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sancus Dec 2016
if only my unreciprocated love
would cause me to throw up flowers,
you'd wake up to a garden and
see the beauty of the pain you've caused.
Erin-Taylor Apr 2014
I miss you.
I wanted to be yours and I loved that you were mine,
but I guess you didn't feel the same.
I didn't realize that you were on a tightrope of a thin line.
There is no one else to blame.

I want you.
You were the sun always shining on my rainy days.
I miss the you and me; rather than the me and my.
Life is wild now, like an endless maze.
I wish you never ended you and I.

I think I love you.
You were the only one.
I see you in my dreams, through day and night.
Like I said before, you were my bright sun.
If I could only see you one more time, it would be such a lovely sight.

If only you felt the same...I would ask you:
Do you miss me? As much as I miss you?
Do you want me? As much as I want you?
Do you love me? Do you think you do?
Because I know now that I'm in love with you.
I think I love you D.J.M.
Eyithen Aug 2018
Unreciprocated love
It's a popular topic,
In songs and poems

The hurt you feel is so strong,
Always longing and looking.

What they don't tell you
Is how much it can hurt,
being on the other end.

Knowing that you could never understand
What they see in you
Or the depth of their affections

Knowing that you have broken someone.
You've fed the monster called fear,
And you know that you have only given them
more reason to doubt.

"I'm Sorry" you say.
Because it's the only thing you can say to someone,
When you have bruised their heart.

I wish you could understand,
Rejecting you hurts me.

We blame each other,
trying to find fault
until one comes to the conclusion,
Control is impossible.

Just like you can't force someone to love you
You can't force someone to unlove you.

So I let the anger go
And release you from your torment.
"End things on a good note" I tell myself.

So I do just that,
But no isn't in your vocabulary.
You will always be wanting and wishing
And hoping for me to change,
While I wait for you in turn.
But I guess we're both stubborn that way.

So I say goodbye to what we used to be,
Because we will never be the same.
Knowing that whenever you see me,
you will always want us to be more.

So rather then torturing you with a
distant, strained, friendship.
I scribble down my thoughts,
stick a stamp on it,
And watch it leave.

I had the last word.
I hope it brings you closure.
This is the last you will hear from me.

I hope I stay kind in your mind.
I hope I will be remembered as the girl who cared.
But I hope I fade out of your thoughts,
And be remembered as a dream.
I had a friend who loved me as more than a friend. I rejected him once, then twice, but we remained close friends. Then one day he took things to far. So I shut him out. i sent a letter expressing how I don't blame him nor do i hate him, but he was drowning me and I needed to breathe. So i broke for the surface.
Phoebe Woods Dec 2017
It's the kind of relationship
where he says
I love you
and I say
thank you.
You are both suffocating.
He finds his air in the space that he’s not getting,
You find it in the words that he's not saying,
You both turn blue.

You are both unhappy.
His face makes that burden lighter,
Your face is just another one on the pile.
You both see the meaning in the word “crush”

You are both looking for an escape.
To him, you are a cage,
To you, he is the key,
You both are trapped.

Both eyes stand open,
His are mahogany with rims of gold and flecks of amber,
Yours are brown,
Neither of you are color-blind.

You both share the same humor,
Your laughter is loud and carries,
His laughter is music and dances,
Both of your stomachs hurt.

You both sit silently,
He enjoys the quiet,
You enjoy his presence,
Neither of you speaks.
Lilly F Jul 2019
I have to fit my hand into yours,
like forcing misfit puzzle pieces together,
just to get you to hold my hand

realizations @1:06 AM
Ellen Dawson Apr 2014
I hide in the corner
As you break me some more,
My shadowed heart
Is swollen and sore.
I am from shattering nebulas elegantly and casually dispersing through their own permission
From a radiating heart, the loving and careful core of my own planet adjacent to unnecessary humanly vaccinated waters filled with precious, undiscovered life and my dream filled possibilities of space, untouched and unruined by so-called establishment
To a never-ending sky painting my bedtime picture I share with many civilizations covering the world that I will never be able to explore
And in my next life perhaps I will live there and forget about the country I was thrown into from the womb; causing arguments I as one person cannot fix, especially with those I share land with, those who lay as oblivious as toddlers to the joys, the extremities of my infinite, boundless high hopes for change.
Not the kind our elected follower, not leader, promised; pouring from his ventriloquist mouth,
but the real change saturating my soul only witnessed by the eyes of my bonds, those I connect with, those who hear my energies and my sorrow for incorrectly evolved mancruel - no longer mankind

I am from the barrel of a twelve gauge shotgun separating both a man's head and myself from the only friend I ever knew
From a pent up animal lingering, tearing at my guts
And sore vocal chords in protest of my neglect, screaming in defense with the will of my first true name
To missed years of growing bones but never missed brain stimulation
And the thought, how does hate taste?
For as long as he lives he prays he will never see my aging face again

I am from a burned spoon and a powerful hand
From Rx prescriptions and the wrath that follows jealousy
I am from the feeling of powerlessness and unreciprocated hope portrayed through tears and bruises
To the understanding of what humanity should be, to shame and disgust caused by weakness and disappointment
As each year grows the space from my body and those who share my blood does too

I am from the jagged fingernails of every boy and man
Tearing away layers of who I once was
The cold, calculating wolf who still shows her face every so often...
Scarred beyond recognition
From the darkest room in the deepest corner of who I am
Bearing no sunlight, a flower grows - watered by the passion the raven delivers from a castle called "lust"
And although I enjoy the company of my demise, I await the man of my nightmare
For I believe I could never deserve a dream
To the twinge on the upside of their lying mouths
I am left with late night memories
That untie my poorly woven knot covered in distrust, anguish, and fear
I am my own worst enemy
And I condescendingly purr at every wound they engrave
For I know they'll receive two

