
To our dreams and
Our desires

We fight but
For nothing
There’s no sound
When you’re listening
For answers
To questions
Screamed into a
Vast oblivion

And where were
You when I
Asked your gods
To let me die
Gibberish
Promises
Pleas to all those
Cold and heartless

If you loved
Me truly
Would you let them
Cut right through me
Or would you
Cover me
Just one more
Broken body

The question
Still remains
How many more
Wailing refrains
Till my mind
Is empty
And I’ve released
The enemy

Just one more
Verse till we
Can fade away
So quietly
Black background
Senselessness
Just echoes
In the darkness

Return and
Resurface
To tell us that our
Lives our worthless
Our doubt will
Set fire
To our dreams and
Our desires
Wandering through our cage
We once came here with a purpose
But our spirit has escaped the bars
And we are left chained to the surface

Living to work, working for wealth,
And gaining wealth for what?
To survive? For sport?
Certainly not for joy or value.

Without true purpose
Null of spirit

I have forgotten I have a soul
And you have forgotten you can resurface
scully Oct 2015
its taken me too long to unstitch my hands and free every thought you shuffled and stuck inside of my head

one. i think you lost me somewhere between wanting to cross miles to get to me and forgetting i exist because at some moments it feels like you worked overtime to fix the abandon architectural artwork inside of me like i was community service

two. after you came and knocked down trees and shifted the tides, every ounce of clarity was able to mirror
your whimsical efforts of drowning me out with pretty girl phrases and only calling me when you were too high to choke out my name

three. i had something inside of me that was kept under glass and i let you behind closed doors and watched you destroy it
i let you build me up with toy blocks just how you wanted me, and i let you lose interest when you decided it was more fun to knock me down and listen to the noise i made when i hit the concrete

four. the Worlds Most Fragile museum was being catered to in the holes in my chest and if i was an armoire and you opened me up your name in red pen ink would spill out of me over thousands of artifacts and priceless memories that you've bubbled over and consumed

five. even as i write this, you'd think i would find a home in an elementary classroom by the way i can barely remember how to speak
and ive got no doubt that you went out with your usual bang
and when you left you took a goodbye that never quite delivered and all of my words with you

six. my grandmother told me insects sing, for months, the same song in hopes that they will attract a mate with their repetitive soliloquies and maybe that's my hope when i tell you i love you even when you hurt me, hope that maybe one day you will pick up the phone and echo my ache with a clear, sober melody that sounds like home.

im sure the insects will find someone who enjoys their neurotic patterns and im sure i will sleep alone in an uncomfortable bed only shushing the silence as the mailcart comes by my front lawn and pauses for a second as if it empathizes with the way i stand at the door.

seven. im always waiting for a manilla package addressed to me
containing every night i spent trying to be anxiously clever and overlooking your bad judgement and the flickers across your sentences where you were forcing yourself to care

eight. every night all i receive is the crickets and a reminder that the letters that spell out your name had become my own personal hamartia before i started whispering it in my sleep

nine. ever since we met you've infected my veins like you were a deadly back alley drug and there's something so addicting about wanting to fix someone and figure them out and work for their love

ten.  if you steal my expressions and bury them in your ground and stick a wooden stake through my last words in order to make sure i only resurface when your sobriety is fully compromised, i will, as writers do, create myself a new dictionary

the act of your name will become a verb: forcing time to scrub the inside of every part of me you touched like im a sold off garage sale item and you're trying to expurgate any emotional damage that might have been done to lower my price

the way the bugs echo will become an adjective for when i am too tired to go out and pretend that my feet arent sinking into the floor

the drilled-for-oil glass museum in my heart will become a noun;  the eighth wonder of the world, and i will continue to let people destroy it and piece it back together for the sake of art

the way you left me and the ferocity of how you stole every part of me i showed you will join adverbs and Aristotle's tragedy principles among people who created their own cloudbursts.

the way i wrap everything i've wanted to say to the back of your head as you walk away into a bulletpoint essay will become my new definition for poetry and i will build myself up from the ashes i will create from your destruction, i will sing my own songs and showcase my own museums and mail my own letters and i will **continue.
*******
M Jan 2014
You dipped your toe hesitantly into the water and pulled it right out.
I was already in, swimming freely as I forgot you were still on the shore.
I'd always taken to skinny dipping over bathing suits. I like the freedom, I like the way my bare skin feels in the water.
I turned around to see you looking out at me on from the shore, a hand over your eyes to shield them from the glaring, blazing sun.
I dipped my head below the water up to my nose, so you could only see my eyes as my hair fanned out over the water.
I could see it in the way you stood there alone- you were unsure. You were scared. The way you fingered at your shorts and the way you moved your hand from shading your eyes to instinctively rubbing at your hairline said it all. You were petrified of diving in like I had.

