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zoie marie lynn Jan 2018
i told my therapist about you,
while your lips were still slathered alllll over my body.
i showed her the places we had been,
and all the things we had seen.
i told her what lies underneath that pretty
                                              pretty
skin of yours,
and i told her how i knew.
i spelt out your name as she scribbled it on her cute little clipboard,
i told her about the   first     night
and the      second
and the   fourth
and that time in the closet.
i told her everything,
i really just wanted to   get
                                                  you
                                      out  
of my brain,
it didn't matter if saying these things put me in  sososo  much pain.
because you've  moved   on  so why can't i?
i told my therapist about you,
but i still can't tell you
                                           goodbye.  
i know i'm  s t u p i d,
for holding on this l
                               o
                                n
                             ­    g,
i know it's useless,
for wishing you weren't                              gone.
but my words carry on like a heartbeat
s     l      o      w
steady
                          fast
u   s   e   d
  n    t   a   y
i   keep   keep   keep  breaking and breaking and breaking and
i told my therapist about you.
i think part of the reason why we hold onto something so tight is because we fear something that great will never ever happen twice

****
i was in so much pain when i wrote this, my lover had just left with two years of my life and i felt so so so alone. i chewed through therapists constantly, they left me behind because i was too broken to fix. i hated them all. but there was this one, this one singular human being that listened to me. she didn't flinch, she didn't look at me like i was a broken puppy left for death. she just listened. i was all over the place, but i managed to lay out my entire mind for her to dissect. and she did. she helped me so so much, and i could never repay her enough for how she has helped me. when i got home, i wrote the basics of this. it was like 12:30 when i wrote it and i couldn't sleep the next night so i decided to make this look exactly how i felt when i wrote it the night before. how my lover made me feel for so long. so i did. i was crying mountains, i was hyperventilating, i threw my phone through the wall. i put all my anger, blood, tears in each letter, each space. i put it all in there and then posted it a couple weeks later. i didn't show anyone. i just put it out there, hoping my lover would see it. but it didn't even matter cause when i woke up, the whole world saw it instead. thank you. i love you all.
Michael Smit Nov 2018
Close your eyes and you will see
All is not what it seems to be
There is a story unspoken
That left my mind a woken
a Stolen token
My wound reopen

My reign of fire
My hearts desire
You are a liar
So burn in fire

I crossed the line
Had it not been define
a Wrap in time
a Story of mine

They call me the worst witch
Because I tend to switch
I make them glitch
Because I'm the witch

I enchant your mind
Forcing you to find
The power that hides
Inside

My power is running out
And I am left in doubt
This is my final spell
The last to tell
I wish you well
ryn Feb 2015
.
•...mouth
wide  op-
en, glis-
tening...
in the li-
ght•aw-
aiting to
swallow
this lone
piece of parch-
ment•on it i've scribbled
all my heart could write•bea-
ring sweet nothings, sure and si-
lent•now... take this scroll•down
your neck... it'll effortlessly slide...
•to the core of your very soul•my
message would  follow your gui-
de•your opening i'd then gladly
seal •so your contents would...
remain guarded • time is now
to set adrift all i feel...•....now
ride the waves through jour-
ney uncharted•let the curr-
ents take you• let the tides
and winds be your friends
• ...  my quiet well wishes
would see you through •
in hopes that you would
be received by my love's
deserving... and...  open



*hands•
Befrilled Godfather, why tune Yours to mine
These Rightful Verses your Country observes
I, an Eastern Bun's Lord in Mind consign
Put my Pun in-place for their own Reserves
Now this, a Muse if your Clock does witness
Would burn me at stake or hang me condemned
All because such Organs defy Fitness
And thought the ****** I will reprehend
I grow tired of this evident Trough
Whilst you once scribbled Trademarks with your Quill
How, my Heart-Nosed Configure such enough
Yet wish to join you in your White Pipes, still.
Your Epitaph stays; I dare not complete
Just press these Roses your Approval, meet.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Samuel Hoffmann Jul 2018
I'm just a ******* facade;
It's all just ******* facades.

