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Melody Jun 2012
Character: Myself, or Melody, Mel
Setting: Time is now, plain dark room with a stage and a single spotlight in a light blue light shining on me.

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I've asked myself before; why do I write the way that I do? Why do I continue writing the writing that reminds of the scary inspiration that if I let it get out of control then it could become my reality?
I've answered myself before; I don't know, I don't think I will ever figure out why. I don't want to know.  I can control my future, my destiny, my sanity...

No, and that's the truth. I will never be able to control my sanity! I'm weird person, with an even odder persona! I hate myself because I'm practically throwing my words onto a computer screen and not into a book. I'm hoping, hell I'm even praying (to the best of my ability) that by time I become something it won't be too late!

Have I ever asked for help? No...If I did, it was for a ******* topic, because I was desperate to get the greedy and clawing and tear-bringing words out of my system. I wanted to know what others thought that I could write. They wanted to read novels of which I had written, I told them I can't write a novel. I write poetry. ....Now I know that I can write anything I want.

My eighth  grade Theatre and English teacher taught me that writing a monologue is like drinking tap water. You stare deeply at the glass knowing that you need it, but it tastes so bad and the after-taste leaves an even worse taste but the after-feeling is like heaven in your mouth, the feeling of being regenerated to maybe not perfect health but you're alive and that's all that will really matter.
That's what writing feels like, and I would know because I was the one person who fainted at 8:00AM last summer from dehydration and lack of sleep.

I always have some error in my words. Whether a few lines need to be shortened or split, or even forgetting to punctuate. OR, oh and I'm famous for this in English class essays, run on sentences. It's odd though because I get told to edit it to make it even more perfect, and I never go back and touch it. I mean, sure, sometimes I do, but even that's normal for me to do.



I write the way I do because I'm terrified of a perfect poem written by me. I'm scared of getting a perfect 100 but if you hand me 99 I promise my right hand that I'll be happier than a dog with a fresh bone.
I write because I felt loved and then the chain broke and I felt hated. That hate, made me feel welcome to a whole new world. That world is called...

The World of Words.


And it's decorated hilariously because the city sign in big and flashy like Las Vegas but the stores and shops are either out of the most bizarre world or from another time.

I love writing because there's always something that's needing to be written about. It's an endless world of different flavors. The flavors of which I could add to my glass of tap water, but I refuse to because I think it'd be considered cheating.
This is obviously a personal monologue. It's about why I write the way I do.
Dawn May 2017
The things that used to stir me?
They don't anymore.

I am tiny particles
from a concentrated,
heterogeneous drink,
sinking slowly
and just
settling at the bottom.
I just don't feel the love so much anymore.
Relyn Anne Ramos Apr 2013
I like milk tea
like I like my men

Oolong—
deeply rooted in
his beliefs, strong,
slightly bitter— rarely
compromising

Milk and sugar—
delicate, able to bend
rules without losing
integrity, sweet yet
lasting, like the
aftertaste I’ve
grown to love

Cold—
ice cold, only to
complement the
warmth I’ve been
saving for a lone soul

Pearls—
sinkers to my tea,
unflavored yet unyielding.
the anchor of any man
willing to stay with me—
this I have yet to see.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
~~~

someday soon gonna reread
the four figures of my
poems over lifetime inked,
divvy  them up by what each is about,
assemblage of
the themes of me

review the who what when and weird
of this guy through his own eyes
multiplying confessions
of graces and disgraces

particular to recover,
desirous of collecting those poems that:

valorize society’s strugglers
and stragglers...humans doing the work of living
^

don't know how many will be uncovered,
but here's hoping there are plenty,
needy of recovery and uncovering the poet
and worthy of pointing too,
valuation markers of a
decent human

strugglers, stragglers,
those from all over this world
and lives that can only visualize
no-horizon-in-sight oceans
sailors, from ports unvisited,
some even, still undiscovered,

working ****** and women,
not those,
don't owners
of fancy dress whites,
topped of by jaunty angelic-angled caps

the ones I sought and seek,
grime and coal dust etched into
every ****** crevice, ink under fingernails,
in obscurity, toil in windowless engine rooms,
in the nooks in libraries hiding,
satisfied with
a moment of glory,
and a lasting
hand upon
their wracked minds

these are my mates,
sharing fates
of woeful countenances
of bruised bodies,
recipients of hardest blows repetitious,
comrades in open arms

the unflavored, unfavored of
sons and daughters,
unblessed with sobs and smacks,
who rare lift the head in hope

the sufferers of ignominy
of the
prison of their existence,
for those I write,
have, will, and willing

to do it till I see a
chin rising, white of eyes gleaming,
a hand delisted,
arms defused of black weights

come to me,
words, encouragement, perspective,
that this too shall pass

believing ain't easy,
take it from one who couldn't see
happy endings, but had no choice but
to choose to,
now prepped, ready
for my arms to do some serious uplifting,
shoulders heavy-loaded and wide of loads,
eager for honest work,
aiding and abetting
the stragglers and and stragglers...
humans doing the work of living,
deserving for valuation,
awaiting their salutation,
and relief, even if,
tiny and small,
a slim volume of poems,
that but one
poet
provided
~~~
^a quote from a review of the play  "John," at Vulture.com

August 23, 2015
Ropes of fog dangle the fat moon outside your window
A soft fuzzy halo blurring the cratered outline.
Everything is blue
And the city breathes like a giant slumbering animal
Heaving breaths through the tiny squares of light
Sparsely dotted among the skyscrapers.
I am gently tasting your world
A drop at a time
And I wonder how you take it in tablespoons
Like unflavored cough syrup.
Do long nights give your soul less oxygen
Than mine?
Is it like watching the world die slowly
Bedroom light after bedroom light
Or like watching a bird fly into a window?
New York City is made of windows.
And so am I, really
Panes of stained glass waiting for a rock
Or a bolt of lightning
Or an earthquake.
Is it possible to miss you when you're awake?
Is it possible to miss you when you're holding me?
Make me a cup of tea
And let the moonlight fill it up
And spill it over the rim of the mug
Like too much milk and sugar.
Let it soak our hair and our clothes
In light
Until we emerge, dripping
In an evening summer rain.
taty Jun 2015
every time my mom would cook,mind you she is Spanish.
she would use "Goya". almost every time she would cook she
would use that. she once told me she needed it for her food to have
flavor, she needed so her food won't be dull. thats how i felt without
you. Unflavored and dull, ur my goya. how funny that sounds but it's
a fact.
Ashley Moor Nov 2018
on the gallows pole
at the turn of
the womanhood
of resistance  
I am naked
with my sins
but not
to the touch
white men
will be devoured
outwitted
unflavored
by my kind

because of the government
we know evil
because of the government
my people
rise from the ashes
of our pain
our grief
out of sleep
and into a riotous
rebellion
of soft skin
and hard fingernails
of women
who were never held back
but silenced
of women who were never held up
but let down
we will be the ones
to remind The Man
that we have been here
all along—
as prophets
as keepers
as an articulation
of the people
we refuse
to
keep quiet.

— The End —