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I Wrote You

I wrote you at the time you went away
I wrote you letters each and every day
I wrote you when the sun shone bright
I wrote you in the candlelight
I wrote you.....
Though you did not write to me

I wrote you when the frost lay on the ground
I wrote you when the snow came falling down
I wrote you in good time for spring
As the birds began to sing
I wrote you......
Though you did not write to me

I wrote you when the air turned sweet and warm
When skies were red at early break of dawn
I wrote you as we gathered grain
I wrote you when it gave me pain
I wrote you......
Though you did not write to me

I wrote you as the North wind cruelly blew
I wrote you for I still remembered you
I wrote you underneath the tree
Where you swore you would marry me
I wrote you......
Though you did not write to me

I wrote you when my heart had lost the will
I wrote you then and I will write you still
I wrote you with my dying breath
So lost to love, even in death

I wrote you....

I wrote you....

Though you did not write to me
Alyssa Nov 2013
i wrote a poem. it wasnt about the leaves falling or growing back. it was about a boy that was too sad to
even look at himself in the mirror. sometimes he believed that if he looked in the mirror for too long he wasnt who he was supposed to be, sometimes if he looked in the mirror too long he became a monster and thats particularly the reason why he avoided the mirror at night because thats when monsters become real and he was tired of thinking of himself as a monster.
i wrote a poem but it wasnt about summertime or the way the sand feels between your toes or the cold rush of ocean water on a hot day. it was about the salty tears that he would cry because demons were haunting his room at night. and not the demons like ghosts but the demons from within. the kind of demons that you cant run away from.
i wrote a poem it wasnt about a bride blushing when the groom snuck a kiss when the priest wasn't looking it was about the funeral we gave you. it was about the hundreds of people who stood in line just to see your face one last time before youre put in the ground. it was about me staring at your chest from afar hoping that it would move that maybe this was one of your famous jokes and maybe your lungs would start working again along with your heart and your organs and your brain and maybe your eyes would open. perhaps itll scare someone whos standing right next to you but who cares bc youre alive. but you didnt. and now now youre in the ground.
i wrote a poem and it wasnt about me it was about finding the demons. i found the demons inside of you when you were put into the ground. i found the demons because as they lowered your casket into the 6 foot hole they dug for you i saw one slip out before they closed it. the demon was dancing on your casket and as they lowered you to the ground, i jumped. i didnt jump up i didnt jump back. i jumped in and i started hitting that demon as hard as i could because now that youre gone the demon had no place else to go. the demon knew he had won but even the best fall down sometimes and i made sure he fell as hard and as far as he could.
i wrote a poem but i couldnt save you from yourself. if i could have shrunken down and fought that demon before you left me i would have. but i couldnt. i had all these words left to say to you but they started in my chest and never made it to my throat and now im sitting here with all the words that couldnt have saved you anyway because the demons were trapped inside of you. the only way for you to be happy again is to cut yourself open & rip them out yourself, so you did. the demons were trapped & stuck inside you, and i know because i have demons stuck inside of me too. but sometimes i get so mad because if im still here then why arent you? if im still here fighting myself trying not to rip out my own demons, then why couldnt you have done the same? i needed you.
i wrote a poem. and it was about my demons being stuck inside of me and theyre crawling and theyre running around and sometimes they run to a dead end and they hit my fingertips and they bounce  back and run straight into my heart. they run through my veins, through my arteries. sometimes they break my ribs in the process but they heal so quickly that the doctors dont believe me and call me crazy but i promise them that theres a demon inside of me and hes breaking my ribs and hes breaking my soul and hes breaking my heart but i can still feel the demons running inside me. and i dont know how or why or when but i just want them to go away i dont know how im going to do that but i said some day i would. and i think thats the reason i cut myself open, to try and find a way to show the demons a way out but they run through my blood stream and i can feel them in my fingertips and i can feel them
in my forearms and i can feel them in my elbows and i can feel them in my shoulders and in my neck and i can feel them going down my throat. and i can feel it in my chest and i can feel it in my liver and i can feel it in my stomach and i can feel it in my pelvis. and i can feel it in my knees and i can feel it in my shins and i can feel it in my ankles and i can feel it all the way down to my toes and suddenly its like an electric current and it flows all the way back up to my head and shock the hair in its roots. it feels like i cant say anything fast enough or correctly.
i wrote a poem & it was about sometimes i believe that why i write & not speak is because i cant say the right words and maybe if i state at a blank piece of paper long enough the right words will come out but i know, i know they wont bc the demons are still stuck inside of me and i think thats why you wrote so beautifully that night and didnt ask for help. the demons knew that they were finally coming out and sometimes when the demons come out its the best time to say things.
i wrote a poem and it was about wanting peace. i just dont have peace but rather i have pieces of myself.
i will never have peace until my demons are gone. but im trying to find a way to get the demons to leave me alone without dying im not sure if i know the right way but im sure as hell trying. but the drugs dont work and the alcohol doesnt work and the cigarettes dont work and the blood doesnt work and the pills dont work. but i have to find a way to stop them before they eat me up inside and they tear me apart. in order to stop them ill have to tear myself apart and thats why i break things and thats why
i throw things because i have to find something to destroy other than myself and sometimes i pull my hair because i cant understand whats happening to me.
i wrote a poem and i started to see red for a bit but i stopped seeing red because the curtains are red and the walls are yellow. the candle on top of the cabinent is red brown and yellow and the book on the couch is  yellow and red the couch is yellow red tan green blue. the table is brown and the floor is brown but the carpet and the drapes are red.
i wrote a poem. maybe i should stop talking about them before they come back its like a taboo its like the  field of dreams and the saying"if you build it they will come" and i promise you that if i built a bridge from my heart to my brain the demons would make their way back & i would be consumed by them and im not sure if i can deal with that so ill cut the bridge in half before they start walking towards my brain.
i wrote a poem. and it was about me snapping that bridge in half and watching the demons fall down my throat and into the acid in my stomach, but that doesnt make any difference because once one does another one is born. so as long as the demons keep walking they will die with my secrets but the new ones will find  a new way to torture me, and maybe thats worse because if they need new ways to torture me then every thing will torture me. perhaps thats what happened to you.
i wrote a poem but im not sure what its about anymore. but i do know that its not good and im tired of speaking.
sorry this is long
Alex Frass Jul 2019
Eve wrote to the Devil and I
wrote to Eve.
I guess the only time we wrote
to each
other was when I cursed
her while sitting on the bathroom
floor.
I wrote to tell Eve
that I never loved her
that the only reason I bit
the apple was because
she had brought it.
I wrote to Eve, and Eve
wrote to the Devil.
I guess the only time
we wrote to each other was
when I wrote to tell her to bring
my **** back. The jackets
my grandpa's watch, and even
the necklace.
She wrote back.
"I'll get your things,
we ought to meet down the middle."
She wrote to the Devil : " He is
gone, now, you take his place..."
I wrote to Eve
and Eve wrote to the Devil.
I guess the only time we wrote
to each other was
when I had the gun ******
in my mouth, I nearly did it, but
here I am. Still,
I wrote to Eve, and Eve, well,
she wrote to the Devil.
Samantha Feb 2014
I wrote a poem about Ritalin
Though I've never tried it

