"smuged" poems - Hello Poetry

Rereading conversations Remembering the past You love him You hate to say it I'm your metaphorical God You're depressed You want to go home You want to leave the town You already left You have to come back Life is rough Living as a misfit No one will understand Understand your depression Unless they have felt it Sadness for no reason Feeling like a freak Like a misfit Because of the way you feel Yet you have to appologize For the things they did They need to apologize to you For being an ignerent **** Expecting you to be happy When all you want to do is cry You thought you left this town Tear soaked bed Makeup smuged pillows Terrible memories Terrible mistakes Terrible guilt You thought you left it all behind But you didn't You have to be the stronger person Even though you're Breaking at the seams You aren't apologizing anymore For their ignorance They won't understand Just wanting to sleep Cry Cut Tear the skin off of their body The awkwardness The innocent watching You hate yourself And your feelings You want to go back to where you came from Leave this town Leave it a mystery if your coming back Ever Or never You're still stuck With the tear soaked bed And makeup smuged pillows You don't know if you can handle it I'm here I'm going to help you Help you through those terrible nights That, that I promise you will happen

0

Feb 28, 2015

Feb 28, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC

hopeless-wonderland

Misfits

Rereading conversations Remembering the past You love him You hate to say it I'm your metaphorical God You're depressed You want to go home You want to leave the town You already left You have to come back Life is rough Living as a misfit No one will understand Understand your depression Unless they have felt it Sadness for no reason Feeling like a freak Like a misfit Because of the way you feel Yet you have to appologize For the things they did They need to apologize to you For being an ignerent **** Expecting you to be happy When all you want to do is cry You thought you left this town Tear soaked bed Makeup smuged pillows Terrible memories Terrible mistakes Terrible guilt You thought you left it all behind But you didn't You have to be the stronger person Even though you're Breaking at the seams You aren't apologizing anymore For their ignorance They won't understand Just wanting to sleep Cry Cut Tear the skin off of their body The awkwardness The innocent watching You hate yourself And your feelings You want to go back to where you came from Leave this town Leave it a mystery if your coming back Ever Or never You're still stuck With the tear soaked bed And makeup smuged pillows You don't know if you can handle it I'm here I'm going to help you Help you through those terrible nights That, that I promise you will happen

60

You were willow trees and Ice lollies on sunny days You were yellow shorts and Grinning at nothing Now you're blurry memories and Feeling full of regret Now you're wooden masks and Smuged charcoal pictures The seasoned changed and Rain washed the rose tint away I was left with cold truths and Sunshine didn't taste so good Anymore.

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Mar 22, 2018

Mar 22, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC

PhoenixesPoems

Anymore

You were willow trees and Ice lollies on sunny days You were yellow shorts and Grinning at nothing Now you're blurry memories and Feeling full of regret Now you're wooden masks and Smuged charcoal pictures The seasoned changed and Rain washed the rose tint away I was left with cold truths and Sunshine didn't taste so good Anymore.

13

To me.. The past has been written, crossed out, smuged, misspelt, , bold, italic, underlined. The future lays bare, smooth, spacious, a blank white page of an open book. Although it's funny how we can look backwards and try to understand what we have written, yet we must live forwards. You normally ask a question and wait for the answer, but to me it seems, the past can be answered and the future is the question. The present however, makes more sense to me. It's just simply 'being'. Which to me, sounds like the most simplest of things, especially since thats what we do day in and day out, some of us not even realising. In the present I can be certain of myself, how I feel, what I think, what I want, who I am. Right now i'm in love, that scares me. Right now the whole world is at my feet, that terrifies me. Right now I know who my friends are, that makes me smile. Right now I can do what ever I want, that excites me. Yet that's all I can be certain of, right now.

0

Sep 8, 2010

Sep 8, 2010 at 12:42 PM UTC

sarah-jury

Right Now

To me.. The past has been written, crossed out, smuged, misspelt, , bold, italic, underlined. The future lays bare, smooth, spacious, a blank white page of an open book. Although it's funny how we can look backwards and try to understand what we have written, yet we must live forwards. You normally ask a question and wait for the answer, but to me it seems, the past can be answered and the future is the question. The present however, makes more sense to me. It's just simply 'being'. Which to me, sounds like the most simplest of things, especially since thats what we do day in and day out, some of us not even realising. In the present I can be certain of myself, how I feel, what I think, what I want, who I am. Right now i'm in love, that scares me. Right now the whole world is at my feet, that terrifies me. Right now I know who my friends are, that makes me smile. Right now I can do what ever I want, that excites me. Yet that's all I can be certain of, right now.