I used to be like that too.
I used to sit on the shore as the sun scalded my scalp and peppered my shoulders with little brown spots.
I used to dip my toes in and step back, watching the ripples go out in the water from my little interference.
I was afraid that ripple would unstill all of the solidity and security I had in my life.
I was afraid to make a scene, scream with joy as I crashed into the water.
I was afraid to be bare and seen and open to someone else, much less in broad day light.
I was afraid it would make me childish or foolish.
I was afraid to just go for it.
I was so afraid of getting in and feeling the waters chill and feeling insecure and ultimately feeling like I could get left alone there in my bare state, wondering how I could have been so open in the first place.

And one day, I realized diving in head first was the only way to go.
I couldn't live on the banks and only dip in my toes.
I couldn't go my whole life not knowing how to swim.
So one day, I jumped right in.
I screamed with joy.
I laughed as he splashed me and held me under the water and threw me around playfully.
He held me and it felt like something I can't describe.
We swam for some time until I realized I couldn't tread his waters anymore.
It felt like I was fighting to just stay afloat, like I was drowning ten times over.

I cried my own sea when he left.
So I know what it's like to tread this water alone.
I know how ******* scary it is to go underneath for 5 seconds and resurface to unstilled water and empty horizons.
I know how gut wrenching it is to dry yourself off alone and leave just the same.
I know how that can sometimes leave you with  the notion that not only do you not want to swim, but maybe you can't ever do it again.

I can't promise we'll swim together forever.
I can't promise we'll get out together either.
But you will never know if you don't dive in.
So when I watched you dip your toe in, I realized I needed to come get you myself.
Sometimes people can't just jump in.

I walked out of the water and grabbed your hand.
You sheepishly looked down, and I smiled and lifted your chin. I understand what you're feeling, trust me.
I saw the sun catch your eyelashes and make your eyes shine just a big brighter than they usually do.
I rose up on my tip toes and whispered into your ear, "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and jump in. Dive right in and let me show you how to swim. I'll go first, and you can jump into my wake."

I turned and jumped without a second thought.
That's what you do when you're committed.

Maybe wouldn't follow.
Maybe you'd leave.
Maybe you'd scoff at what I'd said.
And that's the catch. Some people will.
But not you.
I resurfaced to catch you momentarily screaming as you hit the water.
I caught your moment of carefree, genuine joy.
You came up, water droplets falling from your hair down your face to return to the water.
Your eyes gave the water a run for it's money, they were so blue and bright I'd thought maybe the sea had met the sun and created them.
You smiled at me and laughed, loudly and heartily.
You swam to me and splashed my face, which made you laugh harder.
My smile must have been too big for my face because you hooked an arm around my waist, our feet lightly kicking each other as we tried to stay afloat.
You kissed my sundried lips and coyly offered,
"So, is this how you prefer to swim?"

Frankly yes, it is my preferred way-
Bare, all in, openly and freely, with little to no inhibitions.
I swim with the notion that I'm being as genuine and bare as I could ever be.
It's the same way I love people.
It's the same way I love you,
And it's how I hope you love me.
StakesV Sep 2017
he moves, like a dream
—memories that resurface from murky depths,
scenes cut out from rolls of film, flickering.

he moves, like a song
—glittering stars that descend from the heavens,
the sound of water hitting the rocks, never-ending.

he moves, like a wish
—prayers from you to me, from me to you, from us to God,
deep and shallow breaths in the interstice of smiles, promising.

he moves, like a warrior
—ink that never runs out til its story has been told,
cries that can be heard from deep inside, reverberating.

he moves, and he moves
—and he stops,
chilling.

he moves.
inspired by yuzuru hanyu
Matthew Walker Dec 2013
Sometimes when my mind drifts
it goes back to endless hallways
and that all too familiar scent
overtakes my senses

My spine actually cringes
at the thought of the needles
piercing the central nervous system
they forgot to numb

my thoughts swim in the pools
that formed in my mother's eyes
as she quoted the neurologist
"your son is dying."

I can still taste the confusion
that drowned my confidence
and left me wondering
if it'll ever resurface

my dreams never stopped crying,
if they even have the chance to exist
they're nothing short of terrifying,
nightmares replaced the rest

it's odd that I can remember
the sickness that consumed me
but completely and utterly forget
the happiness that prequeled it
12/29/13
sofia Jul 2020
i am home.
here in the water
nothing else exists
just me and a fish
or two
i open my eyes
to see nothing
but darkness
somehow, it remains light
in my heart
because nothing is
touching me
except for
the cool
pressure all around
my body
the water holding me close
a tight hug
until i resurface
Sahar Jul 2023
As I record my thoughts down, new memories resurface.
The dusty-green leaves of the lemon tree—
swayed gracefully beside the tranquil pond,
where the fish wandered in liberty.
Moss had begun to propagate around the curves of the pond. Intermittently, koi and guppies-
the size of a human pinkie—
would leap into the air briefly
before plunging back into the water,
disrupting its placid surface.
2/3

— The End —