I am from my imagination
From beautiful epiphanies and humorous gestures created by beasts
To the end of the fears and anxieties soon to be conquered
From unseen colors and storage units locked away with magnetic power stopping me to ironically keep me going
And carbine rounds of thoughts shake me affecting all three targets of myself
With this imagination I will individually co-operate in drawing a universe-changing picture absorbed by parading nuclei all pent up in an ozone of stardust, the pieces that make me
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2016
quite recently, I received an extraordinary complimentary message to one of my poems, from a comrade in arms, dare I call him friend, that cored, scored me.  I post it below.  Not from braggadocio, or vanity, venal poetry sins.  But, it could not stand orphaned,
unrequited and unreciprocated,
for that would be a sin of even greater magnitude,



this poem begins unique,
am struggling with a problem previously
unknown, never before even
close encountered

how do I commence?

poet wonders repeatedly,
a tune on the not-so-natty brain,
set on the machine's "repeat"setting,
this problematical for de minimus - 25 hour day,
this scribbler, this constant nibbler
on the Graham crackers life bestows,
befuddled muddled

this is never an issue,
it's the windup, the shutdown,
knowing when enough is enough,
that is the sorest point of his
elongated, can't shut up skill set

it cannot stand, it cannot just hang,
it needs a rabbinical wise,
responsible responsum,
a simple
thank you
holy, holy, holy

these words, an almost wet smackdown,
catch me exposed, crossing Sixth Avenue,
against oncoming traffic (naturally),
while on cell phone bad boy,
doing his three R's,#
reading, writing & errrrr, deleting,
(yeah, yeah, I know, I know)
amidst my multiplicity of incoming artillery shells of
automobiles and messages,
this one,
seizing me up, me like a screeching,
near dying engine, broke from being oil-less,
nearly dropping my two large
20 oz. McDonald's coffees which easy
could flood this four lane

you want to write like this,
are you mad, man?

all I ever es-say is what I see,
throwing in a rhyme or two,
a pinch of a fancy word to impress the
hoi polloi, and plenty salty sweet
to provocate a sensory ah ha

sir, why write like me,
when you pen this?

"yet all of this could
just as easily be,
the sum of two,
grateful hearts in equal parts,
the beat of two in rhythm thrum,
march in time upon one drum"

which pretty much says
what needs saying
all in one perfect stanza humming

but this note, is so far,
way deficient,
a mockery of what the situation requires and is deserving,
so multiple lovely muses redirect me
back to my email,
where I find this waiting,
in repose, this prose,

A compliment is a complement—
this I know, just as the clock
will always strike midnight
and history repeats. This is how
I can wake up the next morning
and love the world again.

blossoming notion, this is but a complement,
where the line dotted allows free passage
from reader to poet, from poet to poet,
permitting the peaking reciprocity of completion,
and this complement
I accept, unashamedly, profoundly
for this is my 1/1,
for to make a whole, we still require
numerator, denominator,
of equal value

on this basis,
and this basis alone,
I accept your words

when prowling scowling late at night,
or early sun rising, old bones enthroned
in my Adirondack dis-comforter,
will come a-sneaking, a-peaking,
nobody-around-real quiet like,
for another look-see at this kookery,
in my solitary poet's by-the-bay nookery,

the thought comes,
maybe it's time to lay that pen down,
the Israelites have crossed that Red Sea,
dry and on their way to a land of promises,
when sure enough my coffee mug
spills onto an ant hill hard by the beach,
and oops, soiling the soil,
the Lesser Antillean inhabitants making an unholy ruckus,
and oops, ther goes another rubber plant, high hopes, poem aborning,^^^

but sir, be advised,
your excess foolishness is warming,
but we cannot without each other,
march to one drum,
our steps surely mismatched,
it is the reciprocity of
complementary numerical worthies that unites the fractions of us
into a singletary winter pea,
a whole of us,
in order to
"let us love the world again"
yes, a true 'story'
#reading, writing and 'rithmetic
"some time back
this notion became clear to me.
have wanted to say it since;
this, your words, the perfect segue.

i have come to love
the style of your writing,
so much so as to adopt it,
as my own, though perhaps
in my own tone, voice, and
life experience.

much of how i write today,
I attribute to your influence...
no kidding, no hyperbole,
no gush, no mush, just truth.

whomever taught or influenced you
is to be admired most,
for in the style
i see most encapsulated by yours
is a conveyance that goes
well beyond words,
well beyond mere ideas...
it incorporates heart and emotion,
and more so,
the heart behind the heart,
in a way rather uncommon
to most poetry."^

S. Reimer
^^ "On Being Told I Look Like FLOTUS, New Year’s Eve Party 2014"
by January Gill O’Neil


AmberLynne Jul 2014
I'm confused as to when my touch
changed from the thing you crave
to the thing that makes you turn away.
I've always heard you can have to much
of a good thing, and I guess it's true.
Because my hands no longer
seem to bring about that same reaction
they used to.
And I'm just left here, confused.
Kooky Collages Jun 2015
I'm sick at the sight of you.
There's a sudden hole in my heart.
I want to reach out to you,
But I decide to depart.
Can I shake off this madness?
Could I no longer care?
I'm a fool who's stuck in sadness,
While you've felt no despair.
I must learn to get over you.
There's no question or doubt.
But how can I do something that I haven't figured out?
Immersed with your memory,
I feel a sort of shame.
Solely because I know you don't feel the same.
Eyes swelling and emotions unveiling,
I beg them to subside.
And soon all my thoughts of you are nothing but snide.
How could you let me in so deep, only to bury me alive?
Was I just a toy to you? A sort of prize?
Maybe we both were the same in each others game.
But it appears that I left no mark,
While you left a stain.
Lessons learned, I'm moving on,
Since you've done the same.
I hope you won't regret the decision you made.
Because one things for sure,
I'm never going back to you again.
Salome Aug 2015
Eyes that are close to tears
Mind in sudden chaos
Heart feeling betrayed

Have I assumed by myself
That what we had was a blooming love?
Was my illusion remained a visualization
Of what I hope would lead to realization?