I wrote a poem about my bed
Turning into an island
About my floor melting into sea water
And my ceiling light
Turning into the sun

I wrote a poem about a cigarette
All the best poets smoke
Death in itself is poetic

I wrote a poem about *****
It has been two years since I've felt
The familiar feel
Of bile climb up my throat
And meet my toilet bowl

I wrote a poem about voodoo dolls
And how the pins
Push through fabric
And how I wish it was flesh

I wrote a poem about cramps
I can physically feel my ****** tearing
Its way out of my body
With each contraction
I mark another tally on the chalkboard

I wrote a poem about bullets
Opening skin
Unzipping foreheads

I wrote a poem about teeth
Teeth falling out
Teeth growing in
Teeth twisting in gums

I wrote a poem about pain
And how my tolerance is so high
I've died seven times
And hardly noticed

I wrote a poem about blood
They say blood holds bad spirits
And I want to let them free
Please let them free

I wrote a poem about death
As cliche as it sounds
Everyone tells me to stop
Stop talking
Stop writing
My fascination with the end
Isn't healthy

I wrote a poem hospitals
Filled with diseases
Worse than my own
I feel the guilt clawing at my stomach
I feel the spirits thrash

I wrote a poem about nothing
Because thats all I am
Madison Elaina Mar 2015
If I wrote you a love poem
would you clam up in choking modesty,
embarrassed by the still raw love that's been cooking but is yet to be served.

If I wrote you a poem of friendship,
would you retreat back into solidarity,
annoyed at the bluntness of my open soul.

If I wrote you a poem of mourning,
would you fill with resentment
at my supposed plea for pity

If I wrote you a poem of joy
would you counteract the skip in my step with a lag in yours
because enthusiasm is corny in large amounts

And if I wrote you a poem of desire
Would you avert all eyes back to the screen
because Romeo and Juliet is a bit outdated
and imagination has fled from the heart and away from its sensory outlets

Or…

If I wrote you a love poem
Would you beam with a smile that radiates from your eyes and cheeks and shoulders and knees
Because you need all the passerby to know of our love, wordlessly..shamelessly..

If I wrote you a poem of friendship
would you deliver me my favorite coffee,
pick me up to go on a road trip to anywhere

If I wrote you a poem of mourning,
would you hold me and give me the smiles and hugs
that I am temporarily and humanly void of..

If I wrote you a poem of joy,
Would you let my spirit set fire to yours
So we can dance around like idiots aimlessly

And if I wrote you a poem of desire,
would your body tingle and feel like its never felt before,
unsatisfied until our legs and tongues and hearts are entwined

Or am I too Disney?
silvervi Feb 2017
I wrote ten poems about you
Or maybe even more
I wrote about my thoughts
I wrote a lot a lot

I wrote about you
Your smile, your eyes
As bright as skies
The shining of your face

I wrote to see, to understand
What this all means to me
But in the end, all that I felt
Looked like a maze to me

I wrote ten poems about you
I tried to understand
I wrote about my feelings
And thoughts inside my head

I wrote about your attitude
Your living happiness
I wrote about the positive
The good things and the best

I never realized it before
And now it's kinda late
How much I cared
How much for you I felt

I wrote the poems desperately
Because of room and time
I tried to make every of them
To be filled up with rhyme

It was quite easy
Because of you
Your smile,
Your friendly attitude

Your opened nature
Your manly stature
Your free emotions
Your crazy devotions

I wrote ten poems about you
For how impressed I am
I'll keep on writing about you
Until the very end

I wrote ten poems about you
Or maybe even more
I'll keep on writing about you
And you don't even know
Zach Sanchez Mar 2011
I wrote a poem for
you.
I wrote a poem for
me.
I wrote a poem for
desk jockeys and cash
register fanatics.
I wrote a poem for
all the benches of
the world
and all their inhabitants.
I wrote a poem for
Allen Ginsberg
and his secret loving
soul, now made public
for mass consumption.
I wrote a poem for
King Buddha and his
promise to enlighten
us all;
sending us
to Pure Land personal
heavens.
I wrote a poem for
the alarm clock
cold morning, cold feet
warm sheets
blues.
I wrote a poem for
everyone everywhere
always because
work is boring.
I wrote a poem for
the void. Never having
seen it, no way
to describe.
I wrote a poem for
crosswalks hallucinating
***** looks within
blank, staring headlights
threading smoke rings
through needles.
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
OK Reader, I'm going to tell you a tale … with great trepidation. You see, this tale, well, it's kind of like telling someone that you've seen a UFO. They want to believe you, but … it's never really been proven scientifically. Not to mention the fact that most folks who believe in such things are often the tin-hat wearing types, written off as … lets be nice and call them “odd”. And, of course, the more you swear to it, the crazier you appear. It's an epic tale, spanning 30 years of my crazy life.

  But, It's a story I want to tell, because it happened to me. I can barely understand it myself, let alone explain it. So … I'm just going to launch into it and you take it any way you wish.

*  *  
Where Can You Be?

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I'll search with gazes and I'll search with cars,
I'll search the cities and I'll search the stars, well …
I'm gonna find you, oh, wherever you are,
I'm gonna find you baby …  near or far, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

I thought I'd found ya, but she wasn't you,
that girl she left alone and blue, well …
I know that's something that you'd never do,
your love has always been strong and true, but …

Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

If you must settle for some other man
and deviate from our immortal plan, well …
I hope you realize I will understand
and I'll try and do the best that I can, but …

Where will I be?
Where will I be, my love?
Hoping the next life sees …
our destiny!


Where can you be?
Where can you be, my love?
Oh, can't you see?
You're not with me!

~Wednesday, April 1st, 1987
10:30 P.M.



  I was singing in a band back in those days and, as it happened, this was the last song I'd ever write for it. Just after this, as it does, it all came crashing down and the band was finished. But in those last days, they pondered this song, with great puzzlement. You see, it was unlike anything I'd brought them before. It wasn't rock … It wasn't a ballad … it wasn't even structured like a “normal” 80's rock song.
  
  No bridge, no solo, no loud grinding guitars, etc. It even had bits where I hummed, yes hummed, the melody, like a lullaby. As they read the lyrics and I described how it went, they all looked at me like I had three heads and asked where this had come from. It was nothing like anything I'd written before. I could only tell them when and where I'd written it, but had no explanation of what inspired it. It had just came to me, so I wrote it down. They didn't know what to make of it, or even what to do with it.

