#own poem

[yudzukii]

Sorry...

Sorry for being a burden.

Sorry for being clingy.

Sorry for being such a mess.

Sorry for having no self control.

Sorry for being insensitive.

Sorry for being thougtless.

Sorry for being heartless.

Sorry for being unempathic.

Sorry for overestimating.

Sorry for not grasping cues.

Sorry for being emotional.

Sorry for overthinking.

Sorry for being distant.

Sorry for being manic.

Sorry for being depressed.

Sorry for being arrogant.

Sorry for hating myself.

Sorry for bothering you.

Sorry for dissapointing you.

Sorry for making excuses.

Sorry for being suicidal.

Sorry for telling you about it.

Sorry for staying.

Sorry for opening up.

Sorry for saying all that.

Sorry for apologizing.

...I'm sorry.

[dragons-for-the-win]

Rain, night, silence

That's all I need...

That's not true,

I'm missing you

I never thought I'd say this

but lately it has been you

Everything I do, everywhere I go

I keep wishing to be there with you

Holding your hand

hugging you tight...

I never want to let go

Because I am tired of all

the "see you tomorrow"s

when you are the one I want

to see when I get back home

Even when I want to be alone

I would rather be with you

Staying in silence no words

but still together whatsoever

Being with you makes everything

much better, much brighter

you make me shine like the sun

and I wont ever stop the light

Rain, night, silence

That's all I ever wanted

but now I want you more

than all I have ever desired

[alvodra]

Felsenweich

Steter Tropfen auf Stein

Bin ich der Stein?

Werde ich geformt?

Ist das Wasser Wissen

Und das Ergebnis eine

Stets sich wandelnde,

unvollkommen vollkommene Struktur?

Oder ist das Wasser Druck,

Sorgen, Ängste, Last?

Und bin ich kein Stein,

sondern starr und zerbrechlich?

Werde ich geformt?

Oder werde ich gebrochen?

Bis nichts bleibt als Stücke

Und Erinnerungen und Leere.

Oder bin ich ein Gefäß?

Das Wasser beides, Wissen und Last.

Die Schale fängt es auf,

vermischt es,

bis beides untrennbar ist.

Und es wird etwas Neues.

Mit vielen Namen.

Erfahrung, Weisheit, ja.

Aber auch Persönlichkeit.

Die Schale fängt auf,

sie trägt.

Auch sie wird geformt.

Aber brechen tut sie nie.

Der Stein akzeptiert das Wasser.

Er ist beständig. Fest.

Ein Kunstwerk.

Die Schale ist im Stein.

Sicher. Fest. Unzerbrechlich.

Die Schale bin ich.

[varnapovs-14]

The lover in me had to die a million times

For the Poet in me to write those miserable lines ...

Varna-

[hheavnly]

a poem about growing up

Tonguing the pink, cushiony gums of a missing tooth.  That slimy muscle pulsates in and out of that crevice,  too fat and overflowing, bulging over the edges.  Sliding your tongue over silky stone.  Clashing teeth on your first kiss and pretending you didn’t.  Is this arousal or mortification when you’re 12? Pretending you knew   how to kiss.  Crying at the pain of rolling rocks in your mouth.  Never crying to mum, at mum, with mum.  Living with a ticking-time bomb or eggshells,  feeling some organ inflate into your throat as she prowls the corridors.  She makes you tea.  Tea that bleeds and oozes between the crevices between womb and bladder,   chased by a scalding fizz of drink,  coiling and lashing across your chest like tentacles.  Floating in the lap of a boy you don’t know.  Realising choking was never actually sexy. 

i wrote this about the sensorial coming of age; the childish obsession of wanting to slide fingertips and tongue over everything, which eventually stops when we start getting touched lol

[mediocrewritingboy]

Sometimes he's a frightened child

Crying into his hands

'I thought you wanted to be a boy?'

'Boys don't cry' they said

So he stopped crying

Sometimes he listens to music.

Listening to boybands and popstars

'I thought you wanted to be a boy?'

'Only girls listen to this stuff' they said

So he stopped listening to music

He was trapped in his head

Screaming. Wailing. Crying.

All in his head.

Boys don't cry, right?

So to them he stayed silent.

His emotions were like rubber bands.

Stretched taut and let go,

Flying forward until they hit a wall.

They were hitting at his insides,

Begging to be let out.

But Boys don't smile that wide,

Or laugh that loud,

Or cry.

So the only person who felt his emotions,

Was himself.

Sometimes he wanted to die.

Often, even.

But if he died all the world would see

Would be her.

Her face, her name, her roles.

Sometimes he wanted to kill her.

Wash his hands of her

And be seen only as himself,

Not as her.

She was dying,

Practically dead.

But she lived on in loved ones harsh words,

In their refusal to love the boy.

They wanted her back,

But she was never really alive,

She was never really theirs.

They liked the idea of her,

Went back into their minds to say:

'There were no signs she'd die!'

Meanwhile she was crying in the corner,

Begging for short hair.

When she died, he was born.

So all he is to them is her filthy legacy,

A secret better swept under the rug.

A feeling better crushed and hidden.

But he was a boy, not a thing.

Why couldn't they see that?