How could pain exist
As a product of laughter and glee?
And how did your once sweet words
To my ears become the sound of a tempest?

You call me a dude
You call her my love
To you, I remain a buddy
And she, a damsel so dear

I apologize for the unreturned messages
But you don’t have to be sorry
For not reciprocating
The sensation I feel for you
Why do I hate you?
You perplex me so.
Is it all an illusion?
All in my head?

I feel as though the pain inside multiplies by the second, a leech in its parasitic glory siphons my spiritual force.
I feel the darkness overwhelm me, dark clouds approach me from the south; lightning befalls my quintessence and the mayhem is revealed.
You couldn’t even acknowledge me, I feel as though I don’t exist; I slip into another dimension, and I become one with a black hole.
I am an anomaly; consuming negativity is my sole purpose; I am a thoughtless soul who has been sedated by noxious charm.

Hearts await me on the threshold of a heavenly and divine bliss; I supplicate the Transcendental to resurrect an undead heart.
Flame has led to glory; in time it will be revealed, that the Lord shall be my portion and baptismal rivers my shield.
All this horrid bruising; ensconcing within a façade, I await the time when love will greet me with a benevolent smile.
Adorned with a lavish diadem of rubies, diamonds and garnets, she edifies a being with a disheartened soul.

I feel like relinquishing my sacred and precious life, in order to escape to horror of an unreciprocated love.
I’m totally decimated, I don’t know if I can take the pain; I drift into a sea of everlasting sorrow and demise.
Vociferous cries to the heavens,
“Please help me escape dereliction”

I want to get to know you but you just won’t open up,
It pains me to know that your love for me is so close and yet so far.
Maybe I should’ve stayed away from you, maybe then I could’ve evaded the grief.
I’m slowly going insane; my equanimity is waning; shooting stars are falling and the ground beneath me begins to collapse.

I don’t want to do this anymore, you don’t understand what you’ve done, you could’ve had a lover who would cherish you till’ the end.
I’ll lock my soul in a treasure chest, turn my feelings off; I’m tired of being rejected; I can’t escape the pain.
When two ethereal beauties come face to face, there is a magnetic attraction; a gravitational pull.
I’m evolving by the minute, my soul is about to explode; a big bang of epic proportions; an eruption of distress.

Complex equations; possibilities are never-ending, your eyes and surreal eyelashes infatuating my heart.
I ask the deity of the heavens to send an angel from up above, a tenuous and ethereal beauty who relinquishes acceptance for my heart.
Someone who will cherish me and relish in my aromatic embrace; someone who will be entranced by my enamoring and celestial face.
Someone who will want me, for the remainder of precious time, to live with them in passion, rhapsody and connection.

I see the darkness within you; obscuring your delicate and yet barely visible light; I’ll never get to know you; your love is just a lost cause.
An ethereal blue flame burns within my heart, my soul is blossoming with fervor and iridescence overtakes my being.
I see that I have no one, I feel so cold and alone; I retreat to my bed being lonely with my muscles aching and sore.

I love myself enough, to know that the chaos shall slip away, love is over the horizon and the lightness shall bring me home.
Where I was meant to be is in the arms of a God unknown; a being with the transcendental power to resurrect a weary heart.
Lie with me upon a levitating bed; we shall arise into a galaxy where our names will be on each other’s lips.
Finality is so redundant; I surrender to the waves of the sea; an ocean teeming with luminous blood is where my boon shall arise.

Sacrifice after sacrifice and bone after bone; I shall bury my cherished dream beneath a sanguine and ruby Red Sea.
Roses and daffodils will blossom in the Fall; just when faith is diminishing my fate shall be revealed; chunks of frigid icebergs cool my red hot skull.
Anger, seething with anger.
I await love in an ambiguous form.

I am a sentinel who is slowly losing strength, how much longer can I bear to stand upon my own two feet?
When will they be there to catch me?
To take my breath away?
To resuscitate a languishing vessel ready to decay?

The Universe is expanding and the moon is on the rise; I shall reach your galactic radio waves when the celestial illuminates the night.
Just when all is lost; you shall kiss me on my lips; a crimson petal shall sit upon my slowly rising chest.
It shall sink beneath my flesh and my skin until it reaches the deep, the depths of my heart so that I shall become inflamed with love.
You shall revive me; your baptismal and cascading embrace; it slowly descends upon me like a waterfall from the sky.

I don’t know what to say, I’m demolished in every single way.
My bones are slowly breaking but my soul is here to stay.
I don’t know how much longer I can bear this but I pray that I can hold on.
Long enough to know that you have been here in my Universe all along.

To my Dream Lover,
To the grief of rejection,
To nothing but pain;
The quintessence of my soul.