  One of them said it sounded like a late 70's or early 80's adult contemporary song or even in the vein of The Eagles. Another asked if it was about reincarnation … And I honestly, until that moment, hadn't thought of it that way, I didn't think like that at 24 … but then, one of them said it was “Haunting” …

  “Haunting”?

  “Wow”, I thought, I'd never had anything I'd written described as that before. When I asked him what he meant by that, he told me that it was haunting to think that this poor guy is desperately seeking a girl, that may or may not even know that he exists … in a world with billions of people in it. To top that off, he fears that she may off and marry someone else if he doesn't find her in time.

  This, along with the suggestion of it being about reincarnation made me rethink and rewrite the song. Well, a few lines in the last verse and chorus anyways. It actually made the song flow better and seem more complete. In a way, it actually made the song make more sense … to me and them. Sadly, we never did anything with it. There wouldn't be time. Ha … Time … how ironic. Over 10 years later, came this …


For Someone I've Never Met

Please save a place for me,
deep inside your heart.
Always know that I think of you,
as we both practice our arts.

Our worlds are full of temptations,
so very hard to resist …
and the good Lord knows
we're both far from,
sixteen and never been kissed.

Wealthy men with jaws divine …
Temptresses with looks so fine …
Paths that lead our hearts away …
Paths that surely lead astray …

They'll lead us there every time.
They'll leave us there … so  unkind.
Our hearts must shine,
night and day.
Through any darkness … they'll light our way.

If you never touch my face …
If I never look into your eyes …
We'll always have the comfort of sharing
the same
big, blue sky.

If I never smell your hair …
If you never kiss my lips …
Always know the search for your smile
has launched a thousand ships.

So, I hope you save a place for me
in your heart so sweet and kind.
Please, save a place for me …
Heaven knows you've one in mine.

~Thursday, September 9th, 1999
9 A.M.



“For Someone I've Never Met ” poured out of me in the midst of another breakup from the second, and last, girl that I wanted to marry. That emotion, never found me again. I looked at it on my computer screen and smiled, seeing “Where Can You Be”, in my mind, on my tattered old note pad that I called my “Song Book”. The memory of me writing it while sitting in my Z-28, looking out over the Gulf of Mexico as a beautiful heat lighting storm sent bolts across the sky, came flooding back; as did the debate of reincarnation I'd had with my pals in the rehearsal room all those years before. Here I was, again, writing about “someone” that I sensed, for lack of a better term, was out there … somewhere.

  Well Reader, do you believe in reincarnation? I was never really certain, but, as you can see, I had twice written pieces to someone I wasn't completely sure existed. I had always “sensed” someone out there beginning with the period after I wrote “Where Can You Be?” and thereafter. So, there they were, each written after losing someone I was deeply in love with. Each came out of nowhere, as they usually do. By the time I was in my 40's, I began to think I was either imagining it all (a side effect of being a hopeless romantic) or that I had just somehow missed this person and our “moment”.

  And then …



Epiphany

There was a place.
There was a time …
There, I stood … still unknowing
and everything seemed fine.

But there in that place …
at that moment in time …
the moment I saw the eyes,
I'd never believed I'd find.

Well, what could I say?
What could I do?
In a world filled with billions …
and there … was a you.

I'd always known you were out there …
even written of something amiss.
I never, ever stopped looking for you …
because my heart always said you exist.

My breezy Fall became harshest Winter.
My crazy life left my health running out.
I'd resigned myself that our moment had passed …
but this moment … it removed all doubt.

Well, what could I say?
Tell me, what could I do?
There we stood, staring … alone … in a city of millions …
yes, there … there was a you.

Oh, that mistress fate, she is just so cruel.
Frustration, a curse to be mine.
   I'd searched for you my entire life …
but now … my clock … knows a limit of time.

You see, I would never venture a love with you,
while knowing I'd have to leave you … hurt and alone.
I could only admire from afar … stoic and aloof …
while turning my heart into stone.

Nothing I could ever say and nothing I could ever do …
But now, at long last … at least I finally knew.

There, you stood … green seas, gazing up … into skies of blue.
My long-awaited revelation … become sorrow-laced realization.
There really is … a you.

~August 12th, 2009
  

  Typical of my life-long Charlie Brown syndrome … After being told in 2005 that I had “the lungs of an eighty-year-old man” and that I had “Six to Ten years” to live, I made a conscious decision in that Doctor's parking lot that I could never have another girlfriend and that I must face this alone. I don't see woman as objects. They are glorious creatures that are here to be our partners and friends and to make our lives amazing. I could never, ever knowingly let a woman fall in love with me, all the while knowing I was going to die and leave her. It's not in me to do such a thing, lonely or not.

  Yes, I'm still alive, I'm stubborn like that. But, some days are better than others and my new doctors say that they don't give people “time limits” anymore … because of people like me. I can't afford the lung transplant. So, as Bono so aptly put in one of his songs: “The rich stay healthy, while the sick stay poor”. It is what it is … and like the energizer bunny, I'm still going. Good for me.

  In the moment that I met her, the morning that followed, and the amazing speed of our nexus over the next several months combined with a string of synchronicities (Coincidences? Did I mention that she too, was a poet and writer?) that not only came after I met her on the sidewalk in front of the publisher we shared, but in those pieces I had written before and in several after; I was pretty much convinced I had actually found her. I have NEVER experienced anything like this, or her, in my entire life.

  So, after all this time, here she was … and there wasn't a **** thing that I could do about it. Besides, she was much younger than I and it probably would never have worked anyways. ****, the universe is rotten sometimes, huh? Maybe, if I'm lucky, things will balance out better in the next life. I can only hope. But I'm reminded, worryingly so, of the **** The Alarm song: “Collide”:

“All of these thoughts pounding in my head …
with the words I've wrote, in the letters I've never sent.
The distance in our lives may change …
Times that you can never erase …
But will our worlds collide?
Will our worlds collide, the next time?”



  Only time will tell.



  “Colors”, and a few others, were written about/for her. But, I could never show them to her. I would never endanger my friendship with her. I just wanted to keep her in my life. That, and that alone, was the only motive I'd ever had with her. I looked forward to seeing her marry, hearing her stories of her three kid's adventures; Hubby, all greasy, working on the car in the driveway, rabbits in her garden at night, eating her precious organic veggies or even about her new curtains. Just to know that she was alive, happy and doing well. I found a solace in her voice I could never describe and I was completely content to just have her in my life and watch hers unfold. Only I could end up in this odd position.

