Dream of the Sandman"Dream of the Sandman"
Hello little ones of body and soul.
You seem suppressed to be called that considering some of you are very old
For you see when you were little I have existed for years untold
You have never meet me when you have walked upon both feet
For to find me you must be very much asleep
My residence is sometimes a mansion built strong with stone
Or sometimes it is box that is very much torn
I am always with you whether in the warm or the cold
Because to me you are special until the day you are nevermore
We all dream of fame
We all dream of glory
But what of those who only dream is to hear a story?
Those are the few who truly deserve to hear my tale in all its glory
The story with which I wish to tell is one that I know very well
For it is the very first dream of which I ever did dwell
Most surprising of all is that this story starts at a well
When one of the first of your kind sat down for a spell
This man looked into the well dishevel and cold
Wondering if this was to be
Sometimes I Lose ThingsSometimes I lose things.Sometimes I Lose Things3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sometimes it's little things.
Things like my ipod or my keys.
Bobby pins and chapsticks often evanesce without warning or cause.
Sometimes I lose bigger things.
Things like my favorite sweater or my school bag.
Things like the reason I came into a room,
Or the memories of what I had for breakfast that morning.
Sometimes I lose my train of thought, or the point I was trying to make or an idea.
Sometimes I lose arguments.
Sometimes I lose friends.
I like to think all the things I lose go to the same place.
A plain white place full of hair ties and dollar store bracelets,
And I like to think they all wait there, patiently.
Wait there to be found.
One day I lost my passion.
It floated away like a helium balloon drifting toward the sun.
But I couldn't let it go.
I chased it into the sky,
Past the moon and the stars and the milky-way,
I followed it into the white place,
I faced a sea of bobby pins and hair ties and chap-sticks.
I faced all those lost arguments and id
I Am DivergentI Am DivergentI Am Divergent3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am not brave, yet I push myself further
I am not selfless, yet I cannot take a life
I cannot tell a lie, yet I lie too often
I am not smart, yet I am a strategist
I am not kind, yet I protect innocent people
What does this make me?
I am only brave when I am selfless
I am only selfless when I am not as important
I am only truthful when I decide it is best
I am only cunning when the situation calls for it
I am only kind when it is the right thing to do
Am I a specific faction?
I am neither Dauntless, nor Abnegation
Nor Candor, Erudite, or Amity
My mind is not specifically set
I am only myself
I Am Divergent
saying the same exact thing for the same exact boyi've brainwashed myselfsaying the same exact thing for the same exact boy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
into believing in love. i
have dreamt of this day
since the first day i saw
you: the day where you
finally come true.
whenever i awaken, it is not to
the sound of your heart drum;
no. because everytime i wake
up next to you, it turns out i'm
i am not sleeping beauty
& you are not a prince. i
am an unread love letter
lost in a broken fantasy;
a poem never to be read
by the one person for whom it was written
HeartI left my heart's door open,Heart3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But no one walked in.
I laughed but no one laughed with me.
All that's left is a symphony.
It's coming from the back of my heart.
I'm waiting for someone to hear it.
Will you listen?
The Hunger gamesIn a world where so many dieThe Hunger games6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The only thing you can do is try
All 23 will be against you,
but they feel that way too
The crowd can help in deciding your fate
If you are either valuable or dead weight
Your mentor will train you
Unless it's Haymitch, then they'll say "Forget you"
You shall be treated like king or queen
Your life will feel serene
Until the final day comes
Then the dread will pound like drums
As you stand on your podium
You hope you will blossom
Because death is soon
And the audience will watch as if it is a cartoon
You will run for your life
With the wildlife
Some will make it and some will perish
Chances are in anguish
When all are dead and gone
The last one will become a victor
But only one victor shall rise
All with the are their supplies
They shall meet and greet
Because they did defeat
And train all others
Until they are elders
The games will come back once more this year
Hoping their district will have a good year.
And the only words anyone can repeat
may the odds b
i write gimmicks, not poetrymy lothariani write gimmicks, not poetry3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ScarringAt some point in my life I stopped posting pictures that included my left forearm. It wasn't one of those gradual things where eventually I noticed this to be the case and had to search my soul to figure out why.Scarring2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I didn't need to figure it out. I knew. My left forearm is covered in scars, and scars are not acceptable anymore. I've grown up and left behind the things that made me sad -- or at least I've told myself that I have.
It could just be that I learned that sadness lasts forever when it's cut into your skin.