By, Iridescently Efflorescent
Suffering from rejection triggers an eruption of tumultuous feelings within the watery depths of your soul, this is my take on the pain of rejection from a beautiful being who inspires inquisitveness within my very quintessence. The pain and heartache of love really can be turned into a precious diamond after all. ♥
maxine Jul 2017
You were the blue-haired idiot savant that I wanted to sweep me off my feet.
However you left me trying to figure out who I was, with a shaved head and blue heart.
You've made me feel lost yet helped me find myself.
I don't understand your role in my life, but I'll never erase you from the narrative.
My whole childhood I wanted to know what love felt like, now I wish to know what it's like to not feel my soul in my gut.
Mr Mojo Risin Oct 2013
I see my lover everyday but everyday day she stays away.. Every day she walks on bye.. Her figure blurry through the tears in my eyes... My heart races suddenly for I know you are near.. My love the world holds not enough years.. For you to feel the full extent of my emotions.. My life is poison but you are its potion..But I cannot drink you.. For you are forbidden.. I cannot show you my love.. I'll keep it pure and hidden.. Away from eyes that try and look in.. Away from lies that would start to begin.. To take you away.. Like the stars leave the night.. They would take you away until my night has no light.. I want you to feel me.. Beside you for all time.. The moon shall be yours forever with ultimate shine.. Through all time if you'd only let me inn.. But my love walks away.. And the blackness begins.
Sydney Bittner Jul 2017
Hold your breath when someone says their name so that you can associate it with drowning. Maybe next time you find yourself submerged in water the sound of their voice will haunt you. In that case; open your eyes wide, let the chlorine burn the absence into your skull

2. Grow a pair of wings and saw them off with a kitchen knife. Gulp down an entire bottle of wine. Staple goats' horns to your forehead. Fear nothing. Fear yourself. Tell yourself that you are a monster, you are the antagonist in every horror story you've ever seen.

3. Open your laptop in the dead of night and flirt with strangers online. Stay anonymous and non-committal. Be ****** and crass. Tell them exactly how you feel and laugh when they are uncomfortable. Maybe someone will fall in love with you; turn them down. After this you will feel hollow and used; but you will not be thinking about them.

4. Wait for the sky to open up and the rain to come down in melancholy kisses. Go for a walk without your shoes and when the thunder roars- roar back. You are just as mighty. But like the downpour you are just as sad- let the sky's sorrow wash you clean.

5. Take yourself to a romance movie in the middle of the day and sob angrily in the empty theater. Tell those gorgeous Hollywood actors where they can shove it. Carve your name into the back of the seat.

6. Fill your brain with any and all kinds of love that you can find. You love the flowers; the daisies and their bright smiles. You love the dogs in the park;how they gallop and pant. You love your mom; her soft concerned expression. You love the night;his deep and endless mourning-you love the day;her bright and burning potential.
Alberto Cornejo Jul 2018
We beg to be broken by love,
In hopes of feeling alive for just a moment;
Drunk on the feeling of bliss.
Over and over we touch the fires of lust;
Endlessly descending into heartache:
A bittersweet aphrodisiac.

Every kiss is a scar on the heart,
Every sweet nothing is a beautiful lie.
Oh, how good it feels to hurt:
Ecstasy buries us in a sea of false hope.
Promises made in a state of blind faith;
Unreciprocated feelings left to die in a casket meant for two.

We beg to be broken by love:
A guillotine built for hopeless romantics.
Sent off to Limbo by the patron saint of heartache;
Bleed well and bid blind romance farewell.
Perpetual suicide of the soul:
Holding hands with loneliness until the sun rises again.
Listening to H.I.M.
WistfulHope Jan 2015
"What's it like to always love,
And never be loved in return?
She asked me.

I told her,
"You feel like the sun, a star,
Warm in cold space,
And you can see the other stars all about you,
But you can't reach any of them.

It's like being the last kid picked for the team,
Except you're never picked;
You're a spectator, but not by choice.

You're a kitten in the 'FREE' box,
Abandoned on the side of the road.
A great idea, but not many seem
To actually want you,
Everything you get is pity.
Oh, hi. And stuff.
GuiseOfALoner Jun 2016
Why love seems not enough?
Have I given a lot?
Or have you given me less?
Yet, it seems not enough.

Is it too much take?
I can't give you any less.
I can only give you lots.
Would you take it?

Words were spoken.
How much is true?
What does one weigh?
What does my love value?

Times were spent together.
Yet it was enough.
Here I am alone thinkin'
You could've spent more.

Sometimes love just ain't enough.
Two people fall in love.
Yet it might be unreciprocated.
Is it worth breaking?
Madison Greene Jul 2019
This is how it starts.
It's promises that feel like contracts and the feeling that this time, you got it right.
It's parking lot confessions and I like you so much it hurts.
It's I'm scared to lose you and you aren't even mine.
It's everything that's hurt has led me to you.
It's don't get out of the car, kiss me one more time.
I don't want to sleep without you tonight.
It's sunday morning.
It's a feeling in your stomach that makes you sick.
It's disappointment and it's why didn't I see this coming.
You don't want to feel it, but you can't help but drown in it.
It's bad timing.
It's do you still think of me?
It's 2 a.m.
It's don't answer that because I'm terrified of your response and ignorance is bliss.
It's bringing up memories that I should've put to rest the day you changed your mind.
It's crossing the street to avoid me.
It's my lip burning at the thought of never kissing you again.
It's I deleted your number and you're in a different city and I hope I never feel this much again.
This is how it ends.
RCraig David Oct 2016
Part 1
When profound things leave us because serendipity seizes control and teases our soul,

few actually see it and believe in takes its toll.

Our walls grow high...

Wise to all those sly predators that shared our space but ultimately never bettered us.

Likened to a wild bunch of criminals and nuns you sometimes share fun or lunch with,
then again spin adrift.

So we stay put...only peeling away the day-to-day’s fraying gray.

Though we have heightened steeliness to infernal charms,

We sometimes ignore internal alarms,

Oft' ending up-in-arms instead of in the arms of another.

