"sobbed" poems
My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.
He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.
My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.
My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.
My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.
My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
"i'm watching you, stupid ***** Madison pointed at pyper as the girls made there way out of the dining room. "thats enough madison." Cordelia scolded. Nan followed pyper up the stairs into her bedroom. "why are you following me?" pyper asked, looking at nan in disgust. rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "you have madisons money." nan crossed her arms and smiled. "excuse me??" pyper replied as if she were offended by Nans accusation. "mhm, and you have zoeys sunglasses.., cassies ipod, and 25 dollars you stole from emilys purse. along with her art pencils." nan replied. "wow, you're A cleptomaniac." Nan laughed. "okay, how do you know all of this???" Pyper asked, her cheeks red from embarissment, and her head lowered in shame. "i'm psychic. i can read minds." nan explained. suddenly cassie walked past pypers room in search of her stolen ipod. "has anyone seen my pink ipod???" Cassie questioned, it was sitting on my bed, and now i can't find it anywhere. " she looked around hopelessly. "well then look in your room cassie. give me 5 minutes and i'll help you look." pyper shouted. "wow, you're a real piece of work arent you?" nan rolled her eyes and chuckled. "what is your angle, nan?" Pyper questioned, rolling her eyes aswell. saying names name as if she were mocking the whole idea of her. "my angle, PYPER. is this, you give everyone there **** back or i'm telling cordelia and you're out of here." Nan smerked. "you're not going to tell on me anyway?" pyper asked sadly. "no, not onless you do it again." nan sighed, "we stick together here, we're a family, we don't steele eachother down thats not what we're about." nan explained sympatheticly. "wow, thats funny because that's all my real family ever did." pyper replied with big sad puppy dog eyes. nan nodded, "i'm not here to listen to your ******** excuses or your sob stories. if saying that you've had a hard life, and never had anything given to you. and the world owes you. helps you get to sleep at night then fine, cool beans. but i'm not buying that shit. and these girls don't owe you anything. now, i expect everyone to have there **** back by the morning, or i will tell cordelia." nan sighed and rolled her eyes. "okay." pyper nodded with a wounded look upon her face. Cassie stood outside of the door, still listening. her eyebrows raised in anger. and then made her way up the stairs and into madisons room. "what are you doing here pipsquick. im NOT in the mood." Madison sobbed. "oh i think you're in the mood for this, i know who took your money." Cassie smiled.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
My little friend is now gone
My tragic life must go on; despite that
His evil eyes and his cheeky smile still burn in my mind
He no longer exists except
For my memory of him
And I rejoiced
When I heard the news
Still I can recall how I sobbed
When he gave me his evil eye for the first time
When he hurled glass and other projectiles at me when he was hungry
When he spent hours upon hours pondering the fabric of society
I hated him
I wished
For his death
I was depressed
It was like paint peeling off a wall
It was like finding a dead leprechaun at the end of a rainbow
I was expecting some sort of remorse when he left
Funny how heartbreak works
Now read this in reverse
Because sometimes all you need
Is a little change of perspective
To truly understand someone
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
she had flaked away her memories
and stepped up
with a ponderous heart,
held by two gentle hands;
and saying goodbye, did she,
as she slipped off her skin,
for the moment blood stains
the kumari's tender soul,
bereaved, will she become,
for a goddess never bleeds.
her feet shall never touch
the tattered, naked ground,
for it engulfs and devours
and burns off the kumari's flesh.
holding her pure spirit, and
accepting a cruel death sentence,
her quivering soul
cupped but a glimmer of hope,
as the fire would flicker
and lash and whip
as her skin flakes again,
and the kumari vanishes.
but, if she remains unscathed,
blood shall be drawn,
and the gods will tremble and
her body will collapse.
the world will consume her
once again.
a kumari's blood,
drawn, now at death,
trembling and alone,
had she sobbed tears of joy,
for no longer the weight
must she bear in her heart,
of being a kumari;
but a kumari is she,
and the world has not chose her,
but she has chosen to be.
she had withered away,
heart no longer ponderous,
she stepped up.
and her wishes from within
passed on to the fearful others,
held by two gentle hands, and
with a gentle flutter of her eyes,
next to her charcoal stained skin,
had her heart stopped;
for her bejeweled crown had been stained with blood,
and the kumari realized that
she had died long ago.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:41 PM UTC
I weeped and sobbed
after you knocked on my front door
to tell me that I have been blocked
by your love and then you said,
"This you should just ignore"
I should ignore the signs that warned me to just give up.
