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 May 2015 Mirlotta
Ian Canavan
Normal thoughts
composed as rhyme
here comes the poetry
one more time
I feel sadness
I feel pain
so here comes the poetry
again and again
 May 2015 Mirlotta
neo
The world is in full color, the sky still sporting tones of pink as it grows dark
every word spoken is like a tiny love note to me, i wonder if im too sentimental
ive got galaxies in my heart and im afraid of all the stars burning out too fast (talk about heartburn,,,,,,, hah)
maybe one day we'll all go to space together
what do diamonds shine like on the surface of the moon?  
11 pm, watching the cars go by
ive never been a fan of light pink until i realized it felt like home
love feels like pastel colors, like the comforting presence of the moon in the night sky, the calm quietness of underwater
is it possible to die from cheesiness?
im worried i might start throwing up glitter (even though that would look pretty cool)
everything feels lighter and softer than usual
it almost feels as if im surrounded by bubbles
youre like crystals, beautiful and perfect no matter what shape or form
and im floating on air
im going to cry? but in a good way
everything feels like pastel colors and sparkles and so much sugary-sweetness its almost TOO much but not quite
filed under: "Love Aesthetic (tm)"
im going to literally scream and explode into rainbow confetti
im so gay
im so gay rip

i wrote this last night nd i liked parts of it so

this is the cheesiest thing tho oh my god i love my datefriends so much
 May 2015 Mirlotta
A Mareship
gay
 May 2015 Mirlotta
A Mareship
gay
The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.
I don't generally write on the topic of being gay, although I write a lot about boyfriends etc.  Being gay is not really an issue for me, but every now and then someone will make a comment that will ******* enrage me, hence this poem. Let's stick together, doesn't matter who we fall in love with, let's not be ashamed of anything. x
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
You are like a theater
to which people flock
to witness your
complexity
profundity
vibrancy.
You are hilarious, a comedy,
but then the scenery changes,
and you become
serious
sensitive
thoughtful.
You are a stage, a blank slate
to which people run to escape,
and you help them
relax
forget
carry on.
You are a set, a façade,
which hides the real you,
and instead projects
happiness
confidence
bravado.
You are backstage as well,
a mess of darkened chaos,
the curtains hiding your
insecurities
sensitivity
fear.
You are an selfless actor,
ignoring what you feel inside,
to instead don the
makeup
costume
mask.
You raise the lights,
you feign a smile,
because the show
must
go
on.
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
Outside the window
a woman is
     beaten upon
          spit upon
a black man is
      unfairly judged
          unfairly punished
a gay man is
       hated at
          jeered at
but none of it can touch me
if I just
       draw the blinds
          close the curtains
shut it out.
How I feel that some people in society view the injustice of the world.
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
Encore
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
Click.

The lights go up,
an empty stage.
Anticipation hangs,
waiting for the-

Hum

of the speakers,
vibrating, starting.
The cheers of the crowd
drown out the echo as-

“Check.”

The microphone works,
the crowd goes quiet.
The hot air is electric,
charged and ready for the-

Squeal

of a guitar,
the opening note.
The lights converge,
the crowd gives a-

Roar

as the stars come out,
playing their songs.
Legends of music,
opening with a-

Pound

of the drums
as people push close,
hot and cramped,
yearning for another-

Thump

of the bass,
matching the pulse
beating in the heart
of the fans who scream-

“Yeah!”

with the singer,
loud and excited.
Reeking of alcohol,
people anticipate the-

Blare

of the famous song,
the glorious cacophony.
Inspiration coursing deep,
as one, the crowd shouts,

“Encore.”
Something I wrote for Creative Writing class when told to describe what it's like to be in the "audience of a rock concert" without using any of those words.
I am second place,
I am the runner-up,
I am the one who comes so close,
Just to mess it up.

I am the failed designer,
Who left out the crucial part,
And without a thought condemned to death,
A thousand heavy hearts.

I am a second too late,
I am the narrow miss,
I am the one who lost the girl,
Just before the kiss.

I am the last survivor,
The final one to die,
Who saw his friends bleed and pass,
Before his very eyes.

I am the chosen one,
Who failed to meet their fate,
I am the glaring disappointment,
Overwhelmed with hate.

I am inside everyone,
I live within the soul,
But lucky for you, instead of me,
You will meet your goal.
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
I used to be able to write poems.

I could make them rhyme,
make them happy,
make them sad.
I could make them flow,
make them float,
make them feel.

I could put into words
everything I felt,
everything I knew.
I could pour my heart out
onto the paper,
onto the screen.

But then something changed.

I lost the spark that I had,
that inspiration,
that drive.
I lost the thing that kept me going,
that encouraged me,
that pushed me on.

I lost the one who made me laugh
when I was tired,
when I wanted to quit.
I lost the one who told me to write
when I was out of ideas
when I was frustrated.

I lost the one who made writing worthwhile.

I lost you.

I used to be able to write poems;
Now, I just feel them.
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
Sometimes
 Apr 2015 Mirlotta
Prodigy
Sometimes I try to remind myself
that all good things
must end.
Sometimes I try to persuade myself
that I’ll never lose
the memories.
Sometimes I try to tell myself
that all I need is
to move on.
Sometimes I try to force myself
to forget how happy
I was then.

Sometimes I try to convince myself
that I’ll meet another
like you.

I wonder why it never seems to work.
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