Battling each curse from crib to hearse,
We continue to play anyway, but hold our cards close..
Somehow coasting on borrowed form and verse.

Still too afraid to lead with enormity.

Still too proud to follow in conformity.

We become shells and ghosts to project “normality”.

Still hoping for more,

Still revealing our core,

Still practicing what we’d say with one more chance to settle the score.

Refusing to sink, either our genius always on the brink of changing the world and more...

Or burning down and gutting out our current hideout and surrounding small town or place of clout.

Still reeling from the lingering devastation of past lackluster unreciprocated non-appreciation knockdowns.

To keep from being corrupt,

We fold our coldest stories up,

And box them up under a "never the right 'write' " pens and pencils cup long filled up.

Smiling a little, we continue through this long season's harsh climate.

Subconsciously buying "Dried" sage because "Rubbed" still seems to intimate.

Tragically tied down by the tiny tech gadgets flooding our data stream with faster updates;

All just to dazzle and daze us into a lazy malaise on our busiest of days.

More and more we wait.

The "what-if's" we contemplate.

The more we try to create something great, then hesitate, none too late

The more this inundating system of “Likes” rates you,

The less your gated fate or guiding faith makes you "you".

The less your justification or inspiration moves you.

Yet uncompromising and alone, you continue and make it through.

No one could ever guess from your crisp pants' fresh press. I digress.

Oddly, all it likely would take is one ego caress from soft smiling muse in sandals and a summer dress.

If you could only get this distress off your chest, fall hard for a new muse, give your defenses a rest

endure the re-birthing process and all the possible hot mess...then...

Never again would you have to guess or obsess.

The sheer potential magnitude of you at your best.

An open floodgate of uncanny, uncaddy personal success.

You would never again feel idleness or unrest.

But "who" you ask, would be caring, tough & daring enough,

willing to share all that stuff through such an arduous process, off the cuff?

Who has such pure heart intent, without the fluff?

A Muse who speaks out loud for you, never a mumble...

Is strong and humble, but not rough and tumble...

Who heeds the needs of your soul's rumble...

Who pulls the "new you" close while your old limits crumble...

Is fair and daring when you're sharing how bizarrely you sometimes raise the bar...

Joins your rare ****** to close down the bars while thoughtfully considering how fragile your scars are...

Who encourages you to shoot for the stars...

Sees the truth of who you were, hope to be and the screams in-between.

And by her sheer presence, becomes all these things for that new man and him alone.

Cause of she, he will achieve and be more than he could on his own.

Whoever that girl may be and until then,

I mend a tightly woven,

slightly broken,

rarely spoken,

unawoken caged soul for one more shinny token to spend on this world alone.

By R.Craig David-Copyrighted 2012
Martin Narrod Feb 2017
Being a poet, a heavy handed right-hand writer, is to me, being a sociopathic killer of language. Hands that worship sometimes the least popular fruit, the myrrh or the mana, the young woman or the homeless man-animal, prostitutes and the dregs of civilization.

Here I am, shuffling through my cabinets, searching out that precise instrument, for this precise moment. My repertoire of blades, bludgeoning objects, handyman's tools: the hammer, axe, screwdriver, sieve, staple gun, nail gun, jigsaw, bandsaw, handsaw, and wrench, also too there are wood chippers, snippers, clippers, scissors, tapes, shanks, cords, ropes, and wires. I do not prefer the six or twelve shooter, the Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol, the M-14 rifle or the M1 Garand. Too many are there to name the incredibly effective pharmaceuticals, including the human tranquilizers, animal poisons, toxic chemicals, and household cleaning products. I do want for these, though many of the myriad instruments I've listed work with great efficacy, eliciting the desired pleasure or response from he or she who wields them. I instead choose the the pen. Any pen will do, though I prefer the Uniball .7mm with black ink, as blue to me does not possess the intensity and seriousness that must be conveyed or omitted. The pen can chisel away the unwanted or offer the necessary temperament and intensity, which might be required. For each killing is unique unto itself. No ****** is quite like the other, though there are similarities between them on some occasions.

It must be I that wields the pen and not the other way around. This relationship is one-sided, and must be orchestrated by me and only me, lest I should sacrifice the personal nature of this hauntingly ferocious arrangement between ink and instrument, instrument and I. A gravely serious one-way, unreciprocated, and unbalanced, nearly schizophrenic performance of language that is never heard nor displays no sound, which instead draws heavy sanguinated strokes, marks, scribbles, and inscriptions amidst other fanatical displays of power and allegiance, ego and lust, eloquent rage and fetishized insanity. Each movement of the hand readies this god-sized control to the pen, exercising its tumultuous rein of might, choosing to exact its motive on this word, while ignoring and sometimes even skipping over whole sets of words, sentences in some instances, while in others it chooses to exhaust itself in wholly unbelievable performances of carnage, destroying speech, and slaying, splicing, and splitting-up complete sections of the English language.

In some cases neglecting those words that might seem noisome or rank to some folks, only to select and offer penalty to others, it chooses on occasion to ostracize other more sweetly and eloquent pieces of speech, it chooses which parts of our alphabet to select and which words or letters it ought to omit.

****** after ******, the writer counts each ****, committing every instance to memory, and on some accounts he or she might even bring home a treasure or trinket, something small though, not bigger than that of a pomegranate though often not smaller than the wick of a candle. The writer takes this together with any artifacts or materials that could tie his or her method to his or her execution. Until, at last amid the company of themselves, they can revel in their vain glory and perfervid excite for the acts they've chosen to commit and the acts they've chosen to omit.