It's just one ******* sheet of plywood,
painted all picturesque,
with smiles and hobbies and future
that's all.
And if you look behind it,
if you ever care enough,
to look through the painted windows,
or turn the drawn handle
on the brown scribbled door
you'd see a note.
All I am is a note.

Just one singular piece of paper,
with one crayon written line:

"Fooled you."
Okay, so I have been trying to be more positive as of lately but this is kinda a step backwards. But its also a relatively old poem, written maybe 6 months back. Enjoy.
Kichiya Hayashi Jul 2018
Feels like plain
and
peaceful all at once
ocean scent lingers
through my skin
emotions scribbled
and leaves are falling
skies darkens and
soul is weary
unfolding bliss
as I continue walking
Enjoying the wind ^^
Knit Personality Oct 2016
Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.

#
Morgan Mercury Jul 2013
Time sails around us,
leaving the present left to rust.
All my love is written below the earth
and spaces between the stars,
in the oldest language.

And we lay on our backs
crushing the grass.
You told me to wait,
but I can't wait forever.
so you said, "come along and travel
among these childlike places with me."
I said I'd follow you as far as to the moon's oldest side.

And then all at once, I'm a child again.
A child who would waste their time playing
in the naked creeks and thought of the unthinkables.

I was always trying to find my way to you
yet I was never scared of getting lost
for I followed the stars you mapped out for me
on the back of an old construction paper
that you scribbled across with stardust.

And on the night of the blue moon
I found you on a piece of paper
written 70 years ago.
you wrote to me telling me to always
keep looking and wait patiently
for the days that are to come.

and wait I did.
Doctor Who
Eleven/Amy
2013
EJR Jul 2015
he was your favorite poet
he touched you with all your favorite quotes
he held you with the perfect rhymes

but darling, you were just his outlet
you were just another poem that he wrote
words that he scribbled just to past the time
for you. you know you deserve better then this :)
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
come to me,
my beloveds
with long nails
and squinting eyes,
spare neither
claw or hook,
delve and devolve,
critique and solve
the words of this prophet
scribbled on plastic
bus seats

give me
my due,
my comeuppance,
my downfalls

will me
to be better
or worse
if that be betterment

so eagerly
will embrace,
grasp, insert
your benailing fingers,
soften, grasp,
repoint thy claws
taking thy earnest joy
at pain inflicted
as my own
as long as you dare
just say something!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bus poem
in honor of my invitation  
my digital birthing

April 8th, 2015
Jasmine Garcia Oct 2017
Love
scribbled
hues
And etched
onto hearts
Brushed
imperfections
Canvassed
unconditional
warmth
and fondness
Set forth
with clarity
Bolded
with joy
Contoured
with passion
  Embellished!  
a soulful
craft of
lovers' masterpiece.
A short scene, a picture and a written description of art and love
Amanda Jul 30
it was the kind of
realization
that shook the entire earth
off its axis
by at least a degree

his name—
the one she had scribbled
into the margins
of her life story—

was written in pencil
and all this time
i thought i was using pen
will19008 Jul 11
the nasty bleeding
half-written
bloodstained ******* lines
unfinished
verses

ear-piercing weeping
mournful
failed prose scribbled
pathetically
broken

to touch people’s hearts
wishing—
tears wait in shadows
stories still
unspoken
It's never easy to span the many distances among heart and head and language and the keyboard of my laptop.  Perhaps I should go back to paper and pencil...

I just removed the original first verse:

my fake dreams
shattered
my stupid mind monsters
woefully
bellow

I think it didn't need it.  Did it?
Abbigail Jan 2014
I want to know what you were like as a child.
I want to look through all your toddler pictures
and read the notes you scribbled for your mom
when you were four.
Who was your best friend,
and were you afraid of the dark?

