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JoBe Arenas May 2014
Take notice
Of me
Please see
What I see
Let's be
More than we
Better than he
Happier than she
Can us be free?
Run away with me
William Crowe II May 2014
I tried to write
a novel
once.

It was about a town
called Foxtrot,
Kentucky
in the hot Georgia summer
and three people
that lived there.

There was a symbolic
dogwood tree (it stood
for innocence)
and it rotted away
when the femme fatale
was *****.

Her lover ***** her; he was
apparently a violent man.

Her other lover mourned
but was not sad anymore
once he had shot
the ******.

Then in recompense
the lady opened herself to him.

"1+0=3" she said.

And that was when he realized
that the universe is
***, a battle
of creative impulses.

Someday I'll go back
and try to write about Foxtrot,
Kentucky again.

This time, the man will be *****
and we will see what
the universe is like for him
then.
AavelinaJaden May 2014
We grow up being told to read then we wonder why love hurts to bad.
My first love novel gave me a paper cut on heart and I've never been the same
JoBe Arenas Apr 2014
You there?
Questions <, >, = Answers?
Answer me!
Why don't you speak up?
You don't know?
I don't care, do you think they do?
Don't even bother to answer me!
You're useless!
You're not?
Prove it...

Why do you ask me
So many questions
And not wait for the answer

Do you think that worked?
You still sound stupid to me!
Another useless *******...

Do you want me to
Get out of your sight

Who gave you freedom to ask?
Your stupid existence huh?

I never asked
I win
neither the Question
or Answer matters
The little symbol at the end
Is all that matters

Cunning fool...
Camz Kho Feb 2014
Read me like an open book

Run your fingers through my pages like an avid reader would.

Gaze upon the story laid before you,

As if all your inquiries can be answered,

Like the end of a mystery novel.

Ask me questions about the dog-eared pages,

the missing chapters, the folds that others have made and left behind.

Read between my lines,

Piece through the story within my story,

Unlock my secrets as you turn page after page after page.

Where I am marked,

Graze your fingers across that chapter, feel the scar,

And maybe, if you ask nicely,

I will open that chapter to you and you can read it aloud to me.

Read me like you would your favorite novel,

Lose yourself in the ink and the words, and the plot twists.

Decipher my hidden messages,

Find the meanings behind my poems, the truth behind my sighs.

Then, with your permission,

I may lose myself in the multitude of letters and thoughts

That make up your story.

I will read you so thoroughly, that I will lose my breath within your pages.

I will feel your pages turning, turning,

Your story will unravel before me like mine before you.

I will read you like an open book, and caress your dog-eared, worn pages,

Hold you close to my heart like the only story that helps me get through the days.

Then we will be two books,

So differently bound,

So differently written,

But so lost and entwined in each other’s covers

That no one will be able to tell

Where your pages end,

And mine begin.
this poem was inspired by my being a bookworm, and how the thought of falling in love with a bookworm who would understand this would be nice.
Erin Hankemeier Apr 2014
Walking in the woods, there is human breath
A girl who has come back from the darkness of death
Her eyes shine in the moon of the night
Tomorrow, she will finally see the morning light
She has been dead for several years
There are maggots crawling out of her ears
The girl will walk for several days
Eyes set on the horizon gaze
On her grave, Beloved is her name
Her life will never be the same
She longs to see her mother’s face
To be held again in those arms of grace
She will not stop, she will not rest
Until she is safe where she feels best
On her grave, Beloved is her name
I wrote this poem as a class project after reading "Beloved" by Toni Morrison. We were to write a poem describing the scene where the character of Beloved was wandering the woods after coming alive after death. Her thoughts, actions and feelings were to be described as well.

I hope you enjoy!
Guy Braddock Mar 2014
Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint

Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing

Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.

Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.
From an as yet unfinished novel

— The End —