Janelle Tanguin Oct 2017
The last time I loved
I knew exactly
what I wanted,
I was so sure--
it had to be
you.

It had to be
awkward laughs, soft music,
coffee brown eyes
half-asleep,
a house full of dogs,
vinyls,
chamomile tea.
I just knew,
believed,
it had to be
you and me.

I am always running,
looking for fire exits,
secret passages,
ways to escape,
always wanting
to be somewhere else--
anywhere else

but with you
I stopped running--
started wanting
wooden floorboards,
walls and a person
I could finally call

home.
ashton May 14
I didn't choose it
I didn't wake up one day and tell myself
let's be anxious
let's be depressed
let's want to die
let's start self harming
I didn't choose to be like this

slowly my problems
my monsters
became visible
they started small
skipping lunch
making a cut or two on my hand
shaking for a while in school
but I fell

I didn't choose to be this person.
We just get handed who we are.
I didn't choose this.
I never wanted to be that

I didn't want to be riddled with anxiety and insecurities,
to wallow in self-pity and sleep for hours everyday
to stay up all night with anxiety
to steal razors
to eat one-hundred calories and then barf it back up
but that's what happened.

I didn't choose this
I didn't choose
I didn't choose to tear apart my life.
it just
happened
I'm really good right now but in a reflective state currently oof
September Rose Nov 2017
Rot
My soul has started to rot
Charred black by the flame of heartbreak
Cold as the night you left
I don't think I'm breathing anymore
The feeling of dread carried in with the wind through every open window
Every shadow whispers your name
I feel myself fading as fast as you left
I don't feel the drive and passion anymore
My happy place has crumbled to dust, broken fragments of reality
The air I breath poisons my lungs as I fall faster and faster into the hellish hole that appears on every path
My heart as empty as the canyons that used to make me feel free
My breath as cold as the pouring rain that used to send me to sleep
My soul as rotten as the core of the witches apple
The witch that has cursed me
Cursed me with the boulders I carry on my shoulders
Cursed me to lie when I say I'm fine
Truly and honestly made for poetry not of reality
A May 2017
i started ordering it decaf
when i realized that i'd
be keeping myself up at night
thinking of you

don't want the bittersweet,
the recollection;
i just needed your affection

never thought this drink would show
what we've been through
[f.]
Liyah Bella Aug 4
let's end our relationship the way we started
not in love but honest with our feelings
Mena Mulugeta Mar 11
Love that
She's older now
Shes more clever things don't seem
to utter. She would shatter you with a bit of her consciousness while she scortches you with her intelligence she the definition of sparkle something you constructed
the destruction you once have started  no longer exists I displayed out loud I'm no longer your bih I'm out.
You've taught me to love myself thank you
Nat Lipstadt Jun 23
why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
and the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

damn.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say
Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel
which defines them by their self questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
as well, doing it in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens  on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
till nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of themselves, this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted chemical organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah) acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
by asking of everything living and every act human

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do love that best

what could signal honor even more
6-23-18 11:45am
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