That's the thing about scars, though. If you're sad enough or angry enough or empty enough, you don't care about forever, until one day you're grown up and someone is looking at your wrist with a question in their eyes.
People keep saying that scars are beautiful in their own way, that they tell a story. Maybe that's true for others, but not for me. You can't tell a story from the lines of white tissue on my arm. Or maybe you can, and the story is as follows:
"Once upon a tim
how helen keller ate my spleenlove is as contagioushow helen keller ate my spleen3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as a yawn. poisoning
my libido in nineteen
try twenty. try me on
for size. if i don't fit,
slice off a few of my
extra extremities. i
don't need to smile.
i don't need to hold
a) my breath
b) your hand
c) a conversation
i am hospital beds &
hailstones of kidneys
floating in bile-vials;
jars of musk & snug
bladder infections. i
gave you the flu last
christmas. you gave
me a reason to love,
as i cough my heart
through a piss-tube
Marching Band"Marching band isn't a sport!"Marching Band8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Oh, I beg to differ.
What makes Marching Band so different?
Some say it doesn't match the definition of sports.
Well let's see what the definition is.
Sports: An activity involving physical exertion and skill that is governed by a set of
rules or customs and often undertaken competitively. An active pastime;
So... the way I see it,
marching band is no different from a sport
The Marching band uses maybe
twice the physical exertion then a lot of other sports.
Sure football players get tackled while running up and down the field;
swimmers swim so many laps they feel as though they can't move their legs.
And other sports are similar
But the marching band runs across the field to a fro,
and our only break is a two minute ballad
where we are still moving but at a slower pace
And I don't see any of those swimmers holding a instrument
and playing into it while doing what their doing.
And Marching band is an activity governed by rules.
A Pirate Makes a PoemA Pirate Makes a Poem:A Pirate Makes a Poem3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Apparently all it takes
Ta get ye works ta slake
Is a simple scheme o' rhyme
Which takes a minute o' time
Perhaps I'll do the same
It's fair ta play this game
No meanin' in tha words
They just flop around like birds
"Oh this stuff it speaks to me!"
Really is that true?
I'm afraid ye might be daft me thinks
Ye certainly be loose a screw
For if works do not have meanin'
Then they're simply done and dull
I think I'd rather spend me time
Playin' dice in a golden skull
I suppose that what tha people want
Is a simple kind o' style
One that looks as good as ale
But tastes like bricks and bile
"Now then lads, do I get ta be a poet too?"
-Chen Yuan Wen, 10th July 2012
the perfect strangershe misses colin the most at night, when, waking from nightmares, her hand reaches out into the darkness for someone who is no longer there.the perfect stranger3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
an unexpected message flares briefly on her screen, long enough for her heart to drop into her stomach in surpriseher ex-boyfriend's little sister's ex-boyfriend? sighing, she types a hello and strains her memory to recall what she knows of this boy from their one brief meeting. his name is aaron. tall. shaggy bed-head hair. sleepy hazel eyes. she lightly touches the keyboard, entertaining the notion that other people might feel as lonely at night as she does.
"tell me a secret," she types to him.
"why should I put my trust in you?" he asks, surprised.
"who better to trust than a stranger?"
so he does.
a five minute secret turns into an hour long story, then a night-long conversation.
the next morning, after telling this boy how colin broke her, she wakes to a message in her inbox:
The world is yours.
Boys are stupid.
The Forgotten SonLucifer was damned to hell,The Forgotten Son3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sent there alone to bleed and roast,
Yet no one prayed for his forgiveness,
The one sinner who needed them most.
The devil lost all he once had,
With nothing but a cursed, sneered name,
Spat upon and thrown away,
His misdeeds now his only fame.
No one praised him through his hardships,
No one smiles 'til he's gone,
I walk the path of thorns with him,
With Satan, the Forgotten Son.
Gilbert Blythe to Anne ShirleyGilbert Blythe to Anne Shirley6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Gilbert Blythe to Anne Shirley
Youre off again in Neverland
searching secretly for your Peter Pan,
glancing through Hooks looking glass
when suddenly wind pushes the mast,
and Wendys voice of reason whispers,
You wont find him here.
Am I the death of childish dreams?
Do my dark eyes evoke screams
that carry into the vast night
with the Highwaymans fatal flight?
Where says the Lady of Shalott,
You wont find him in Camelot.
Nothing has to change now, Anne,
but your answer to this rejected man.
For I dont want literature with merits
all I want is you, Carrots.