  I feared that she might get weird-ed out because I'd never displayed any romantic inklings toward her, so, to suddenly read these might make her feel a bit, lets say: uncomfortable. Actually, I didn't write them with any romantic intentions, per se; I just did what I always do … write what comes out. Still, there's no denying that they come across romantic. Again, so, so Charlie Brown. (long sigh)
  
  It is what it is. I also have to ponder the fact that maybe all those Charlie Brown moments in my life were preparing me for this one big, painful one. That does makes sense … ******' Universe.


Colors

Well when you're Green, I'll be your Brown.
Like the earth that loves the flowers,
I'll will be your solid ground.

And I'll be your Azure, when you are Verdigris.
We'll be thee most beautiful ocean
that eyes have ever seen.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
Mixing all of the colors … I'll make everything alright.

Now when you're Blue, I'll be you're Red.
If something should make you wanna cry,
I will feel your pain instead.

And I'll be your Orange, whenever you are Pink.
We'll be thee most amazing sunset,
that the sky could ever ink.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … and make everything alright.

Should you be Violet, I will be your Beige.
Like a sleepy moonlit desert,
pasteled in dunes and sage.

And when you're Grey, I will be your Rainbow.
We'll be thee most soothing rainstorm
the world has ever known.

And when you're Black, I'll be your White.
I'll mix all of your colors … yes, I'll make everything alright.

With love on my palette, painting a glorious sunrise …
I'll color all your mornings with a smile and brighten up your skies.
If you should find yourself in sorrow from someones hate or lies …
I'll take the stars down from the heavens … and paint them in your eyes.

So whenever you are Black, I will always be your White.
I'll mix all your colors with a promise … everything will be alright.

Yes, I'll mix all of your colors with a promise … Everything's gonna be alright.

~  Winter 2012



  I wrote this after she had rang me up one afternoon lamenting about her life at the moment, troubled that her latest novel hadn't done as well as she'd hoped and now she had to be waitressing to make ends meet. I tried my best to cheer her up and assured her that she was strong enough to handle anything and that she must keep chasing her dreams. I wrote it as a poem, but I can't help but notice it looks like a song, though I've never heard music for it. Those repeated verses look just like choruses to me.

  Earlier in the day, I had been looking at a booklet of paint swatches. I guess, up there on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, her sadness and me looking at all those colors melted together somehow and, as happens, out came this piece. Even this, became another synchronicity as she would name her next novel “Show Me All Your Colors”. I remember seeing it in the bookstore and looking straight up … shaking my head at the sky. Was this the universe telling me to show and tell her all this?

  Well, if it was, I stuck with my gut and kept it to myself. My God, if you only knew how many of these synchronicities there were between her and I. It simply boggles my mind. I wanted to call them “coincidences”, but there were just so **** many of them … Each so unique, they just couldn't be called that. I don't want to tell them all here, because like I said, the more you swear to it, the crazier you sound. And I'm sure your questioning my sanity by now, aren't you? (Smirk)


  OK, OK … this one is definitely romantic. I wrote it one night, drunk to the bejeezus. I'd done what we called “The Crosstown Crawl” with my pal Tristan and a gaggle of assorted waitresses we knew. This involved starting at Brass Monkey on the west side highway in the Gansevoort District and ending at my favorite hookah bar, Karma, on the Lower East Side … Drinking in, and often being “asked to leave” (Read: Kicked out of) every bar that took our interest as we walked (Read: staggered) west to east, staying below 14th St.

  On my way home from the city on the J train, I thought about all the phone conversations we'd had while I was on this train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge. Being drunk, I guess, I caught a bout of sadness that I'd never get to tell her any of this or even how I felt about it all. Before I hit my elevator, this piece was swimming in my head. It's about as mushy a piece as I've ever written … if not thee most! Not the norm for me, but this is, after all, a lot to keep pent up inside you. I wouldn't wish this predicament on anyone.


For My Little Red-Haired Girl …


You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

In a different time ...

You … would have been my Life.

You … would have been my World.

You … would have been my Everything

and I will always love you for my own special reasons.

It is just a shame … and I'm so, so sorry … that you … must never, ever know.

Maybe next time.


~Charlie Brown




   When I came-to in the morning and read what I had wrote, I had to laugh a bit. It is borderline corny, very beautiful, very telling and very sad … all at once. I shook my head, laughing and told myself :

  “*******, Sam … yer losin' it. Get your **** together, will ya?”

  I guess in my stupor, I was imagining what it would have been like to write something for her. I don't know … There it was and I was stuck with it. I almost deleted it, but, my finger wouldn't press the key. As I told you before … I'd NEVER show this to her. She'd probably never speak to me again.

   As a sadder epilogue, that eventually happened. I still don't know why, but we haven't spoken in years. Maybe she sensed this emotion in me and ran away. Or maybe, just maybe … she thought I'd pushed her away somehow … but for whatever reason, we drifted apart. I guess I'll never know.  As you can see by reading this, that was never my intention. But, like I keep reiterating … It is what it is.

  One day, I called her number to catch up and shoot the breeze. I hadn't spoken to her in a few months as she'd been busy promoting her new novel and I didn't want to pester her. But … it was disconnected … I checked my emails … nothing. I'd never been so confused, she just closed me out. I didn't want to bother her. I was sure she had her reasons and if she wanted to reach out to me again, she would. She had my email and my phone number. But, for now … she was gone … and that was that.

  So, what do you think, Reader? Do I get the Tin hat … or a Badge of courage? Am I bat-**** crazy … or just eccentric? I'll leave it up to you to decide, because as I said, this all happened to me and there isn't a thing I can do about any of it. I just had to get it off of my chest. Thanks for letting me vent.

  Wherever she is … she will always mean the world to me. I can see her green eyes if I close my mine and look for them. Sometimes, on occasion, her face haunts my sleep. Still, I like to picture her, kids playing in a sprinkler behind her, digging in her garden, wearing gloves too big for her hands and a smudge of fresh dirt on her cheek … it makes me smile.


-Sam Webster
Brooklyn, New York
2013
OK, you can stop scratching your head. I'm sorry if you feel like I tricked you or was playing a prank … That was not my intention. This piece is experimental writing, of sorts. If you are wondering, it's titled “Somewhere … Out There”. But I didn't want to put a title at the head of the page, as that might have clued you in too early.

I also confess that “Sam” the narrator is, on no uncertain terms, based loosely on myself. But hey, what better way to string you along? Besides, as Stephen King said, you “Write what you know”. As far as I 'm aware, using poetry within a short story like this, or in this manner, has never been done before. Welcome to the future!