[viridis-loxodonta]

a gift of goodbye

there is privilege in goodbye

unjustly given to those who reject it

unaware of their precious gift

and cruelly taken from those who cry out for it

beg for it

to be remembered and swallowed and buried

i hope our goodbye

is the space between whispers

endlessly gentle and soft—

i hope our goodbye

is never truly our last

and we drift through infinite space

cycling

back to the start to do it again

and again

and again

but if our goodbye must come,

then let it come with riot

let it come with hot words and tears

let our warmth paralyze cool tendrils

and abate death’s grasp

and if we cannot avoid His inexorable reach

then i hope we can find courage to

suffer—

a gift of goodbye.

[canis-lupin-cradle]

~Forget Me Not~

Flower of my soul, gloves of my crooked hands, blood of my veins, forget me not but also forget me. -Jarshavjski. A

[missshwaty01]

Just the sweet fragrance of his memory, Maybe I'll forever love him and he won't realise bcuz I'm stubborn ego is in the way.. or he just don't love me anymore ❤️‍🔥🥀

[librarywanderer]

Pressure from Beyond

Morning. Brochure at my doorstep.

I want to take it in, be home for it.

Crunch. The paper rolls on the floor and

The door slams shut behind me as I

Look up to shadows of stickered stars.

Shopping. I refrain from

Trying the sunglasses on. Seeing the dark

Reminded me of younger years - blue nights

Outside, closed eyes, dreaming of starlight.

My hands resemble twilight as I hide.

Eating. I stare at the card on the wall.

Dark words, white lines. Honour stapled shut.

Blue ink rings my mind, meaningless words.

Alone in blue painted walls, I think I see

Old starry skies in the swirls of brushes.

Sleeping. I think I dream

But it's words of people I don't remember

And I see their hopes strangle children -

All smothered in starlight. Stardust. Space.

The universe is too big for two fates.

Content. I smile in every photo, same shot.

The circles I see up in the sky must be,

At least one of them, my own inferno.

Thou shalt not kill, and yet I murder that

Child in my sleep every night - spewing stars.

Dawn. I wake with ink on my hands,

Blue from work or dreams, I cannot tell.

Hands against the orange sky, I watch

As crimson stains my dusk-hued skin to

Another sunrise.

[blogntinthewind]

Lords and Ladies

When you're peering out of nighttime buses Don't let your eyes follow car lights twinkling Along inky motorways asking you to get off at roadside stops You might find the Otherworld has urbanised With unusually generous offies and humming warehouses If you're walking along the embankments Don't look inside rubbish buried in the dirt The dancing Lords and Ladies are drinking Buckfast

[yudzukii]

I want to know you.

I want to be known by you.

I want to be near you.

I want to help you.

I'm commited to you.

I wish you the best.

[dragons-for-the-win]

Me. And Him.

It's night outside the windows

but i do not quite feel so inside:

my heart with happiness overflows

and there's a permanent smile on my face

That memory is playing in my head

over and over again, with no seeming end

but I never want it to pause, to cease, to stop

because it's the memory of the perfect day

Me; and him.

And him; and me.

We were meant to be,

And the more we are together

The more I know I want him forever

I had thought about that moment

a thousand three hundred and five times

but when his sweet lips brushed mine

I felt my whole world collide into stars

No word that I can write

will be enough to describe

how I felt when our lips

merged into one single dance

'I love you' is all I wanted to say

but no words came out of my mouth

I learnt the true meaning of speechless

but I will do it a thousand three hundred and five times

[alvodra]

Stranger

Two people.

Two universes.

Two main characters.

Strangers.

One bridge.

One connection.

One conversation.

Strangers?

More bridges

or just one

that disintegrates again.

Strangers?

Two universes

that drift apart.

Or don't.

Strangers?

Two main characters

become one story.

Many bridges.

Friends.

@cea-tide @imabiscuitinthousandworlds @haveyoueverconsideredpiracy This poem is also about you

[lysea-aerys]

smiling against your lips

chasing on last kiss

feeling your heartbeat rise

cannot wait to hold your hand in mine

j

[hheavnly]

a poem about mummy issues

We are like the petals of a rose.  From your very inner core, I emerge and I   split open your petals and you   rip yourself apart to make room for me and you  tear at the seams with thread that holds together mutilated flesh.  I am red and thick, like velvet.   I draw in doting fingers, which stroke and  long to be rough but can’t,   for fear of ruining something so delicate and new.  You sit on the outside,  on the margins,  and you are plagued with the yellowish green of sickness.   Fingers, which softly graze my innards,   will strip away your petals,   which are wrinkled and frail;  coiled in at the edges,  like a scrunched-up child,   preparing for a blow that they know awaits them.  Imagine you never tore yourself apart for me, imagine - as I sit, bedded in warm folds,   no room is made for me.   You will never become frail,  and I will sit inside,   waiting to touch light;  waiting to stretch and extend, and no longer be scrunched, expectant.   Imagine I would be engulfed in your darkness  and as I grow, as I yearn to my stroked,   you will close in, and   velvet will crumple and crease. 

very yonic georgia o'keeffe fiona apple 'your mum also had dreams and aspirations too' core