And I murmur to you in sweet reality,
Hell always be with you in Avonlea.
JesusYou are the firstJesus7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are the last
You are the present
You are the past
You are my soul
You are my light
You are my life raft
You are my knight
New mercies each day
You have given to me
Because of You
I miss the mark
And sin pulls us
You make me strong
You never let me go
I know this because
You love me so.
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,i don't think im alive enough to die yet.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lips
and morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.
i remember how i was always shot.
you ran away when i didn't die
and left me to bleed out
onto the cold concrete.
but you don't understand-
dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,
and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticks
don't beat true. it's just dull thumping
in a hollow chest cavity.
(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
The nature of inspirationWhen was the last timeThe nature of inspiration3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
You heard the word 'erection' in poetry?
I think it was a while back
Between the pages
I mean "humans" don't even play
Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-house
Inside us all
Where politeness is a foul facade
And we aren't afraid of our fingers.
We prioritise the silhouettes
The way pressing pen into paper
Made us so
And out of
Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...
And it's about time we became
It's about time
We let up
And let it
Burn us up
Turn us on
Turn us up
Our wobbly bits
Into an aphrodisiac
So if there's any P.S.
Poetry can teach you
the word 'erection'.
Dear HumanDear Human,Dear Human3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You continue to write in me. You take a pen and mark my pages with memories. Why do you do this? I cannot help you; I cannot accompany you through your life. You will write in me and then what you write will stay hidden beneath my cover. These words do not solve any of your troubles, or make any of your joys greater. Why do you continue to write? I do not care what happened to you on March 16th, be that March 16th in 2002 or March 16th in 2012. I do not care.
I do not care what happens from day to day, the world outside which I have not seen in years. I am shut in a drawer in a desk that never changes. I do not know the people whose names you scrawl, sometimes with hate, which fills me, sharp words, sharp tip of the pen, stabbing, carving deep symbols, these words that indent other pages, stretching deeper, impaling me with your passions. I hate these names, these people, these deeds, with such hate that I cannot think beyond the fresh ink. The next page is blank and sends
MetempsychosisLift your spirit to your lipsMetempsychosis3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and kiss it.
That's how words are born.
They fly into this world
messy and covered in
the dust of forgotten wisdom.
They are yours.
They move with you,
so gladly step
in the syllables of
every thought you've owned.
Treat them well.
For when your voice
turns to rust,
and your bones clatter cold,
when your name is buried
with the last man you knew,
hanging in the wind
are your words.
In some old dog-eared book
are your words.
And when its pages stir
in younger hands,
lift your spirit to their lips
and kiss it,
re-birthing you in
words their own.
in case you forgot: don't read this. just trust mein case you forgot:in case you forgot: don't read this. just trust me3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have the heart of a poet
trapped in the ribcage of
a tumultuous whore. i'm
a textbook charlatan with
too much nonsense & not
in case you forgot:
i have a fetish for third-person
pronouns & third-party interference.
you are the first, second, and third person
to invade all three of my parties with your
clothes still intact with your skin; with your
tongue still intact with your mouth-
an ampersand curled between your teeth
in case you forgot:
this stanza is a haiku.
god, i hate haikus.
in case you forgot:
i will drill your brain
with mindless repetition
until it is sore enough
to develop amnesia.
in case you forgot:
i'm shit at endings
Free Verse"But it doesn't rhyme!" he screamed,Free Verse6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"There is no structure!"
And in frustration, he looked for pattern
where there was none to be found.
"What makes it a poem!?"
With growing horror, he reached for order
though it slipped through his grasping fingers
But the words resonated like tuning forks
burned into his mind,
creating coherent patterns,
tickling his frayed synapses,
and bursting with vivid imagery
that could not be escaped.
With gasping suddenness --
he was free.
The One Way TicketToo many friendsThe One Way Ticket3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Write up their list,
The one with reasons for saying goodbye
Then they slit their wrists.
Too many friends
Buy a one way ticket,
But I promise you this,
I'll be with you until the end.
No more goodbyes
And no more stains,
No more red
Slipping down the drains.
It's time to stop
This cycle of pain,
And I hope it will not
Ever happen again.
Too many times
I've let you slip,
And too many times
I've caused that slit.
It hurts me to know
That you might just be
That one friend,
Who buys the ticket
To be away from me.
shatteredi watched youshattered1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
lay the darkest parts
of yourself along my bed,
kept you safe as they
they may still
bite like razors,
but your armor
has grown thicker.