It really belongs in my “From Thee Edge” Collection with the rest of my Twilight-Zone-esque short stories. (You can now read some of these fiction short stories here, posted in my "NoPo@HePo" posts, along with some non-fiction essays. I hope you enjoy them.) But, because I pieced together several of my poems to not only tell the story, but as a vehicle to carry it along as part of it; I wanted to put it here on Hello Poetry just to see if I could convince you long enough to get you through the story … while having you believe it was me speaking to you and that it was all very real to me. Thus, making it feel real to you as you read it.

Was I having you along right up until it was signed by someone else? Or, at least until the narrator addressed himself as “Sam”?

If so, then I accomplished my mission. I'd love to hear your comments on it. If you've been reading any of my other posts, I'm sure you've figured out that I like to run wildly outside of the box sometimes. This was just, as I said, an experiment in a different way to tell a story … fiction or otherwise. As always, I hope that I took you on a journey and, more importantly, that you enjoyed it.

~Jeff Gaines
L.A.
(Lower Alabama)
2015
Shvaugn Craig Nov 2013
i'd love to write you
love poems
in some essence of the moment
a sliver of remembrance across the page
in hopes that maybe you will
understand
possibly allow both of us to cry
by the time we reach
the last line

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)


i want to write you
love poems
in an effort to tell you
the things i have stopped questioning
what i am compelled to do
kiss you softly
link your fingers through mine
and roll over beneath the darkness
in my bed together

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)


i'm going to write you
love poems
so i can give you everything
the beat of the moment
all of this laughter
the press of your hand to my heart
those smiles in the corner of the day
when i am happy
or everything is just full
on the level of complete
satisfaction

(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)
(i wrote you
a love poem)(i wrote
you a love poem)(i
wrote you a
love poem)


so smile
kiss me
but more importantly
i just need you
to be
here
because i'm most likely in love with you by now
Me Jun 2018
I wrote. and I wrote until my fingers went numb and until the paper was covered in my tears but I wrote. I wrote about how I love you. and how i hate you. I wrote about how I can barely breathe. how my throat is clenched my stomach in knots. I wrote how my eyes are swollen so I wear my glasses and look down. I wrote how I was strong until I walked into my room and saw your handwriting on my wall. I write how I dropped to my floor and gasped for breath. I wrote how it’s just unreal. how it’s insane and it just can’t be happening. I wrote how I have to distract myself in order to not think about the pain. I wrote about how every time I pause, I think of you. how you would’ve done anything to have me. I wrote about the time you stayed up all night for me. and how we both wished upon the same star. how we wished for the same thing. I wrote about how our first date we saw a movie but I cannot tell you a single thing cause I thought the whole time about how hard I was holding your hand or if my hair was tickling your neck. I write about all the times you come over. how you fit right in with my family. as if you were apart of it already. I wrote about how we fought. how we used our words and how we used them as weapons. how eventually it became a war. how it finished. how the city went up in flames. and how I was left. screaming for help on the 4th story up choking on smoke and gagging on my tears. and I look out to an abandoned town. until my eyes lay on you. sipping your water and pouring the rest onto the ground. watching me and my heart... burn.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
I wrote this piece seated on a skin irritating lawn
maybe it was a plastic table but itching was how it felt
while desperately begging fate to an extent I almost knelt
because I was totally exhausted and bitterly alone

I wrote this whilst I still lifted the desolation load
I guess you were on your way then but coming the toad
while I was deadbeat with no arms to take me aboard
I wrote this long before the song of our romance would download


I wrote this while I was engrossed, battling school
in a kraal of beauty yet shockingly a lonesome bull
I think at the time you still owned a plastic doll
when I totally doubted there was even the slightest of chance I'd ever fall

I wrote this piece evading sleep for the fear of creepy dreams
tears cascading down my eyes like fountains down the streams
consequent to the ache underneath every emotional scar
and doubting our encounter would ever occur


I wrote this relieving the imaginary side to my story's end
too boring a love story to predict what lay beyond the bend
something deduced from the notes my heart would send
even before you were a stranger let alone a friend

I wrote this before we met courtesy of a surprisingly considerate fate
before I'd dare imagine that lass in my fantasy was you
when I saw no difference twixt love and hate
and so much disbelieved that people are capable of staying true


I wrote this long before overcoming my insecurities and doubt
then when my soul was but a creepy dark empty place
prior setting eyes upon the flamboyant heavenly face
when I clearly saw no possibility of making out*

then when passion and romance were just a myth
when the sharp two sided sword of my affection was hidden in its sheath
when my heart was my mind and mind was my heart
Believe me, I wrote this when we were still by destiny set apart
david badgerow Oct 2011
A recipe
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was half-baked,
but what is edible will say:
something about instructions,
something about parts making a whole,
something about convection,
something about mixing in a bowl,
something about dough
and something about kneading
something about confections,
something about breathing.

An epitaph
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was rotten,
what wasn't will rise and say:
something about a journey,
something about fate,
something about love and
something about hate,
something about laying on a gurney
and something about decay,
something about destiny,
something about history,
then it might yawn
and lay back in its grave

A pamphlet
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some parts were mute,
others that weren't will speak and say:
something about tolerance,
something about abuse,
something about inhalants
and something about a noose.

A brochure
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was fake,
but what is real will last and say:
something about a lawyer,
something about curruption,
something about justice
and how it serves a function,
something about admittance,
something about plastic surgery
and breast reduction,
and a catholic priest mumbling
something about perjury.

A eulogy
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was dead,
but what was alive will stand and say:
something about a life
and something about living,
something about a wife
and something about a thing worth giving,
something about a family
and something about foes;
something about winning
and something about woes.

A book
I wrote one of those in my head today;
some of it was filth;
but what was clean will shine and say:
something about character,
something about freedom,
something about development
and something about respect
something about supplement,
something about unity,
something about revolution
and how I think the world should be.

A song
I wrote one of those in my head today;
but it was a bird and it flew away,
If all that's left is just one dying wing
it would flap around
on the ground
and try to sing:
something in near-pefect pitch
something bluesy and
about a *****;
then probably something about flight
and finally something about a
bright white light.

A poem
I wrote one of those in my head today;
the lines were seeds
I planted before the cold;
some froze out, some took hold
but what remains grows bold and will say:
something about a heart,
and how you had it from the start;
something about sunlight,
and how you make it seem less bright;
something about the wet wet rain
something about willingness
and something about refrain.
Kaya Jul 2016
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote!
I stabbed the empty paper with
all the words that filled up my dry throat
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote!
till the nib grew old, bent and broke
O, I still wrote and I wrote and I wrote!
till my throat became as empty and white as the paper
I kept the paper to myself, I kept the words to myself
I swallowed it to feel whole,
but I choked, and I choked and I choked!
From then on, my presence was absent
nobody has ever heard my voice,
I couldn't and I never spoke!

- Kaya
Mishy Kim Mar 2018
I wrote a will.

I thought I was going to
Live fast, die young.