Too bad, so sad that I could not
because I loved you too much to break up,
So why should I be punished when I thought that this was not one-sided?
It would have been nice to know
your love for me has never begun
and that this all was just an act!
Good thing I don't care anymore.
But why does my heart stay so sore...?
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
“i haven’t seen her in years,”
said the hospital bed,
“though i’ve seen many others,
who sobbed violently like her,
who sunk into me like a young, rusting anchor.
who could not get comfortable in one position or
one mindset or
one truth.
i have felt them dig in their heels
and try to ache and and fight and
scream, just quietly enough not to wake their roommate.”
“i remember their shapes,”
said the hospital bed,
“how their voices rose slowly like a far-off ambulance siren,
how their faces fell when they remembered the emergency
was right here.
i have been kicked, punched,
clung to, held on to,
as if gravity switched suddenly and they feared
yet another aspect of the universe was against them.
i’ve seen ***** sheets and i’ve seen clean ones. i’ve
seen boys with tattoos on their faces and
razor marks on their arms. i’ve seen pain.
i’ve seen girls who wouldn’t turn off the lights,
girls who couldn’t turn off the lights,
girls who had turned a light off once and never wanted
to do anything else. i’ve seen pain.
i’ve felt love before
more often than the lovers thought they loved,
more strongly than the fighters thought
they could fight.
in shaky hands folding down blankets
more carefully than they have all week
in heads that flop ungracefully onto
pillows, securely,
fulfilled.
in the slow turn of a hospital bracelet
around a pale wrist,
in large, golden brown hands,
inspected through tear-blurred eyes,
through scratched glasses,
picked up off the floor after discovering
force won’t carry a ring of thin plastic
as far as you thought.
i hear change in whispers,
good night, good luck,
in hushed acceptance, in ‘yes,
i really am here’. in
screams that send nurses in panic only to find
you were laughing. in numbers,
in ‘five hundred milligrams,’
in ‘three gained pounds’, in
‘one more day’.
i hear shock, i hear fear,
in echoes of parents’ voices,
‘why here? why now?’
i have heard and seen and felt all of them.
but she,”
continued the hospital bed,
“hasn’t been in here in a while.
i haven’t heard her whisper
to her roommate about what she did
‘that night’, i haven’t seen her
sneak away from her pile of pajamas
as if she didn’t just hide something there,
i haven’t heard her empathize
with a pencil sharpener.
it’s been so long,
it’s hard to imagine,”
said the hospital bed,
‘i hardly remember her'.
if only the hospital bed knew
that she could hardly remember
herself from then either,
if only it knew she hadn't stopped
fighting once she left
if only it knew
how she felt when they said
she only needed to go to therapy
every other week.
it felt like progress,
and it felt like hope,
and no one better than
a hospital bed
could understand that.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
"come on, Forget-Me-Not!" flirted emerald Snapdragon,
"tell me, what’s it like to have control over me, for once?"
like fire, the cerulean bloom did crackle and hiss
and walked away in a heated, dreadful silence.
"why do you call me that?" asked uncertain Snapdragon,
"tell me, why don’t you speak with me like you used to?"
like salt, the windowed flame did flicker thrice -
and was swept away by the threatening, stormy sea breeze.
"please, my sun-kissed Fox," begged hesitant Snapdragon,
"shower me in loving words like you did before."
like rain in drought, the elusive creature did rarely show his face,
if so, only for laughter’s sake, to break the horrid silence.
"tell me, darling Forget-Me-Not," pleaded melancholy Snapdragon,
"why don’t you love me anymore?" oh how she sobbed
as, like childhood, her Snapdragon self become part of his past -
he shrugged his pale, fragile shoulders, swaying in the salty breeze.
"dear seaside Sunset," wrote tragic Snapdragon, "I am truly sorry,
I miss our days in love. your presence filled a hole in me, now empty."
but far too long in blinded oversight, Forget-Me-Not had stood,
and much too late did adoring Snapdragon realise her mistake.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
Driving alone in the moonlight
An hour or two before dawn
Jackson Browne on the radio
Big wheels all humming along
Rounding a curve in the highway
I see deer in the road just ahead
The littlest one forgot to run
I hit her and knew she was dead
The body lay still and broken
Soft unseeing eyes open wide
Kneeling I took her up in my arms
And I sobbed, and wept, and I cried
I cried for her broken body
And I wept for her stolen life
I sobbed for all the loves I've lost
Through all the years of my life
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
I entered a church
Or perhaps it was a cathedral?
