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Ric Oct 4
I saw her the other day
Tried to avoid her
Hoping she would not see me

My friend called me over
I could have walked right past her
To get to his desk
But i took the long way around

He asked about my birthday
Even though he was there
He asked about my grandparents
Even though he already knew

I kept my voice low
Not wanting her to hear
Still, my eyes found her
Just for a moment
And it shattered me all over again

I cannot process
How she is so unfazed
How she has erased our history

How she has simply let go.....
A poem for anyone who’s ever watched someone let go and wondered how they could erase everything so easily. Sometimes, the memory outlives the love.
Esme Oct 2
‘Im new to poetry’
I say as i read my poems from 2 years ago
When will i stop feeling new
Like my poems are nothing but an illusion of hard work
When i write a poem and post it immediately after
With no double check
Just so i dont overthink it

When will i finally believe i know what im writing
When will i believe in myself
In my metaphors
My similes
My work

I'm not new to poetry
But if you ask
I will say i am
for the poems i never wrote and the thoughts that 'werent good enough' for perfection
Esme Oct 1
‘Oh to be loved by a poet’
How funny,
Isn't it funny how I will turn your words into beauty no matter how ugly you are?
Isn't it funny how instead of burning photos I burn myself and scratch the scabs to provide entertainment for you?
Isn't it funny how I will bleed words and keep cutting myself just so you can read more?
Isn’t it funny how I wont let myself heal but let it fester under my skin so i can empty my blood onto a page when I dip my pen?
Isn’t it funny how as much as I would hate to admit it ,I need you so I have a reason to bleed?
For the sake of poetry
You would let me burn
if i see one more instagram post of someone who bullied me saying 'oh to be loved by a writer' or 'oh to be the muse of a poet' i am going to crash out
Joseph Miller Sep 22
The world does not know
who the poet is
until they are told
so listen here, listen well
I am the poet
now you can tell
dare you not believe me
I will show you again
with every page revealing
the poet I am
Please forgive my brush with egotism .... this write was motivated by a critic who told me (before I joined HelloPoetry), that I was not writing poems, because the words didn't rhyme. So I wanted to show him I could write a poem that rhymed.
Kai Sep 20
A writer.
They die young.
last poem for today probably
Nick Sep 17
Yes, But Do You Know You Deserve the World

Through the sunshine and the rainbows,
through the dark and stormy nights,
your light shone the brightest,
and whomever it touched, it lit their world.

And in that light, do you know

you deserve the yellow of the sunflower below?
Your gleeful smile thawed the frost in the air,
rushing into me and all around me—
like the fresh breath of air on a winter morning,
like drops of water slipping through a cracked rock,
carrying beauty in an ethereal glow.

And maybe you don’t see it,

you changed me and the world around you.
Your words carried a voice of reason,
filled with warmth and understanding—
sometimes childish and playful,
but always fiercely protective,
like the sunflower guarding its yellow.

So I tell you again,
your eyes shine bright like the stars above
Your radiant smile took the blue out of my day,
set butterflies to dance in the world’s wake
Even when your cries dampened the world below,
in my eyes you still appear so beautifully yellow,
since the day I first saw your glow.
Zywa Sep 15
Creatively I

press five ideas between one --


cheerful, thick cover.
Novel "De Ark" ("The Ark", 2020, Wanda Bommer), chapter (afterword) 'Leonoor Levie - Chronicle of a ****** life (Novel), page 316 - Five story ideas, hanged on a few days in the life of a female writer: the climate change can lead to a flood / decadence is the beginning of the downfall / illegal trade (drug business) / interview with God / the sacrifice of a son

Collection "Whirligig Scribbler"
Mitch Prax Aug 23
?
Do you ever
reread your words
and think,
"****,
what is wrong
with me?"
my extremities are bound to your mahogany desk - what seems to be your working space. for the first time they are rendered purposeless, just drifting in your current like a priceless tonic. heavy torrents out there but i can't hear them. i know no amount of downpour can water down the sinful scarlet we caught ourselves into. we're about to roam wild and free tonight, where only my mind could reach.

so you commanded me to be on all fours, leaving gaps between my lips:
"spit...
spit out poetry and banters into my mouth.
spit...
spit out bitter truth that is hard for the night to bear.
i'm all ears, but im not sure if my heart can take it."

with you, i become my own libertine.
Mira Aug 1
how terrible it is
to be a writer

write! they say
write and the time will come

but how must one
compete to the top

when the shelves are filled with
"NYC Bestseller"?

oh how miserable it is
to be a writer

and they say
write! it isn't difficult!
sigh, writing really is a struggle
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