It's in these brief moments, when the speaking ceases, and the company is called to rest, there can be found an easing and peaceful contentment. Each room slowly ushers out any of the unwanted sounds of the day. Finally, he or she may sit or stand, lay or play, undisturbed by agonizing wants or needs, and happily, having chosen to keep many cupfuls of pens, not only on their work-bench and writing desk, but in the kitchen, in the living room, and in every room.

In recent years, I've begun to notice that nearly every home and establishment, business, and institution keeps at least one pen on hand. If only for those special moments of social awkwardness when at last the spoken language holds no greater power than can be wielded under the grand spells and vespers, free-verse, stream-of-consciousness, or prose that quickly by taking up the pen can offer to its bearer in short time steadfast relief or certain resolve. For the heart certainly pumps more ink than it does blood.
Daniel Regan Aug 2013
My expectations take flight as we wonder through this once youthful and promising night. The only hope for a tomorrow comes with forbidden touch and a forbidden, connected sight. Longing for a quiet moment alone as your eyes slowly shift to meet mine. Connected hands pulling from considerable constrains as the clock gradually strikes nine. The world begins to slow as if to say there may not be another.  Or rather there may not be another one worth your passion now uncovered. Resurrected from our past as our softened minds are kept in a hazy check. By wondering eyes, unreciprocated passions, and friendly arm around our neck. And though instants stole in the shadow of the masses bring forbidden thoughts to light. Kinship to another uncovers doubt with a strong, unrelenting might. Unremitting hesitation as we’re forced to balance our duty and what we know as true. To those we brought to conquer the night and to our passions we wish to pursue. And as our night moves towards dawn we watch the other move along, towards a night of least resistance. With once promising passion now unwillingly forgone, and the other lost to the distance. Slowly awakening to our regret as the other does the same. Wondering if the night was different could our lust have been ours to claim. Would our desire to move beyond our duties have been made with worth and good intent. With others consent and no argument for the decisions we now circumvent. So with our train of thought chasing an end to our sorrow filled silence we search for just one more glance. Only to find remorse and a white flag waving reluctantly at our lost chance. And as the metal doors close on our promising night we wonder could this have been real. As I steal one more glance with the turning of the wheels putting miles towards our past so surreal. Hoping only for fate to smile again and give our passions a chance once more. Of a night filled with desire, lust, and affection that our destiny wishes to restore.
featherfingers Nov 2013
The evenings cold enough to require a sweater
but still too warm for the biting winter wind,
to cut through our clothing
like hot knives through butter;
these are the not-quite nights,
the dusks of the almost-autumn
and the too-late summer,
with the drizzle dripping requiems
for sunshine longings and July dreams.

These are the nights that I am torn
between walking alone with the chill in my bones,
sedate with the cold but alive,
or begging for a body
to drift alongside,
radiating an unreciprocated warmth;
someone with hands stuffed
into night-bitten pockets,
too cool and stiff to really chatter
but hoping for the shared sympathy
of frozen, rain-speckled skin.

We are gliding across the fallen leaves--
the dying brethren of the trees--
that crackle slow beneath our feet
like summer candy wrappers, drifting.
But we’re still slowly freezing,
shrugging threadbare shoulders
under threadworn sweaters
that still reek of the past.
And we’re still gently waltzing,
disinterested fingers on uninteresting waists
trampling scarlets and golds under
careless heels in three-four beats.

As the twilight fades into ink,
a hollow, whispering breeze reminds
of the clouded distance between us
and the heavy, rain-laden sky.
Kam Yuks Jan 2014
It's a shared pain that shifts weight as denial grows. Each of us has suffered the grief of loyalty unreciprocated.

You held my faith as I held your hand. Your grip loosened and like salvaging a favorite paperback book, pages slipped out individually until an empty shell met back to front.

That shared pain is called to fill in the empty spaces that naïveté leaves. The weight becomes a burden on those of us who expect more.

There is no resolution for betrayal. I lock my fears up tight and covet the pain.

You can see the ones who shoulder this burden in the warm grave of routine, going through the motions of daily life without a smile or by putting off life's responsibilities for the sake of blissful sleep.
Ryzeofthepoet Sep 2018
I miss the days when we can just love carelessly and not think about what might happen.

Im tired of the unreciprocated love and affection
The constant worry of uncertainty where we stand with someone
Tired of losing sleep thinking if the one you fell for is actually thinking of  you.
Im tired of one way relationships
Tired of the lying, deception and getting used.
Im tired of being in and out of toxic relationships
Tired of people that are still secretly into their exes
Im tired of the lack of communication
Tired of the callousness
Im tired of the lack of effort to understand
Tired of being left alone when you need someone the most.
Im just...

Deb Jones Apr 2019
I use the word “love” a lot
I exclaim “I love THAT”
To people, animals, plants
To food, furniture, bed
To almost everything really.

However, it doesn’t mean the same.
The love I have for people and animals
are passions of my heart.

Not like coming from love of the senses.  Like pleasure when I can find
a antique chair to refurbish.
A dessert I think is sooooo yummy
Or responding effusively
to well written words

Once a woman in Poland
had a crush on me.
Which surprising enough I have known a lot of women with female crushes on me
And propositioned many times
for 3-somes

I digress...

So she sent me copious notes

One in particular said I use the word love so loosely that people misunderstand me

That part shamed me for a few months.
I didn’t feel like me.
I felt dampened and tamped down.

I wasn’t as sparkly as I usually was and even stayed away from friends too.

The thing is,  I took this woman’s words and punished myself with them.
This woman who met me while playing a silly little game and I had rarely even passed a few words with her

But she said she studied me.
She said it took her months
To be able to just say hello to me.

Because of the one sided feelings
she had for me...
She judged me.

Oh, she didn’t tell me out of meanness. She thought she was helping me.
Expecting me to appreciate her diligence.

