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 Nov 2015 xvy
rootsbudsflowers
Her movements
Are so fluid
There is no reason
To alter the specifics
To make them more appealing
When transferring them to words.

No need for analogies
Or symbolism.

She dips her head back
And lets it slip from
One shoulder
To the other.
Resting on each one
Ever so slightly
To greet them both
The same.

Her hand
Puppeteers her arm upward
To swipe her fingers
Across her brow.
A gentle kiss of reassurance
That morning has at last
Arrived.

Her thumbs lead the way
For her hands to follow
As they slip behind her ears
And make their way down to the ends
Of her hair.
But before they finish their descent,
They meet together
Her smooth hair stops them from making
Total impact.
The right stays put, creating ******* for the hair that is left behind.
The left guides the remaining strands around her shoulder
To rest there
As her hand continues down her chest.
Something that she only allows her own kind
To do.

Her actions alone are pure poetry.
From turning her head,
To stretching her arms,
To simply putting up her hair.
It is all poetic
To witness
To experience
To love.
 Nov 2015 xvy
prc
girl.
 Nov 2015 xvy
prc
there's a girl
stubborn yet, strong
quiet when she wants to be
loud whenever someone makes her laugh
that laugh that makes me smile
there's a girl
secretly sad but, doesn't admit it
it makes me mad when she's upset
because i don't understand why someone would hurt her like that
there's a girl
not just any girl
but, a girl i'm falling for
 Nov 2015 xvy
heather leather
when you are eight you will start to become sick of waking
up early to go to church but your mother will drag you
with her anyway and she will always spend too much time on
her makeup so you will both end up being late and the
sweet sickly scent of the perfume she sprays on makes
you sneeze and Sundays will very quickly become
the worst days of the week, this will be when you start
to be ridiculed by all the other girls for having short hair
and this will be when your father starts coming home late
enough for your mother to be suspicious and for the
sound of Frank Sinatra's greatest hits to stop being loud
enough to mask her cries as he hits her for being too **** curious.
Sundays will be when you learn that the devil is an infinite
amount of liars starting with your mother when she says
she is fine and ending with your father when he says
he loves you. now when you are bored you will start to
hide in your closet and pretend to be someone else.
your closet now becomes Narnia, it becomes the rabbit hole Alice falls
into, it becomes Neverland and it becomes the safe haven
your mother's jazz records no longer offer; when you are eight you
will feel the weight of the world stretched out onto your all too
little shoulders, compressed into your mind and a monster in it's
own right that is scarier than the one under your bed because you
cannot find a way to escape it, it lives and breathes inside of you and
it forms a pit in the core of your stomach whenever you see
your mother flinch as your father kisses her softly and later you will
find out that this feeling is called fury but for now it remains
****** into the walls of your mind like a bookshelf at a library
and it surges rapidly like a tsunami and leaves nothing but debris in
it's wake, when you are eight you will begin to dig holes in your
skin with your fingernails to release the pain and the frustration
you feel that causes wreckage inside of you and later on you will
learn to describe this as being cataclysmic but for now you are eight
and you wear your hair in pigtails even though it's much too
short and catch fireflies with mickey mouse in your mind as you
hear frank sinatra's greatest hits become increasingly louder

(h.l.)
thoughts?
 Nov 2015 xvy
Key
“I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak
And then **** my ex girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations.
I’m going to be honest, I’m not really a love poet
In fact, every time I try to write about love my hands cramp… just to show me how painful love can be.
And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then love takes a little more work than you planned
See I heard that love is blind so, I write all my poems in Braille
And my poems are never actually finished because true love is endless.
I always believed that real love is kind of like a super model before she’s air brushed;
It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.
See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you.
About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared
But reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.
You see, I’m not really a love poet
But if I was I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window
You see I’ve written like a million poems hoping that somehow maybe someway you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me
Because if you were here, right now
I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to.

Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name and you smile like the Pacific ocean
I want to drink the sunlight in your skin.
If I was a love poet
I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful
Even on days when everything around you is ugly
You see I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.

If I was a love poet
I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture
Every time I hear the vibration in your voice so whenever I see your name on the caller ID my heart
It plays hop scotch inside of my chest.
Yo it climbs on to my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again.
I know this sounds strange but every now and then I pray that God somehow turns you back into one of my ribs…
Just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you.

I swear, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love
My first poem it would be about you
And after all of that she was like, so how do you feel about me?
And I said, put it like this:
I want to be your ex boyfriend’s stunt man. I want to do everything that he never had the courage to do like… trust you.

I swear that when our lips touch I can taste the next sixty years of my life.
And some days I want to swallow stacks of your pictures just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer.
If I could I would sample your smile and then I would let my heart beat
Do the bass line, we would create the greatest love song of all time
Whenever, we stand next to each other, love I was the only one made for you and you can be at last my Etta James
I’ll be oh child when you’re in pain or you could be candy coated drops of rain
Even though it never rains in Southern California
And together, we could be music.

And when my friends ask if you’re my girlfriend
I’ll say no.
She is my musician
And me… I’m her favorite song.”


-by Rudy Francisco
so this is just one of the most beautiful poems I've read that shines a bright light on love rather than sing a depressing song about it and it happens to be by Rudy Francisco
 Nov 2015 xvy
Lilly frost
Pray for Paris?
Why not pray for the world
Each city
Every country
Each province and state
They pray for Paris
Like they should
But pray for the world
And every hero that stood
Pray for the blood of innocence spilt
For this war of belief and silt
Pray for the world in this game of money and power
Pray for the world
To stop these extremes
You can keep your beliefs
But taking innocent lives?
Those people crossed the lines
Not all Muslims are evil
Not all roses are red
So pray for the world
For all who are dying
For all who are dead
 Nov 2015 xvy
Hanna Mae Mata
I remained
a bud,
a pup,
a mere silhouette
of the imaginary.
I limit
the heights
that can be
conquered by my grasp.
Oh,
how I stopped growing
to stay
in love.
 Nov 2015 xvy
Mikayla
11 a.m.
 Nov 2015 xvy
Mikayla
Tap
Tap
Tap
I sat silently.
Tap
Tap
Tap
I typed frantically.
Tap
Tap
Tap
I thought loudly
But
all I heard
All they heard
All you heard
Was
Tap
Tap
Tap.
 Nov 2015 xvy
jxicyfoxx
Wednesday began to tear me apart.
Thursday didn’t want me.
Friday, you broke my heart.
Saturday surely hated me.

If the week could break a heart.
Then a day ripped mine apart.
Like some sort of organized crime,
I was betrayed by time.

So, I left time for the sky
The clouds, they held me so tight.
I fell in love with the way each star shined,
But only because they reminded me of your eyes.

And every night,
The wind would whisper your name softly in my ear,
And sing to me quietly,
Wiping away my tears.

During the day,
I would lose my soul to the sea.
I only wanted to feel okay.
My intention was not to be a cheat.

I didn’t mean to tear you apart.
I thought you didn’t want me.
I was afraid you’d break my heart,
So, instead, I made you hate me.

Because, every time you told me you didn’t care
I felt lumps in my throat.
And when you weren’t there,
Only the ocean was there to keep me afloat.

Your eyes used to shine so bright,
Your soul was made up of all the sun’s light.
But your eyes don’t shine quite as bright,
Because that’s where you hide all of your lies.
mix of old and new
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