Poetic Persistence.

writingbyella:

i.

The boy who never loved me
would be an unfinished chapter
left in drafts
in the desk
of an old office I no longer
use.

ii.

The boy who loved me too much would be
the thick classic book you know will break
your heart and end in doom but once you’ve
started reading it you can’t stop until it’s done.

iii.

I would be the tangent poem
born from two beautifully solid
sonnets,
the sudden thought
full of unsure
line
breaks,
and
void of metaphors.

iv.

My father would be the prize winning
novella; the novel without waffle full
of philosophical wisdom and self
fulfilling prophecies. The kind of calming
must-read-book-for-crazy-teens.
The words of the best man in the universe
sewed together like a cushioned safety net.

v.

The relationship that never
worked
however hard we tried would
be the manual
on how to be a writer,
how to write poems;
great at teaching you how to go through the motions
but not feel a thing.

vi.

My first love would be
the
“once
upon
a
time”
at the beginning of
the anthology of love poems
in my life.

vii.

My life would be
an epistolary of letters
to myself
with flashbacks
 and as
un-chronological as this
poem.

viii.

You would be every
punctuation mark
every colon: hyphen -
comma, exclamation
mark! semi colon;
(bracket) “speech
mark” asterisk* /
forward\backward
slash #hashtag full
stop. If the world
were words, you’d
be the thing to hold
it all together; you’d
make a mark on every
sentence I breathed. 

Absolutely perfect.

vagabondlanguage:

People like to say that
memories last a lifetime,

but they also like to say that
time heals all wounds,

which is why I always seem to
forget the color of your eyes.

_

faith clary

destroyingpoetry:

when it gets late we will get quiet, the whole world will be quiet like it’s listening to the way we breathe in unison, legs intertwined like shoelaces under the covers, and all i really want is to be close to you.

lune-embrassa:

A cigarette stuck in my teeth like a rose
is something I’ve grown into at fourteen.
The smoke I let leave my mouth, a purity ring,
a misty dream filled with cotton candy and kisses
that taste like peaches and strawberries.

I lie with you in the tall, scratching
grass, our arms mosquito-attracting
orange peels unraveled and touching.

Your fingers find mine, they are softer
than the hair blowing in my eyes; yours
hold the sea inside chrysocolla tide pools. 

We ignite each other under the torch of the sun
and clouds gathered like the breath of an
opened summer.

“To be young is a strange thing” you say,
I ask why, you reply,
“because it isn’t natural,
everything around us is old.”
I smile, and tell you,
“we were born with the stars, so in a way,
we are as old as they are,
and they are as young as we feel.”

thatonegoof:

I want to gather up 

the wisdom of every person,

their advice,

and all their experiences

and then compile them

into a book of beautiful

meaningful words

and label it

“Advice from Strangers”

construedwords:

Don’t throw stones in glass houses, 
you’re only setting yourself up for disaster.
And don’t wear your heart on your sleeve,
pain and sorrow is your master.

deaded

odeofsheobi:

I love it when you
 pull me for a hug and
breathe through my hair.

I love it when I’m
  with you every
inch of me I can bare.

I love it when you’ll
  hold my hand as we
walk in the school hallway.

I love it when you
 tell me even the most
shallow things about your day.

I love it when you
 sing for me even if you
can’t reach the highest note.

I love it when you’re
  near you make me
feel like I’m afloat.

                                              Yes, the list may not end there.
                                                 I love a ton of things about you
                                              that I think there’s no
                                                space here to spare.

                                             But elated we may be,
                                                I know the day will come,
                                             when we’ll part ways
                                                eventually

raiata:

She spends all of her time drawing (the trees

—having no leaves—only lifeless charred black.)

While her mother softly, soundlessly grieves.

-

And on a wooden table, lay a stack

of her father’s forgotten things. Winter

having no leaves, only lifeless charred black

-

skies cast shadows in a bleak, dreary blur

of gray. The girl silently draws and thinks

of her father’s forgotten things. Winter

-

will not wipe the tears (that her mother blinks)

away. In the corner, she dreams in shades

of gray. The girl silently draws and thinks

-

up a father, but the image evades.

Her imagination seeks, colors bleed

away. In the corner, she dreams in shades

-

of gray. Grasping at the color recede,

she spends all of her time drawing the trees

her imagination seeks. Colors bleed,

while her mother softly, soundlessly grieves.

thedilapidatedheartsproject:

I speak for an entire legion of restless souls.
All the lies and the remorseful holes.
We no longer seek the light.
Guarding the darkness, with all our might.
In the end, there is only one way out.
Fighting for atonement, and giving one last shout.
-The Dilapidated Hearts Project

apoisonedpen:

Once upon a time there was a twirly little girl
with a head of curly curls
and a tiny little swirl
in her smile.
She had a little peppy pep
in her little steppy step
and a walk that
would lead you a mile.
Her nails they were kept
and her hair it was swept
to the side of her 
pretty little face,
and her teeth they were pearly
and her eyelashes were girly
and her clothes they were never
out of place.

But one thing she was missing
was a boy she could be kissing
and a best friend to never
leave her side
And though she loved singing and dancing
and playing at romancing
when other children came around
she’d run and hide.

And all the birds and all the bees
and all the sunshine and the trees
couldn’t fill the lonely hole
left in her heart,
For what she wanted more than laughter
was a sweet forever after
and someone from which 
she knew she’d never part.

(to be continued)

THIS IS PERFECT!

Looking forward to part two.

uarewhatudream:

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

~ Dawna Markova