Corey Jul 30
You don’t need to do anything to be loved.

When you’re young you learn how to do a lot of new things like how to ride a bike, or how to swim. Some of them are difficult at first but then they get easier. Some of these things come to you naturally. You excel at them and learn how to get better.

You are the latter. Loving you is easy. Not the type of easy where it’s quick to lose interest, but the type where I’m surprised so many times throughout the day by just how easy you make it on me. I expect the worst and you give me the opposite. You continually show me that loving doesn’t have to be an uphill battle, but can simply be.
Faith Jul 7
I rip myself apart,
Piece by piece.
I place bits of my heart,
Into your hands.

I tear my soul,
Little by little,
And gift a morsel:
But when will I realize,
You never asked for me,
Or my vulnerability?

Remaining transfixed.
You step on my soul,
Dirty it,
Bury it,
Beneath soil,
Without a second glance.
No mercy,
Or pity,
In your eyes.
Simply and only,
A slight surprise.
You never asked for my care,
And were never aware,
Of all I invested,
All that manifested,
Beneath my shell,
Deep within my heart.
So why would you mind,
Tearing it apart?
Adilson Smith Oct 2017
My voice begins to creak
When we’re lying face to face
So I smile instead of speak.

But then you ask me to express
My feelings to your face --
But my voice begins to creak!

And I struggle to redress
My dumb, unbidding gaze
And so I smile instead of speak.

So then I pull you to my chest,
Pull you close enough to taste!
But feel my voice begin its creak

And leave my feelings unexpressed,
Leave my tongue within its case,
And simply smile instead of speak.

So when I link us back to breast
With arms around your waist;
It’s cause my voice begins to creak
That I smile instead of speak.
My stab at a villanelle. Any feedback welcome.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to erect idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
patty m May 2014
Pride is vacuous

shattering in disbelief;

dust of my life

stones of irony

the wall I built crumbles.

Love is never love, I call it pain,

and hearts are never valentines

but simply dreams turned ashen.


Fevered wind bearing dead blossoms

I embrace grief

wrapped in tired days,

the sameness my extinction;

alone the world is silent

an inlet to forgotten soul.

Where is the sheen,

the fragrance, the passion rising?

I yearn to yell,

to war and never knuckle under

but life is murk and mire

and love is quicksand;

better to hate

and die in battle

or quickly drown.

Sameness has no music

in its sonata to crows,

even living is exile

in the shadow of shadows.
Next page