But what I got from the flood of letters
was potentially life changing.
It was as if she looked into my heart
and found me lacking.

I use the word “love” a little more selectively now but it’s still peppered in my daily life

Because it’s part of me and my feelings about everything life has to offer

And you know what?
“Love” should be used a lot more
often in this world.

So, I love you all on here. Your caring and help have made me a lighter person moreso than ever before.  

Thank you all!
Black and Blue Jul 2018
I wish I could say something beautiful.
But all of the words I dance with keep stepping on my toes,
like the boy I danced with in 8th grade that told me
he was surprised by how graceful I was for my size.

I've always carried other people's grief and anger around in my extra pounds,
storing their feelings like I was preparing for winter
and I've never been graceful about it.

I fall and I stumble and I slip but at least I didn't step on Brandon's feet when I was so nervous about my first kiss following the Sadie Hawkins dance.

I wish I could say something beautiful,
but all of the metaphors I try to grow never bloom.
Because I overwater them the way I overwater all of the loved ones in my garden and all of the wildflowers in my lungs.

I've been told my thumb is black, and not green, because I never know when to stop piling fertilizer upon seeds that will never sprout,
and when to stop piling unreciprocated love upon the people that I care about.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But my voice is always silent like lightning or booming like thunder
and I've never learned how to make it fill a room like the sound of rain,
without being a natural disaster.

I wish I could say something beautiful.
But I still have a hard time looking into a mirror without picking myself apart,
like diagramming myself for autopsy before I've ever even pulled the trigger.

How could I ever produce something beautiful, when I can't understand the work of art that I am?

How could I say something beautiful, when I stand in my hallowed exhibition hall and refuse to paint my walls because I'm so afraid of making mistakes?

How could I say something beautiful, when I'm afraid to frame my best qualities because what if other people think that they're overrated? Overrated like seeing the Mona Lisa in person and still not understanding what the **** she's smiling about.

How could I say something beautiful when I've never been able to appreciate the different hues and shadows and brush strokes that fill my skin and my mind and my mouth?
I've never been able to appraise and value myself because I'm afraid I'll never sell and never find a home.

How could I say or create or become something beautiful when I'm so preoccupied with imitating others' paintings instead of allowing myself to be my own masterpiece?

I wish I could say something beautiful, but maybe the most beautiful thing I could say in this moment is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

and kid you gotta be beholden to yourself instead of those critics in your art gallery.
Yue Wang Yitkbel Mar 2018
If you are someone that
Feels everything in its
Purest and sharpest ways

You will love and be loved
In a misunderstood and callous

You will hear the silence
You will see no reaction
You will see caring eyes that look away
You will find someone that hides
In obscured place

You will feel their love
But the closer you get
The further they get away

But don’t give up
Don’t wait
If you wait
You might never hear their love
That they rather lose than
To it away

Open hearts are easily hurt
As they all say
So don’t expect them to
Express love carelessly
As they know it’s weight

They will be afraid to love those
That they know they will give
Their whole heart to
And thus be distant and away

Their silence hides a heart
That feels more than the same
Their distance keeps a soul
That rather hides away

If you wait
No worthwhile soul will stay
If you wait
A soul that feel as much as you
Will stay away:

A soul that feel everything
Might never show their love to you
Especially when they feel the same
Especially when they love you even more

They might seem always distance away
They might always be leaving and never stay
They might never say the words you want them to say

But, if you feel the same
If you feel everything in the sharpest ways
You would feel their suffering
And why they would hide away
Sometimes, you have to love them this way
This unreciprocated way

But, don’t worry
When you give your heart to them
They won’t throw them away
They might seem indifferent
And unloving to you
Because they love you
More than they can bare
Ever losing

So, love bravely with your already callous heart
Those that seem to back away
And don’t give up
The most beautiful souls will take eternity
To feel safe.
Jay-vee Arh Jul 2012
Those blue eyes bore into my heart like the icy ocean against the rocky land.
The blood spills out as you do, leaving me with nothing but emotions I do not want, do not need.
That beautiful mind of yours far exceeds the capacity of mine.
The blood spills out as you contradict and challenge my character.

You make me tremble in fear, for I do not want any of this, yet I do.
You make my heart beat sporadically, for I don't know how else to react when I see you.
You make my hands shake as I take up my scalpel and make a cut. Again, the blood pours.
You make me sick with wretched self-consciousness.

And yet I cannot help but wonder how it would feel to kiss those hard lips of yours.
To embrace those arms I don't believe have truly embraced someone else before.
To finally see some emotion in those dead, logical, calculating blue eyes.
Can I even admit it to myself that I could love someone like you?

Someone like me who knows what she wants but can't have it.
Someone who knows she doesn't want you even when the blood is all over her face.
Someone who is currently debating with herself, struggling to decipher the emotions she feels with you.

Those hands are strong, and unyielding, just like your thoughts.
Those hands that have no doubts before action as you sand away every layer I put up to protect myself with.
Unlike my mind, that falters, that hesitates before everything I do.
What am I even doing here? What am I even doing? Can I remember how to breathe?

These brown eyes want their fill of you.
This brown hair want their thick ropes to be intertwined between your fingers.
This body's blood yearns for your body's blood.
Are we ready for each other's unreciprocated love?
weaver May 2015
Tom said that my name sounds like an exotic flower meets medicine.
Tom said the love he witnessed in me gave him hope.
Tom said he'd make it to my wedding, because I promised he would be the flower boy.
Tom said he had a dream that I was kidnapped and he was trying to save me.
That was the last thing Tom said to me.