But it does not really matter,
Because its all the same to me.
I am not particularly religious,
But I believe in a God, and a Devil,
And Souls.
I like the stories,
And the smell of church candles and incense and hope and guilt mixed together
With the tantalising intoxicating feeling
Of having all your sins spilling out of your throat and every
Single part of you.
All is seen.
So looking at saints and windows and benches
And the colours that filter through and leap and dance
I sobbed.
Because I am scared
And because I have sinned
And because every moment I am thinking
Do I want what I have been given
Or am I ready to leave everything behind
In the search for divinity.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
at age 10,
my mother pointed
At the small birth mark
On my left knee and said,
"Someone's going to love
You for that one day."
At age 16,
I told her that a boy,
One far away,
Told me I was unloveable.
"He couldn't be more wrong,"
She promised.
At age 19,
She picked up my prescription,
And cried,
"I don't want you
To get your heart broken,
Mary." She sobbed.
The empty encouragements mean nothing,
When a daughter has decided
That the need to be tragically beautiful,
Is more important than the need
To be exceptionally loved.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am from screens and bright machines
that show whole new worlds
that I use to pretend I’m
not living in this one.
I am made of the sharp smell
of artificial apples and cinnamon
burning your throat as you breathe it in
like secondhand smoke.
I am made of lonely days
spent on my phone
pretending to laugh when people say or send something
because I know they need the ego boost.
I am made of late nights
when I shut my phone off
and I start to cry
because I know that no one thinks about me after I go.
I am made of hours spent huddled
as my brother spits vitriol at my parents
and they take it with willing ears and become submissive dogs
with tails between their legs.
I am made of hellfire
carefully bottled up
until someone pushes me to the edge
and I am ready to ****
I am of thousands of cups of black coffee
sobbed over at three am
alone in my kitchen
hands searing, but refusing to let go.
I am from carefully counting every dollar
wondering when
I am allowed
to leave this town.
I am from four am walks
alone through the town
taking in the sights
and praying the sun will rise.
There’s a shattered hand mirror in my room.
Broken glass litters the cold dark marble
and teardrops drip all over the shards,
because even in all of these things that I am,
I am still not good enough for myself.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 10:03 AM UTC
The footsteps echoed on cobblestones
When a chime rang ten of the clock,
As a sailor making his way back home
Was walking up from the dock,
It was cold and dark for the lights were out
And the street was wet with the rain,
When he came to an old red telephone box
At the side of a narrow lane.
The clouds were black and they opened up
So he stepped in out of the wet,
Dropped his swag as it turned to hail
And lit up a cigarette,
The box was ancient, was George the Fifth
And hadn’t been used for years,
But stood in a lane that time forgot
When the rot set in, and worse.
For most of the houses were boarded up
And the weeds had grown outside,
Some had embarked for a tree-lined park
And some of the others died,
It was lonely there in the dark of night
As the sailor waited, he sang,
But stubbed his cigarette out in fright
When the telephone next to him rang.
He stared at it for a while before
He raised it, stopping the bell,
It had an echoing, ghostly sound
Like you hear in a deep sea shell,
The sound of sobbing came to his ear
And he cried, ‘Who’s there, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh God, I’ve waited forever my dear,
I’m locked in the basement, Tom!’
The sailor said that he wasn’t Tom
But she didn’t appear to hear,
‘He’s got an axe, attacking the door,
Be quick or he’ll **** me, dear!’
The sailor didn’t know what to say
But a chill ran up his spine,
‘Tell me, what’s your address,’ he said
‘Before you run out of time!’
‘I’m straight across from the telephone box,
You usually meet me here,
He’s found us out, and he screams and shouts
That he’ll **** you as well, my dear!
He just came home from a spell at sea
And called me a cheating *****
If you don’t come over and rescue me
He’ll have smashed his way through the door.’
The sailor wanted to say, ‘Enough!
It’s nothing to do with me,’
But flew on out of the telephone box,
Leapt over a fallen tree,
He raced right in through the open door
And he called, ‘I’m here, just wait!’
Then made his way to the cellar door
But all he could feel was hate.
The door was shattered, he walked right in
It was dark, there wasn’t a light,
He felt around for a candle, lit
And stared at the terrible sight.
A man lay dead on the basement floor
Where an axe had taken his life,
And there with her throat like an open sore
Was the body of his dear wife.
He staggered, stopped, and fell to his knees
And sobbed like a man insane,
‘Oh God, it’s true, I did this to you,
But my mind’s been playing games.
