Poem for two.You draw a smile across my face, like a child on her first day of school, anxious to impress. You make me happy.Poem for two.1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Your eyes are crystals of perfection, covered in sparkles of delight, born from inspiration, that the universe gets from your existence. You are beautiful.
You dress me in happiness, make my skin glow through the fabric, with the undeniable love, i have for your soul. You suit me.
You make my heart beat to the sound of your own, form a vibration, that the sun, sky, and the entire earth can dance to, in their sleep. You make me smile.
You play my skin like a flesh-bound piano, you hit notes of ecstasy with your fingertips, you make a song with your infectious rhythm, you reach a crescendo with your smell. You sound magnificent.
You scratch your passion into my back, you form a trail of lust, down my spine, you dig your nails, into my flesh, bleed out all the sorrow from my veins. You do me good.
You take my heart, in between your han
Feel.You can`t.Feel.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
You can`t feel what I felt.
Rip out your heart.
Pull out your spine
Tear yourself apart.
Then you`ll come close.
That`s how you made me feel.
With your words.
They reached inside me.
pierced my soul.
But now it`s different.
I have the chance
to tear you apart.
But I don`t.
It would mean being like you.
But I want to live.
So I forgive instead.
Cry of an ArtistThey tell me I’ll understandCry of an Artist1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
when I’m older.
That I shouldn’t be an artist.
I want to be those crumpled papers
in the corner of my room,
and the late nights I stayed awake
blinking at the moon.
And even though I lack the supplies
and ideas are far away,
I feel artistic blood
running through my veins.
I’m that empty spray can
left in the shadows of the walls
where street art’s been made
but the name’s not there at all.
And I’m that lonely artist
who fears of sticking out
because all the art critics
feel the urge to not speak, but shout.
And I’m that girl standing by the window,
wanting those paints and brushes,
pencils and pens,
and the city that hushes
when my art makes its
AnorexiaSuch a frail being I am, witness my ribs bulge through my skin, I must prevent all the fattening meals or I shall become a massive sin.Anorexia1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Gluttony is my tormentor, from it I run afar, to distant lands of emptiness, lands of thinness, lands of star.
Without meals they remain there, so content and filled with glee, I aim to travel to that land, far beyond the normal sea.
Though alas I am chained to suffer here, to eat processed and vile courses, I simply ask for a map of guidance, one to help me reach those sources.
No want tooNo energyNo want too1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’m too weak to move on,
An too ill to care
All I need is a boost,
But who will give me what I need?
My dream is to become a writerMy dream is to become a writer. A writer who flourishes in the presence of writing, who adores words and carves wonders from the thin strands of air. A writer who creates passion and hatred within every curve and twist of the ink, who pulls in the old souls of many.My dream is to become a writer1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
Sometimes the mere word rolls off my tongue with satisfaction as a I say it, each sound of it so alluring.
During the day, when I go about my daily business and work as the waitress I am, or even at night, when I ready myself for sleep and rest, I catch myself wondering...what if? And I often pause in the mirror and catch a glimpse of something in my eyes. They seem to be always burning; burning, burning and burning. With a desire to write and to prove myself.
But how to begin? Would I truly risk losing myself in the process of this immediate madness? If I were to release my entire self within the pages of a story, would I be loved by my readers? Sometimes the extent of what I write frightens me, and
Tango with ideas the wind speaks ofShatter me into a million crystal hellos,Tango with ideas the wind speaks of1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and a trillion emerald goodbyes.
Reduce me to the echoing of a once whisper,
upon a rustic, willow trunks ear.
Bleed me into a burgundy velvet ocean,
drowning a thousand forevers in its never.
Tread carefully around me,
tiptoe on wishes and desires,
step over long lost intimacies,
tango with ideas the wind speaks of.
Deconstruct me into a flock of incandescent creatures,
hovering over hopes and dreams,
conducting the orchestra of sensation,
tuning the instruments of our melody.
Hear me in the deepest of silences,
amplify me with infinite wishes,
made upon a billion white specks,
painted on a navy silk fabric speaker.
Call my name out into vastness,
feel my presence unfold into layers of thick, creamy ephemeral pleasures,
attempt to hold me in your hands as i drip through your fingers,
with sweet, delectable texture, screaming for a taste.
Cut me into a dozen miniature regrets,
sprinkle amnesia lightly across me,
serve me on a silver platter of
Magic.Magic.Magic.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
The voices in the wind.
The shiver down your spine.
The sparkle in the eye.
The whispers in the trees
It is Magic.
The forgiveness out of anger.
The strength out of weakness.
The light from darkness.
The life out of death.
It is Magic.
The Girl Who Dreamt of Never Being AloneThere was a time,The Girl Who Dreamt of Never Being Alone9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Where I never smiled.
It was time in which I never cared much.
Not for anyone,
Not for anything.
When I was younger,
People thought it was just a phase.
That I'd soon over come my shyness,
And have friends.
But I never changed.
People grew scared,
Thinking I had some type of black magic in me.
They thought I was depressed,
Or that I had secrets I couldn't tell anybody.
They sent me to many strange people,
To therapists dressed in covers of white.
But nothing ever changed.
Their worries grew into disgust.
Their stares of pity,
Into painful stares of hatred.
The kind and scared words became sharper.
And each one,
Left a new scar on my heart.
The truth is,
I didn't care.
Not for anyone,
Not for anything.
They could do what they wanted.
It wouldn't bother me.
My walls grew so tall,
It turned to stone.
At the age of nine,
I was just empty.
I didn't feel anything,
Only dull and hollow.
I felt like a doll.
I'm A Normal Girl.I guess I'm just a normal girl.I'm A Normal Girl.1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I have a normal body.
A normal brain.
Normal hair and eyes and fingers.
I have a normal voice and mouth with normal teeth.
I have a normal heart and normal organs and normal bones with normal joints.
I do normal things, too.
I do what everyone else does.
Because I'm normal.
... On the surface.
Because inside I'm a pill-popper.
I take pills to help me live.
To get over my abnormal mind.
My not-so-normal thoughts.
My overflowing emotions.
I don't have my normal reasons.
I don't any reason at all.
Inside my normal brain, I have my demented mind.
Where life takes a toll.
My imagination isn't normal.
It'a full of darkness and insanity.
I take a path full prickly, dead roses and needles.
I take a path where the dirt is dry and everything else is dead.
I walk a broken road.
I don't lead the normal life.
I have cracks and dents and all that plus ditches.
I scream inside my normal body.
I go over it.
unheardThe imaginary audience of my poems used to beunheard1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
people like me who understand
(I suspect I was naive)
but now when I write
I feel like I'm trying desperately to change the course of the tide
with a spoon.
They see something in me that's neither special
nor even really there
all the cheesy, commercial, easy-to-fabricate emotional appeal
that people fall in love with left and right
and that I hate
but that sneaks into my writing
like dust into an already red eye
and is the only thing they can see about me
except they see it as a nice touch
instead of irritating.
All the ideas that I
proud of reverberate,
perhaps, for a moment;
waiting to be seen,
needing to be seen,
Their pale corpses pile up on my shoulders
until I can barely move.
I can hide them away, sure,
to find someone with the same
in the closet.