I want to know how old you were when you got rid of your legos,
and I want to hear about your first crush.
Did you write her love letters or did you call her names
and steal her things?
Would she ever know of your plans to marry her in your backyard?

I want to meet your mom.
I want to hear the things you talk with her about,
if you laugh and joke and if you watch your words too carefully when she's around.
I want to ask her questions you wouldn't know the answers to,
Like how to make you smile when you don't feel like it
and what it is you hide behind when you're scared.

I want to learn the differences in your sighs
and of which of your smiles is most sincere.
I want to separate your thinking face and your sad face
and I want to know where to stand when you're angry,
far away or do you still want me to hold your hand?

I want to know your deepest fears and I want to figure out why
you're afraid of anything at all.
I want to hear your favorite joke and listen to your favorite song.
I want to read your favorite book and I want to know everything that you love about it.
I want to hear the story of the best day of your life,
and of the worst.

I want to hear about everyone you've ever loved
and what you loved about them.
I want to discover which pieces of you grew
and which pieces turned cold with each break of your heart.
I want to know the last time something made you cry
and what it was
and whether or not it still makes you cringe.

I want to know your views on fate and free will,
and did you ever believe in God?
I want to hear of your hopes and your plans and your ultimate desires.
I want to hear about every time you've been hopeless
and whether or not you believe in soul mates.

I want to find the place where you stash away your insecurities.
I want to learn of the parts of you that you've grown to love,
When did you realize you had something to offer the world,
and do you ever let yourself forget it?

I want to examine your brain in all its entirety
and I want to read the libraries within,
The shelves that hold the stories of every
experience that made you
And the notebooks with the scribbled poems
before you ever tore them up.
Carter Ginter Mar 2018
Pen and pencil residue
Scribbled across a crumpled page
My words
His words
Yours
What do they all mean?
Still they make me feel things
Tears staining old papers
Not sure where these thoughts come from
It's been a long time now
Though it feels like just yesterday
These empty vibrations we put out back then
Still find a way to reach me now
This sting will last an eternity
Unless I throw it all away
And let the memories fade
gracie Oct 2018
Boy, I see you tremble,
tear-stains on your cheek:
sad little music notes
scribbled on a sheet.

Dear, tell me who hurt you,
who left you so bruised?
I'll be the melody
of a sweeter tune.

Darling, sing me a song,
a hymn from your heart,
and together we'll be
a new work of art.
jt May 2014
1) I am the half-pint of hope in a plastic cup, not the full litre of utopia in the bottle of sanguinity.

2) I am the cracks in the side-walk, not the perfectly paved path for positive people.

3) I am everything the fire left behind, not the half-salvaged items saved from the burning wreck that steals oxygen.

4) I am just a cigarette you put between your lips, not the romanticised fad people say it is.

5) I am the heaving through heavy lungs, not the clear inhaling and exhaling of oxygen through untainted lungs.

6) I am the awkward silence, not the deafening silence that people love.

7) I am the heart that still imagines the ghost of your fingertips on it , not the one that is covered with love bites and dark bruises constituted of unbridled lust.

8) I am the jagged path of unsteady thoughts, not the ebb and flow of consciousness.

9) I am scattered thoughts quickly scribbled in an old moleskin notebook, not sad love droning about his eyes.

10) I am mottled blood stains on bleached floors, not those oddly beautiful blood patterns you see in ****** scenes.

11) I am the static on the television which matches the thoughts in your mind, not the always-very-strong-signalled antenna on your rooftop.

12) I am a burning building screaming for help, not the beautiful luxury homes that are fireproof.

13) I am not flawless, I am the imperfections that are difficult to embrace.
I could waste anything if "anything"
were made to fall like seconds
from a clock face.

"Perspective" was scribbled
on the title page of the tattered
copy of The Merchant of Venice
I found in jail.

It collects dust on my shelf now.

More seconds.
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