I thought if I went away to sea
I’d return to find they were dreams…’
As he sliced a razor across his throat
He thought, ‘Life’s not what it seems!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
DO YOU SWEAR NOT TO HURT ME?
Said the scissors to the rock
I KNOW WE HAVE A HISTORY
BUT I ASSURE I DO NOT MOCK!
The rock looked at the paper
Then he looked back at his feet
I DONT KNOW WHAT TO SAY he said
I THINK YOU'RE REALLY NEAT
The scissors was beside herself
Jumped high into the air
But because she was so gleeful
Snipped off some of paper's hair
So paper screamed and shouted
She was mad with awful rage
And she jumped onto rock's back
As he tried to turn the page
The scissors with confusion
Felt to blame and so she rushed
To try and help the rock
In the process getting crushed
And so the rock got still
Lying covered by the sheet
When paper realized what she'd done
She fluttered to rock's feet
And cried and cried and sobbed
And stared at her split ends
And paper rock and scissors
Would never become friends.
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 8:13 PM UTC
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing a beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air,
And all our rarer, better, truer self
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better, -- saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love, --
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever. This is life to come, --
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, -- be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
4.6k
You burned me
We smelled like Mary and Jane
I laughed hard
Dug my nails in deep
As I writhed in pain
I was too quiet
But I screamed too loud
You didn't care
We were like fvcking kings
Living in a cloud
You tied me up
So I could stay resting in bed
Lied to me
Betrayed by a kiss too is how
Jesus ended up dead
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 9:49 PM UTC
Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.
Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.
Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more:--not so, alas!
A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke:
"Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,-
Oh for my old familiar byeway!"
The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.
Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)
"A Froggy would a-wooing go:"
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.
O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.
3.7k
when i was 7 i cracked my head open with glass
and blood covered my head
i didn't go to the hospital
i didn't even tell anyone
i never saw the glass really coming
it happened in just a split second
i hardly even felt it
it stung
but i was too worried about the glass
and how i was going to clean it
before my parents came home
my mom always liked to keep her house clean
so i had to pick it up
when i was 13
my best friend had her first heartbreak
i was doing homework
because i was so behind
but she called me crying
and asked if she could come over
i held her for two hours
while she sobbed into my sweatshirt
and when she left
i didn't even get a thank you
i try so hard to make everyone feel content and happy
then sit in my room
and wonder why i'm so sad
but it's because
all i do is bleed for people
and they never even hand me a bandaid
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
“you ain’t a man until you’re given a gun.”
he said. but I knew better.
giving a boy a gun
doesn’t make him a man.
it makes him a boy with a gun.
my hands were made for pens, not glocks.
I told him his were too.
he laughed and said,
“nah, my hands are made the same
as every other boy on this block.
you cut off my finger, it’s still gon’ bleed.”
I tried to argue but he said,
“these hands steal ****
money, jewelry, clothes.
hell, these hands steal lives!”
and he was right about that.
he had the same dirt on his hands
that any other boy around here had.
still, I think his hands
were made for pens, not glocks.
maybe he would’ve picked up a pencil
if his hands hadn’t gotten
so used to holding a gun.
he was nineteen.
he was young and angry
and ready to fight,
and he didn’t know exactly why,
but he knew he had to be.
the streets here are where people
disappear when it gets dark,
and where no one asks questions
when the sun comes up.
there are no flowers
growing next to the sidewalk.
here, there are bags of crack
and gold chains and Cuban cigars.
there are plants here, but no flowers.
I was taught that here,
they don’t follow laws,
but they need to follow rules.
most rules here are unwritten.
instead, they are ingrained
into the street’s children,
a mantra that you could die
for not remembering.
he said, “if I die,
it’s gon’ be sprawled out on concrete.
no way I’m going down
without a fight.”
here, they are still fighting wars
that ended years ago everywhere else.
here, they grow up without
mothers and fathers.
they learn to feed themselves
as soon as they no longer
need a baby bottle.
here, it is strange
to not join in on the violence.
it is strange to not participate
in drive-by shootings.
it is strange to not want revenge.
here, strange is dangerous.
things are the way that they are
and this is the way they have always been.
here, he was any other
nineteen-year-old boy.
here, they would say he died naturally.
he stepped a little too far into view
and a bullet struck him in the right spot.
or the wrong spot,
depending on how you see it.
quick and almost painless for him,
but that hurt moved on to everyone else.
here, there are no rights and no wrongs.
things are not good or bad.
things simply are.
his mama sobbed when
she heard what happened.
she cried for him, but also
for every other boy on the block.
she cried for the boy
who ended her son’s life,
because she knew
he wasn’t any different
than any other boy here.
she cried for all the mothers
who lost their sons,
and for all the children
born into this life.
here, they don’t have to die
for you to lose them.
this life takes them from you,
dead or alive.
he was a friend,
and a brother, and a son.
he could’ve been
a writer, or an athlete,
or a ******* astronaut
for all I know.
but in the end,
he was only a boy with a gun.
here, they call that a man.