10

Here I am again, writing these ****** poems trying to find a way to get out how I feel. But nothing really works.. I drowning in front of everyone Who claim they care My legs are bleeding from the pretty little marks left from a ****** blade and a twitching hand. Tear-stained ,puffy cheeks and mascara smuged glossy eyes Begging for someone to show they care But who really does cares at the end of the day? My mind is racing with ****** up thoughts And merciless images of my body lying there.. Or hanging there. ****** wrist hanging over a once innocent white bath now a pinky stained colour. Drip drip drip it rolls of the lifeless fingertips Splasing the grey floor The noise taunts my ******* mind Begging me to run and do it Knuckles all bloody,broken A dented, freshly painted red wall Another impulse caused by the anger pulsing in my veins. But who really cares? No one ******* knows how bad it's got They all think it's all okay... Now don't get me wrong I've screamed for help, begged like a ******* dog. But like I said... Who the **** really cares? I'm drinking my life away Clawing and carving my skin To help the pain I've planned it all Just waiting for the right moment I don't want to be saved I don't want love I don't believe in hope Not anymore So I'll sit here for now Writing these ****** poems Waiting Waiting Waiting For the right moment to go When no one is watching the little girl in her room with the craved up legs and a broken smile. She will, I will disappear into the night Into deaths welcoming arms Once and for all

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Jul 24, 2016

Jul 24, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC

LonelyAngel

But who really cares?

Here I am again, writing these ****** poems trying to find a way to get out how I feel. But nothing really works.. I drowning in front of everyone Who claim they care My legs are bleeding from the pretty little marks left from a ****** blade and a twitching hand. Tear-stained ,puffy cheeks and mascara smuged glossy eyes Begging for someone to show they care But who really does cares at the end of the day? My mind is racing with ****** up thoughts And merciless images of my body lying there.. Or hanging there. ****** wrist hanging over a once innocent white bath now a pinky stained colour. Drip drip drip it rolls of the lifeless fingertips Splasing the grey floor The noise taunts my ******* mind Begging me to run and do it Knuckles all bloody,broken A dented, freshly painted red wall Another impulse caused by the anger pulsing in my veins. But who really cares? No one ******* knows how bad it's got They all think it's all okay... Now don't get me wrong I've screamed for help, begged like a ******* dog. But like I said... Who the **** really cares? I'm drinking my life away Clawing and carving my skin To help the pain I've planned it all Just waiting for the right moment I don't want to be saved I don't want love I don't believe in hope Not anymore So I'll sit here for now Writing these ****** poems Waiting Waiting Waiting For the right moment to go When no one is watching the little girl in her room with the craved up legs and a broken smile. She will, I will disappear into the night Into deaths welcoming arms Once and for all

54

In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile, I prefer to die." Then in 1910, one enamored fan came before her solely to shoot himself As he looked upon her Napolean crushed hard on her. She has broken a lot of heart Men have died loving her. Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame And out of the Louvre Museum Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried. The world is smudged with oil now Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours. My mother knows nothing about mona lisa And neither does my father. But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known, Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen. Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night. "A good lover is a good thief" he says. I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks Or he just wanted to steal that smile. Maybe his wife had left him Or yellowed Or died Maybe his wife was a bad lover And he, a good thief. Maybe his wife was a good lover And he, a bad thief Who went gaga over Lisa. What I want to say is, This poem is standing on the fourth floor, Of the same Parisian hotel, With a suicide note in one hand Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other. This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris. This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars, And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke Which is to say, This poem is a poor attempt to be everything, But anything about you Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out Would it be, "Where is Vinci?" Or, "I wish To run away?"

0

Jan 5, 2019

Jan 5, 2019 at 4:48 AM UTC

Tanzim1012

Arts That Never Lied

In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile, I prefer to die." Then in 1910, one enamored fan came before her solely to shoot himself As he looked upon her Napolean crushed hard on her. She has broken a lot of heart Men have died loving her. Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame And out of the Louvre Museum Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried. The world is smudged with oil now Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours. My mother knows nothing about mona lisa And neither does my father. But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known, Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen. Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night. "A good lover is a good thief" he says. I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks Or he just wanted to steal that smile. Maybe his wife had left him Or yellowed Or died Maybe his wife was a bad lover And he, a good thief. Maybe his wife was a good lover And he, a bad thief Who went gaga over Lisa. What I want to say is, This poem is standing on the fourth floor, Of the same Parisian hotel, With a suicide note in one hand Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other. This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris. This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars, And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke Which is to say, This poem is a poor attempt to be everything, But anything about you Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out Would it be, "Where is Vinci?" Or, "I wish To run away?"

48