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Tiffy Apr 2019
I always say that once a friendship breaks and mends back again, that it’s never the same
No matter how much you want it to be the same...
It never will be
A relationship is like a piece of glass
When it shatters, all of those pieces scatter
And you find yourself left to pick up the pieces
You get hurt... hurt from the sharp edges of the glass and hurt by the person who broke it
You try to fix it...
You think you’ve put it back together again but there are some pieces missing...
You don’t know what happened to them
You spend hours searching and then tell yourself that you don’t need those pieces
That the pieces are not important
But deep down you know...
You know that it’s incomplete
You know that it’s no longer perfect
You know that it won’t be the same anymore
But you don’t want to let yourself know that
You put on a smile...
You don’t let them know they’ve hurt you
You don’t let them know you’re incomplete
That whatever you guys had is broken and different and imperfect
And it hurts, it hurts when you think about it
It hurts that you cut yourself on the glass of what you had and it hurts that you want it back to the way it was
But... it can’t go back
It can’t go back because the pieces are missing
It can’t go back because the glass isn’t the same anymore
It can’t go back because now, you’re left with shattered glass
I always used the metaphor of shattered glass as a representation of a broken relationship with someone. I finally made that metaphor into words.
Mark Rohlf Apr 2019
rave to the rolling hills
lit with the warmth of dawn
and the rich warm orange of dusk

respect to the souls
who pain to see
the beauty in rust

blithe to the imaginations
who seek a higher call
armed with the courage
of original thought

thanks to you
who climbed the hill
and found the charm

you
the one
who’s seen
the hills at dawn
A collection of words I have had in my journal for a while now.
Vera Anne Wolf Apr 2019

My life is stitched together
by the battles I can’t win.
I tear myself to pieces
Just so I can still fit in.
Their all holding candles
while I light this twig on fire.
I swear it smells like roses
but their calling me a liar.
It doesn’t make sense, anymore.
Tell me to please you, tell me how?
I can’t do this anymore
Cause I’m losing myself now.

And when you've stripped me bare
Of every piece that once was true.
Can I be happy? How can I be happy?
Living my life now as you...

I’m following the markers
On the floor, my feet step in.
The strings keep me perfected
As their pull against my skin.
I'm trying not to feel, not to think,
And not to dream.
If I cry, the makeup’s ruined
And my corset bursts a seam.
But am I even breathing?
Am I living? Am I dead?
And who is the person
That’s is living in my head?

And when you've stripped me bare
Of every piece that once was true.
Can I be happy? How can I be happy?
Living my life now as you...


©veraannewolf
Is it really living if you're not living as you?
Jenay Long Mar 2019
She stumbles crookedly, confused by the pure hatred in their eyes,
She cries, afraid of the blood slowly seeping from sliced palms and soles.
She reaches out, only to be scorned by those who are to love her,
She covers her ears, as rage-filled words, echoes incessantly, cutting deeper into the wounds.
She hides in her own little dark corner, as she feels the pain their powers bring.
     Aren't villains the only ones that
     They should hurt?
     Does that make her one then?
She falls deeper, deeper down the rabbit-hole - deeper into the toxicity that is her life,
She scars harder; becoming more wretched, surrendering to the demons that haunt her.
She's disregarded by the powerful; she's scorned by the weak.
Its  s e m p i t e r n a l.
     "You cant become the hero."
     "YOU CANT BE A HERO."
She knows this, known it for so long now.
      No; everyone says she cant be the hero -
      Why not be the villain instead?
                                                        ­      By: Jenay Long
Originally made for a book idea, now an individual poem. After all if you can't be the hero - become the villain instead
Wayward Mar 2019
You
What is it about you that holds me smitten? Is it,

These hands,
These hands that send me to ecstasy.
These hands that entwine with mine.
These very hands that hold me close to you.

These lips,
These lips that caress my body, loving me, kissing me.
These lips that whisper "I love you".
These lips that entitle me as yours.

These eyes,
These eyes that look into my soul.
These eyes that hold promises of tomorrow.
These eyes that are drunk with love, love for me.
These eyes that see me and accept me for who I am.

This heart,
This heart that cares for me.
This heart that would chose me over and over again.
This heart that loves me.
This heart that belongs to me.
©waywardvarsha
Oh the fantasy.
O hope y'all experience a love like this
Stay weird, stay wayward!
Much love xoxo
Akshay Feb 2019
Happy about...
Today I feel different than earlier...
I am happy about this change.

Today I feel the original me...
I am happy about this sweet little me.

Today I feel to leave back all guilt...
I am happy about my innocence.

Today I feel to live the new me...
I am happy about this rebirth.

Today I am happy about this change...
This is what I feel is life.

-LifeKeepsChanging
This is my first poem.
RUBY STYLES Feb 2019
its weird to live
where past and future pulls you
in  its black hole
emptying every essence of you
like you are nothing.

its weird to live
where original
is covered with fakes
and being original are
labelled as freaks

its weird to live
where people look
at your mistakes
when the already have
loads of their own.

but its beautiful
to live in the world
where words help me
to escape my own truth
and find peace

its beautiful
that even though life
seems meaningless and purposeless
the meaning of some collective words
makes living purposeful.

RUBY..........
hey writers ........ i am a 17 years old mess and i need a help
Max Feb 2019
Call me the outlaw of the modern age.
Modern age
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2019
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
Cecil Miller Jan 2019
I followed the trades to the center of Mecca,
Maybe looking for my soul.

All I found in the people around,
Were pieces of what made the whole.

I searched in the sun for the purest light,
But my eyes could never see.

The hollowness inside my every thought
Was a hunger I couldn't feed.

There was a rubble in the sands of time,
It all turned upside down.

Suddenly I was under the water,
And hearing not a sound.

Everything was nothing then the moment came,
When everything was alight.

An opening of eyes, there was clarity,
I was passing through the light.

I can still remember serenity,
When I was safe inside the arms.

All I knew was comfort and love in the moment,
There were no alarms.

I didn't know that I was fragile,
Or an aging ghost of an old man yet to come.

I only knew in the moment that I never knew a moment,
Or where the next was from.

It would last forever, in this familiar place
Where I might have been before.

Because I recognise the light,
But not the purest light that was vacant at its core.
Written Jan 14th, 2019

Now this might offend some people, but this isn't my intention. How is it that someone could post one or two whiney lines about some break up and it winds up all over the front page, however, when effort is put into a piece of work, to create something of a poetic nature it goes by hardly noticed?
I mean, writing a one line diary entry to cry about getting dumped is not poetic. Put some effort into your art, a little structure or something. Some creative turn of phrase. Anything that is metophoric, or oximoronic might work, also. Otherwise, it might be an honest feeling that's going to get some sympathy likes, but there is nothing creative in simply declairing a broken heart. Even if it is very brief, without structure, saying something like "I'm not good enough," is not poetic or musical. Without more content, I wouldn't call it prose. At best it might be a brief, singular undetailed narative. Then hashtag some trendy words that usually have little to do with the entry. It's just doesn't make this site seem fit for decent writers.
So try this: poets, take your singular line and dual lined entries and see if you can construct an actual poem with some rhythm. An online thesaurus might help some of you when you want to rhyme, or when you don't because poetry doesn't have to rhyme.
Very, very seldom does one phrase make a poetic statement. How many times can people praise, "my boyfriend dumped me" one liners before they get eye-rolly and cynical? Let's ask Mr. Owl to lick the tootsie roll.
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