And I'm writing about him because I don't know what else to do to remember him;
to give him some sort of tribute of my emotion outside of clutching my chest;
to even allow myself to think about him at all.
But writing is how we met, so this is where I will keep him alive.

Tom had a full name that sounded like an old-fashioned fancy inventor.
He spoke with quick Irish wit, and every time we messaged I would imagine the day
that I could ask him to get on the phone with me so I could hear that accent for myself,
and I tried to picture his face from the two pictures I ever saw of it,
and I daydreamed about seeing a kooky smile while he held out his arms yelling,
He never called me anything else,
and I never came up with a nickname for him quite as splendid.

Tom told me to find him a Russian man.
He told me he had a dream that he had an unreciprocated crush on me.
(I told him I would never be so rude about it, though.)
It was apparently meant to be, however, when he "accidentally flirted" from autocorrect once.
One time he messaged me at 2am just to ask what "totes" meant.
He sent me terribly-drawn doodles of me, him, and ducks (of course)
that made him laugh so hard at himself he could hardly type,
and those times were my favorite.
I'm thinking about putting one of them on my wall, but it makes me sad to think I couldn't tell him about it.

I never did tell you what I do in the mornings, about the things I hate the most, or about all my tiny ticks.
If I wasn't so ill, I might have remembered to message you more -
then again, I figured we had the rest of our lives for our friendship.
That phrase feels sickeningly familiar in my mouth.
Colorado is where my friends go to die, it seems.

"How's your lade?"
"You are the dotiest together."
"You two are my sunshines."
"Your love gives me hope in the world."

Late nights filled with panic and unease, the kind only love can instill in you,
and calm messages back from him that told me to keep doing what I'm doing -
she's going to be alright.
And I'm trying to believe that, Tom, I'm trying to believe that with all my heart
but you're six feet under from the same thing that threatens to take my beloved from me
so I'm not sure how to believe you now.
You don't know what I would give to hear from you tonight,
to hear, "she's going to be alright, you're doing all the right things"
to hear, "I'm going to be alright, you're doing all the right things."
I told you I would fight for you with all I have, but I knew what I have isn't a lot right now.
I couldn't do much for you.
I hope with all my might it's enough for her.
(and finally, since the night I was told they pulled the plug, I can cry.)

I didn't get to say goodbye. two weeks before you took yourself from me,
I sent you "goodnight" and "I miss you" and "sleep good" and "we'll talk soon"
…I suppose all but the last is close enough.
(I'll probably always carry a pocket of regret that six days before that,
I never received a notification to your reply.)

you once wrote to me about love and small fonts
and I will never forget the first time i read it and my heart stopped
because you Knew, you understood when I have never even told you.
I'm chasing so many tails of uncertainty now, my dear,
but I will try to remember I can find that I am Loved.
he would expect me to write about this.
I miss you, Tom. I am still so thankful for this gift from you.
t Jan 2017
Aphrodite, goddess of love
twist your branches of willow around me
gust your warm winds against my numb skin
cover my tongue in the taste of strawberries and chocolate.

I want to sing the sound of you
I want to know the feeling of your lips on mine
I want to be loved.

I am all too familiar with unreciprocated love
it tastes bitter, like black coffee and raw sage
I long for a sweeter taste
I long for someone to numb the sting.

so come to me, my dear
there is no need to be afraid
I will make you a cup of galaxies
it will taste like hot chocolate with extra milk
we will connect the constellations at the bottom of your cup.
manicsurvival Nov 2013
I'm all alone. And it's not because I've pushed people away, because I have made it a goal to bring people closer. But my sister and mother will drive away and not invite me to be with them because I am too mean. I'm too selfish and delusional, and psychotic to participate in normal human interaction...or at least that's what they've told me. "Go complain to your therapist." "You're stupid." "You're ungrateful." I've heard it all. And this low is so ******* low, that I don't know if I'll ever go back up. My mom told me to lock the door behind me. I didn't. I didn't lock it because I don't care if a ****** or murderer walks in. Let them hurt me, it's hard to believe that I could be in more pain than I'm in right now. But that's stupid, because each day that I live proves that further pain does exist. No one want me. No one wants to be with me. I want to escape into bottles of alcohol and **** and pills, but I can't, because my ***** of a mother drug tests me. I can't begin to explain how ****** up I am. I can't begin to explain the everlasting agony that burn in my heart. My family, they're gone. I'm nothing to them. And I thought that there was one person worth living for, because I'm in complete and total love. But the love is unrequited, unreciprocated, and empty. So what more is there? How much harder can I try? I can't.
claire Apr 2016
That song, that awful terrible song.
The absurd sting. The foolish decision. The irony of it all.
Me, staring down at the black and white grin of the piano keys,
every atom in my body screaming with awareness of you.
If I didn’t look at you, not even once.
If I kept my gaze elsewhere. If I leveled my tone to a sedated monotone.
If I talked about pace and rhythm and chorus and speed up there and slow down here and yes, yes, like that, beautiful. If I didn’t watch your hands on the bow or the bow on the strings
or the light on your face. If I crushed those violets of want blooming in my belly.
If I built myself a castle of steel through which you could never penetrate, maybe,
maybe, I could reach a quivering sort of equilibrium.
But that song. The melody mocking me, mocking my heartache,
pointing to my hidden places and yanking the curtain aside.
It shouldn’t have been romantic, not the stone in my chest, nor the
frigid fact of my unreciprocated feelings
but god, the room shrank until it seemed as if you had hollowed me out and
saturated me with yourself, that the end of me
and the beginning of you had become completely indistinguishable,
my heartbeat so loud we should have heard it echo off the walls.
That song and that glow and that loss. That soft desire, that song
I should never have suggested we play, that ruin.
That song and you and

— The End —