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 12:52 AM UTC
I’ve been crying a lot lately.
—
Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it.
The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry.
I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry.
That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die.
“Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,”
those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it.
—
Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard?
That was the first time I sat on the public toilet,
crying.
—
“What’s wrong with crying?”
A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ...
—
So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them.
I cried.
And cried.
And cried and cried and cried.
—
I’ve been crying a lot lately.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
day 1 - I sobbed at the sound of your name, my mom had to listen outside of my door to make sure I was still breathing correctly
day 2 - I woke up early to get your good morning text, and it crashed on me that you were no longer there
day 3 - I went in public for the first time, I looked rough but luckily nobody pointed it out
day 4 - I went to work and cried in the bathroom
day 5 - I spent time with my family and I didn't think about you much
day 6 - I saw you with another girl and I locked myself in my room the whole day
day 7 - I laughed without you
day 8 - I saw a picture of you on Instagram and I threw all the pictures of us away
day 9 - I partied with my friends and I didn't think about you at all
day 10 - what color are your eyes? what does your voice sound like?
day 11 - I saw you in the store, we made quick eye contact but then you looked away
day 12 - I didn't think of you at all because I was too busy telling jokes with another guy
day 13 - when is heartbreak so romantic? it's not romantic when you feel the inside of you just break and you have no willingness to do anything
day 14 - I almost wished you a happy birthday, but your new girlfriend was all over you, so I walked away
day 15 - I threw all of your belongings away
day 16 - I laughed as guys hit on me because I knew that they're all just like you
day 17 - I typed out a long paragraph to send you and my finger was shaking on the send button but I never sent it
day 18 - did you ever love me?
day 19 - my family asked about you, and I was strong
day 20 - I finally opened up to my mom about what happened
day 21 - this is a terrible poem about a terrible person but I don't think of you so much anymore, I don't think of you so much anymore
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
"We're drifting apart,"
said the earth to the moon.
"We've been through so much, hm?"
replied the moon to earth.
"It'll be glum to go,
but sadly I must now."
"Why? Please don't go away,"
begged the earth to the moon.
"I will miss you for sure."
"And I will too," said moon
and earth silently sobbed.
"4.5 billion years,
for what?" The earth whimpered.
"I can't love you anymore."
"If I could say the same."
"..."
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Crept in sinister and foreboding
Announcing their warnings in silent contrails of clotted red
Though the signs were not heeded
The impending extinction civilization was to face
From this reality humans turned their eyes away
The war was soon in coming
The blood parasites set their war machines humming
Singing songs of death and gold coins
Rubbing their hands with mad glee
As death profiteers cackled and rejoiced
Veiled widows sobbed quietly resigned and forlorn
Black strangling stench of rotting bodies and lies
The look of defeat in helpless glazed eyes
Tears running down accepting streaked faces
The sounds of fading souls and lost dreams
The screams of the dying lessened and eventually ceased
When Crimson skies in the morning
Crept in sinister and foreboding
All Rights Reserved@ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
I’m the most stereotypical teenager you’ve ever met.
I spend all my time with my friends.
I like frappuccinos and I’m obsessed
With my social media pages.
I fell in love with a boy;
And, when he broke my heart,
I sobbed on the floor for weeks
And then dyed my hair blonde and moved on.
I wore a pretty blue dress and sparkly heels to prom.
I graduated at the top of my class,
President of the honor society,
Friends with everyone.
I’m your stereotypical teenage girl.
I’m the main character in a Disney channel original movie.
I have everything, I think.
Why can’t I sleep at night?
What they don’t tell you in the movies
Is that when I’m not with my friends, I feel lost and alone.
When I was heartbroken, I fell apart.
I’m successful, but at what cost?
The stereotypical teenage girl gets 3 hours of sleep a night.
I spend most of the night doing work,
But I also spend time texting my friends and flirting with boys.
When I’m alone with only myself, do I still fit the stereotype?
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 2:34 AM UTC