I wrote a will.

It’s a will that states
The truest emotions
Something that should
Be kept secret.

I wrote a will.

For you.

Knowing the situation
We’re in,

I wrote a will for you.

I remember you saying
I was going to get sick

I was going to die young

So I wrote a will.

I wrote it when our love died
When the clouds fogged up the sky
When the rain started pouring

Maybe it was the stone in my chest
Or the love in my heart
That pushed me to write one

I cut the wrong wires
The wires that connected the stone and my heart
The wire that connected us.

The death of our relationship was the death of me
My own body started killing itself
I became the girl with anxiety
Not knowing it manifested

I don’t sleep because I worry
I worry you forget me
We become something of an empty item
It hurts just thinking about it

Never once I thought about getting back together
Because I hurt you too much
You bled out in front of me
That image never left

This is why I wrote a will.

I hurt you too much.

I was scared to say it in front of you
So it would be better for you to listen
When I die

I wrote a will.
David Ehrgott Sep 2015
Here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
I hope you like how it ends
Because every time I think of you
I write a song again

Like a manic Myspace ******
Reading everything I write
Deleting words you thought were yours
And changing some to fight
It's not your mother dear nic-o-lee
So stop choosing her to blame
You will be cornered by the feds
Someday when they put you both away

I never knew love in this kind of way
Fly to get there.  Then, have to explain
What possessed me to see you in person
can never be explained
I'd like to talk about two girls
And they're both from Michigan
You Georgia peaches got nothing on them
And the way they love to sin
  
And many come to see me in person
At the typewriter where I sit
And sometimes they can make me feel easy
And at times they make me sh*t [panic]
When they say
"Why'd you write that song about me"
And I say
"Listen, it was only words"
Do you want to fight with me?
And then they lay on their back again
  
I told you every word is about you
But the names, look, they changed again
All that hurt, and you still sleep around
Can't you trust?  Then please tell me why you can't
I'd like to write a song about FEB
And how beautiful a ten
or how those ****** in Hollywood
Stole my song last year, again
But, thanks to my friend Walleye I knew they
wouldn't get away with it
Now there I go again
Got off the track in Hackensack
Oh well, here we go again

So, here's that song I wrote about you
To my wife/*****/lost girlfriend
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Somebody write this date down
Sunday, One Ten Twenty-Ten
What once was so very far away
Has already been spent

Hear a song I wrote for you
If the big men go and steal it
I'll have to write another one
I just hope that you can feel it
Here's that song I wrote about you
Can you have that on your conscience?
Here's a song I wrote about you
Life is short!  There!
This song has balance

So, here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
And I hope you like its ending
Because, every time I think of you
I write a song again
wrote this poem to tell you all the things I fail to say.
I wrote you this poem to tell you I love you and for you to read everyday.
I wrote you this poem to tell you I want you in the dark and I want you in the light.
I wrote you this poem to tell you I want you when we laugh and I want you when we fight.
I wrote you this poem to say thank you for all that you've done.
I wrote you this poem to tell you that my world revolves around you like the Earth does the sun.
I wrote you this poem to let you know that there is none like you.
I wrote you this poem to say I need you to stand by me through all that I do.
I wrote you this poem to say I need you in my life.
I wrote you this poem to ask you to be my wife.

In sickness and in health, until death do us part.
I want you to know I will love you with every beat of my heart.
This is for my beautiful girlfriend
Ivan Brooks Sr Jul 2018
I think Poetry found me very early,
From somewhere in mama's womb.
Hooked to her umbilical cord firmly.
I heard something like a tiny bomb.
It was the sound of the talking drum,
Heralding the arrival of another grio.
So with gratitude, I said thanks mom,
And to the world, I said a very big hello.
Of course, I used the language of babies,
I cried and breathed in my very first air.
This was my first sight of the ladies
They smiled as they washed my hair.

My very first poem was a sad prayer.
It was written when I was very hungry
I was hopeless, I had only one dollar,
And no real prospect of ever making it.
So I took out my old used notepad,
UnfortunateIy, I had no pen to write with.
I wrote with a charcoal found in the yard,
And I wrote many long lines on my wall.
I wrote everything I had to tell God
Sadly, I couldn't write them all.
I cried in anguish to the Lord,
Asking If He had forgotten me.
Of Course, I got no immediate answer,
But years later my answer came.
It came in the form of a letter.
Addressed to me, ten years later
It came later but it felt better,
Instantly my struggle was all over!

The first love letter I wrote was poetry,
It was childish, unstructured and ugly.
It was written to a girl, she was pretty,
She read it and smiled, I wasn't so lucky.
Crushed, yet I pretended to be strong
I walked away but ran all the way home.
I cried in anguish and wrote a love song.
The lines were very sad, I felt all alone.
But I knew it was my first real rejection.
So I tried writing again, this time to me.
I was very focused, I was on a mission.
Finally, it finished and I wrote my name.
Unfortunately, the answer was the same,
There and then I knew I had no game,
So I reconciled and just took the blame.
Fast forward,and many years later,
I found the subject of my love letter.
I wrote a note to her on messenger.
I was optimistic because I wrote better.
I was emboldened by my poetic power.
Once again,the reply came to me later,
This time it was a resounding yes!
It felt so wonderful, thanks to poetry
And the universe I didn't make a mess.

  #IvanBrooksPoetry©
7/22/2018
Some people will discovery poetry
And poetry will find a few.
David Ehrgott Aug 2016
Here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
I hope you like how it ends
Because every-time I think of you
I write a song again

Like a manic my-space ******
Reading everything I write
Deleting words you thought were yours
And changing some to fight
It's not your mother dear nic-o-lee
So stop choosing her to blame
You will be cornered by the feds
Someday when they put you both away

I never knew love in this kind of way
Fly to get there.  Then, have to explain
What possessed me to see you in person
can never be explained
I'd like to talk about two girls
And they're both from Michigan
You Georgia peaches got nothing on them
And the way they love to sin
  
And many come to see me in person
At the typewriter where I sit
And sometimes they can make me feel easy
And at times they make me **** [panic]
When they say
"Why'd you write that song about me"
And I say
"Listen, it was only words"
Do you want to fight with me?
And then they lay on their back again
  
I told you every-word is about you
But the names, look, they changed again
All that hurt, and you still sleep around
Can't you trust?  Then please tell me why you can't
I'd like to write a song about FEB
And how beautiful a ten
or how those ****** in Hollywood
Stole my song last year, again
But, thanks to my friend Walleye I knew they
wouldn't get away with it
Now there I go again
Got off the track in Hackensack
Oh well, here we go again

So, here's that song I wrote about you
To my wife/*****/lost girlfriend
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Somebody write this date down
Sunday, One Ten Twenty-Ten
What once was so very far away
Has already been spent

Hear a song I wrote for you
If the big men go and steal it
I'll have to write another one
I just hope that you can feel it
Here's that song I wrote about you
Can you have that on your conscience?
Here's a song I wrote about you
Life is short!  There!
This song has balance

So, here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
And I hope you like it's ending
Because, every-time I think of you
I write a song again
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

They said "write something simple"
I said "I'll see what I can do"
They told me "you can do it"
"you're the best at what you do"

I needed something with emotion
Something new and something hot
I wrote for fourteen hours
And this is what I got

I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

It was a little love song
You know...people could relate
I played it to the band
They said "Man, this song is great"

It's a little bit of Shakespeare
With some Poe there on the side
The song was full of highs and lows
It would take you for a ride

I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

In the end when it was finished
It charted, not for long
Then I realized the story here
Was the story 'bout the song

So, I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Machacha Doctor Jun 2018
I grabbed a pen and a paper
With my head bowed down
A broken hearted boy
Very week and feeling empty inside
Casting all my tears and pains on the pen and the paper
To write I did write
But what I wrote doesn't make sense So
I squash the paper and throw it in the bin
Stalking from the Conner there she stands
She picks the paper from the bin
And glance me as I fade to the front door
She grabs a geriatric complacent chair
Swiftly she take a sit and she unfold the paper
To read she did read but she couldn't understand what I wrote
She runs to the front door,  look left and right
But I'm gone
She take the paper and put it under her pillow
Maybe one day when I read it will make sense (that's what she thought)
The days kept on going with the paper under the pillow of hers
The heavenly made gorgeous girl
With a glowing face
I used to call her an angel
But now when I see her, I see a demon on a human body
She covered her tracks very well and deceived me with the glowing virtuous face
With her fake love,  the love that blinded me
In my mind it was only her running infinitely
I gave my all,  she was my world,  the best thing I could ever had
She was my everything
Until I see her true colors
The girl who doesn't tie her knots
Sleeping with many play boys
How could this be possible oh God
But she is quite, cool, the ever smiling beautiful girl
With an innocent face
To me she was a diamond
But in reality she was just a shining stone
The girl with no value
She is worthless, that's all i could say
She took the paper and read it for the second time and still
She couldn't understand what I wrote
She continued on wrecking her precious body by sleeping around
Contaminating her spirit and destroying her soul
She never stopped
I moved on with my life
Dying day by day when I remember her and the beautiful moments we had
It was impossible to let go but
I never seized my dreams
I never seized of being a good guy, being real
I still believed there is true love
I was afraid to settle because I calculated my worths
I continued on building my self and my future
One day I meet her
She was astonished to see me
There she goes
She weeps in tears,  she commemorated all the world I promised her To
Treat her like a queen
That I will marry her
Take her to beautiful places
But now Im with someone else who looks beautiful young and fresh
She took me for granted
Treated me like an option
Pitifully I look at her
She turns back and run away with tears rolling down her beautiful fallen exasperated cheeks
She arrives home and open the wardrobe drawer
She takes the paper that I wrote
She couldn't hold herself
Tears keeps on rolling
She now understand what I wrote
She never stops crying
She grabs a paper and a pen
She writes a suicidal note
Leave it on the kitchen counter
Only voices running in her head
Demons Whispering, telling her to pull a trigger
She goes back to the bedroom
take the paper that I wrote
She read it for the last time
She realize I'm the only one who ever cared
It was stupid for her to let me go
She got a disorientation  
And lost the moon while busy counting the stars
What I wrote didn't make sense
I just wanted to feel better
Take the pain away
I blurt outed  all my feelings
And motivated myself that I will be fine
That's what I wrote
No Notes
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I wrote you a letter,
and then another letter,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a word.

So I wrote you a word,
and then another word,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a sentence.

So I wrote you a sentence,
and then another sentence,
and another, and another,
until I wrote you a letter.

I hope it finds you as I found you.

Yours truly,
Yours, truly.
mirror mirror, i  fooled you all
felt you, feel, before your very fall
i wrote your name with upon my skin
let you feel the blood within
and with my tears that fell awry
it wrote your name
against a white brittle sky
i wrote you of fortune, and misery alieved
my own private passion was worn upon my sleeve
i cried a thousand words from my bed
and in their ink they wrote
a story we'd wed
and it wrote how we'd founded a world untrue
it wrote how i was a knight not worthy of you
it wrote a nightime of lessons unlearned
and it wrote a passion of times untermed.
I cired from these tears
as i stabbed at my breast
these words i had wrote
so clearly across my brazen chest
under my left clavicle
under my heart
i wrote in the nightime -
'til death do us part' -
and i picked at the blood upon me
so honest and so true
and every drop
was blessed, with an ounce of you
for no matter no what
for no matter your name
i still would feel your loss
your rebuttal, your shame.
and i cried ink stained tears across my cheeks
and i wandered your loss
not in days, not in weeks.
And still as i write this with digital pen
i wonder if i am me not now, but then
my lovely, my wonder
my wonderous show
of how you showed me love so
long ago.
I sit with a pen and i wonder what to write
my ink blots are messy
and such a distaneful fright
that even i, as a woman
might seek light from the night.
I whispher sweet nothings to myself
as i cry with a teardrop so selfish, so rare,
and i mean as tho i cry, from a world, so selfish, so rare.
My nothing, my everything
my world end in sight
i long for you, play for you
each and every night.
Though i know you have left me
half starved, beaten and cold,
you have left my darling with a wiltering soul.
All i did was try to love you
that was never enough
and what might it take for you
to feel
my love?
P S Bravo Dec 2010
I wrote you a love poem but you'll never read it.
I wrote about your red hair
        blue eyes
        fair skin
        brown hair
        hazel eyes
        olive complexion
        your prefect breast
        your curly locks
        your red lips
        the things you said
        the things you did
        how smart you are
        and funny too
        how you knew what to say
        how you drove me insane
I wrote about how you hair was like fire
        and reminded me of your personality
        and how I never would expect you to bow down to anyone
                or anything
I wrote about your lovely smile
        and how it would light up the night
        even if you were faking it
                and I could always tell when you were faking it
I wrote about how you had an aura of purity
        which is why most men where scared of you
        how I've always respected that about you
                and how I was never scared of you
I wrote you a love poem but you'll never read it
        because we never made love
        because it was just *** to you in the end
        because you said 'I love you' like a chess player making their next move
        because your unconditional love had it's condition
        because you've got me sitting at the crosswords of what is to be a cynic and a poet
        and I find it's easy to just be both
But don't get upset, thinking you've wronged me
        or to excited because you had some impact
        because in the end -
I wrote you a love poem and you'll never read it.
French rose Oct 2018
I wrote a poem called love except
I don't know what it feels like.

I wrote a poem called friend except
I don't know if we're close enough.

I write a poem called family
We don't talk that much.

I wrote a poem called pain
My tears just slipped out.

I wrote a poem called depression
And I showed them my mind.

I wrote a poem called soul except I didn't have one.

I wrote a poem called isolation
And my words escaped my mouth.

I wrote a poem called self love
And didn't know what it was meant of.

I wrote a poem called death and
I showed them my last word.

I wrote a poem call life but I never lived one.
illueminate Apr 2016
in the amount of time that it took me to feel you
and fall out of you, I wrote you 26 letters.
I labeled each header with the next letter
of the alphabet until I had nothing left to say.
I wrote you 26 directionless, messy letters
and I never sent a single one.

the number seems small – 26 – but
when i've got them in the palm of
my shaky hands, it's heavier than it seems.
maybe it isn't the paper but instead the content.

I never sent these letters because I could not
stomach the idea of you reading them.
I once found myself at the mailbox on the corner
or my street with a stamped envelope and your name.

I still have the scar on my arm from getting it stuck
between the slot to save it from falling.

ever the letter that simply asked how you were
could not make it to you.

maybe I missed you when I wrote them.
maybe I miss you now.
maybe I never missed you.

maybe this is all reflection,
or regression,
or deflection.

or maybe it's nothing.

maybe we, were nothing.

so I wrote these letters in the moments that
I felt I wanted to talk to you most and I
wrote these letters when you were miles away
and I wrote these letters when you were lying beside me.

those were the worst.
(those will be the ones I burn first)

I wrote these letters because I could not
look you in the eye and tell you that I
loved you (even when I really did).

and I wrote these letters because I could not
look you in the eye and tell you that I was falling
out of love with you (because I was).

and I wrote these letters because sometimes
my chest expanded and contracted and I
literally could not breathe.

I wrote these letters because you were
either the cause or the reason that
I finally could.
Bummer May 2019
I wrote a poem about you but I lost it.
I wrote a poem about you but it got ruined in the rain,
I wrote a poem about you but I forgot it.
I wrote a poem about you but it brought too much pain,

I wrote a poem just for you but I got scared.
I wrote a poem just for you and then I wrote an excuse,
I wrote a poem just for your where I declared.
But I know you’ll never read it so let’s call this a truce.
it was long and sweet but i don’t think you will see it.
I almost wrote you a love poem
...but I don't love you.

Your crayola stained lies turned my blue skies to gray
so how could I be happy when there's no sunshine today?
No sunshine today turned to no sunshine to this date
so to this day I'm embodied in the darkness that you made.

I almost wrote you a love poem
but instead I wrote a riddle.

I repose homely in dark spaces
because I've adapted to the dark.
I'm engulfed in darkness
But I'm that gleaming light from afar.

Answer is,
I'm a Star.

Consensus:
Your devious dark deeds attempted to deviate
my direction and detach me from the light leaving me in darkness
but I empowered myself,
debunking your detrimental ways
and becoming the light you tried so hard to take from me.

I almost wrote you a love poem
and if I did,
it'd say I love you.
...but this isn't a love poem!
and the only I love yous I recall,
are the lies you told me
and the truths you told him.

I almost wrote you a love poem,
...and if I did,
If I did write you a love poem..
I bet I'd have nailed it!
...but you ******* it all up
and now,
who's really the fool?

I almost  wrote you a love poem,
and if I did,
it  would have went a little something like
...idk

*because loving you is something I never want to do.
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you **** in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Tom Balch Jul 2016
He sat on a rock by the banks of a stream
he was armed with some paper and pen,
he jotted down thoughts that came in his head
his first poem was formed there and then.

He wrote of the music the water composed
as it danced its way round all the stones,
he wrote down the words of the water birds song
and he wrote of her colours and tones.

He wrote of the warmth from the mid summer sun
how it shimmered and hazed over fields,
he wrote of the dust a tractor kicked up
and his poem was starting to build.

He wrote about clouds in the Robin egg sky
their fluffiness, whiteness and grace,
he painted his picture on paper with pen
and the warm summer sun on his face.

He wrote of the calm that came in the air
as the afternoon started to tire,
he wrote of the orange and red glowing hues
of a sky that was blazing with fire.

He wrote of the Martins that took to the skies
the aerobatics and speed of their flight,
he wrote of a day that was second to none
the smells, his feelings, the colours, the sights.

And as the day darkened he put down his pen
and his paper he folded with care,
he rose to his feet bid farewell to the moon
and tipped his hat to all he´d seen there*.
Maya Nov 2014
I wrote this for you because on this cold morning
I can't help but wish that I had woken up next to you.
You're perfectly fine sleeping alone.

I wrote this for you because last night
I was sitting on the train tracks,
thinking about it all.

I wrote this for you because I promised myself
that I was going to change for you,
but I guess I haven't changed enough.

I wrote this for you because when I look at my hands,
I can only imagine them enveloped in yours
and not standing proudly alone.

I wrote this for you because I just wanted
to be important enough in your life,
I just wanted to feel important.

I wrote this for you because I'm the only one,
the only person who has been there for you
in the last, I don't know how many, weeks.

I wrote this for me because,
now that you're gone,
I have to move on.

And I really don't want to.
Emma Chatonoir Jul 2016
He wrote her letters every day
Because she couldn't talk or text
I'm not entirely sure what he writes
She writes him back too
Because she couldn't talk or text
After her parents cut her off
She writes him back too
Words he'll never tell
After her parents cut her off
He acts as her protector
Words he'll never tell
To anyone but her
He acts as her protector
Driving to see her at 3 am
To anyone but her
They think he's lost his mind
Driving to see her at 3 am
After her stepdad threatened to **** her
They think he's lost his mind
She fears for her safety
After her stepdad threatened to **** her
The letter writer got a new note
She fears for her safety
Can she stay with him?
The letter writer got a new note
She'll be safe with him
Can she stay with him?
Only if she hides
She'll be safe with him
He meant every word he wrote
Only if she hides
Can he keep her
He meant every word he wrote
Even when she left for a month
Can he keep her
Safe from harm
Even when she left for a month
He wrote letters every day
Safe from harm
Hiding them in a box near her house
He wrote letters every day
And drove down to her neighborhood
Hiding them in a box near her house
For her to read
And drove down to the neighborhood
Hoping for a response one day
For her to read
His words to her
Hoping for a response one day
He finally got one
His words to her
She means so much
He finally got one
So he wrote another letter
She means so much
He will always be here
So he wrote another letter
And he put it in the box
He will always be here
It's the sweetest thing imaginable
And he put it in the box
I'm not entirely sure what he writes
It's the sweetest thing imaginable
He wrote her letters every day.
My brother and his girlfriend

— The End —