I let you
pathways upon pathways
and bathtubs of thought I could drown in
I let you;
I will wander thoughtlessly
sand dollar promises on
beaches your feet never touched
It’s okay to dream sometimes
But I think our hearts lost touch
bathtubs of thought I could drown in
Maybe I’m a dreamer
but I let you
and goodbye
-Submitted by emmyrealized
I can hear the bugs as they wander. I can see the wind moving around me. The music pumps through my viens. Crickets chirp. The world spins and turns. My heart beating faster and faster until I feel as if it’s going to pop right out of my chest.
He grabs my hand as my heart beats on the inside of my chest for one last time. Then there is a moment of stillness. Time has frozen. The fire crackles as he reached toward the radio. Smooth, classical music softly comes from the speakers. His other hand goes to my lower back. I can feel him guiding me around, dancing. The sand squishing between my toes. The moon looks down on us, envious. I put my head on his shoulder and everything seems right. My heart rate is down to an alarming low rate, but it’s nice, and I only hear the music and his light breathing.
Then the song stops and he lets me go. I look to the ocean for a minute as my heart continues to pump blood through my system. Wehn I turn around, the radio is gone. And so is he. The fire has died out, leaving me alone. I’m left alone with the moon and stars demorilizing me.
-Submitted by theherpyderpystalker
It is hard to write happy. Happiness is shallow and doesn’t extend past the meeting of our basic needs. Sometimes I take pleasure in my sadness because in it, I find real and raw emotion. Nothing is fake about pain. Yet, within all of this, I discover my unabated love of emotion. And in that, lies my joy. Thus through my hurt and suffering is a beauteous love that I do not dare to question.
It is the blissful unawareness of the poet, yet a complete understanding of what it means to be. You’re not a body— but rather a projection of your mind. Does that make sense? This isn’t some artist persona…you aren’t “dressing the part” in other words. We are not poets because we choose to be. In fact, we’re not poets at all— we are our thoughts.
I cannot say it much better than that. We don’t think of ourselves this way. I call myself a writer…A lover of literature and of words. Never have I desired to be called a “poet” or thought myself capable of creating words into the enchantment that is poetry. I still don’t think I can. And I never want to.
“Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things—
We murder to dissect.”
— William Wordsworth: The Tables Turned
- Submitted by dreamandlovewithoutfear
It’s a cold day.
She’s sat opposite the school playground, and the sounds of children playing can be heard, just over the electronic blur of her music.
It’s weird, that those days are only just behind her, in comparison to everyone else around her, that life she’s nurturing and holding in her hands, fragile, has only just begun- but, to her, it feels like forever. She stills remembers the mobile that hung over her bed when she was small.
Behind her back, the cars rush by, splashing up the puddles into glorious arcs, which glimmer in every shade when the gloomy sun catches the falling water. It’s funny.
They say the world is beautiful- and, admittedly, occasionally they’re right- but today, she can’t realise the beauty in the simplicity of a childhood game, or the colours of a rainbow. Today, all she can think about is the end, the extinguishing of the spark. It’s drawing near.
The instigator is lurking in the plastic bag at her feet, begging to be opened, imbibed, and then thrown away. Discarded into the rubbish, to lurk once more, and never be found. But enough of that.
Her bus is coming. The sun is beginning to emerge. But it’s still a cold day.
-Submitted by sherbetlemonsandshuriken
I hear the bells ringing throughout the house I grew up in, annoying everyone with the time. My friends playing down the street, wind blowing through the neighborhood. It’s memories of my childhood in musical form.
-Submitted by astoryofasoul
A thousand little stars are dancing above me. For a second I feel like I can breathe, but not too hard because everything is still so fragile. The more I think about breathing though, the more I realize that I can’t do it. I want to relax but I can’t. A soft breeze wraps around me and I’m starting to maybe think that maybe it is okay not to be perfect. Maybe perfect is something that isn’t perfect—like starry nights and soft music. Maybe society has pointed me in the wrong direction… or maybe it was the right one.
-Submitted by curlygirl-gonethin
Sometimes fear creeps in and gets the best of me,
blinds my vision, and darkness is all I see.
When everything I fear spins around in my head,
it’s like I’m moving, but leaves me paralyzed instead.
Entrapped inside my mind, my soul screaming to get out,
it’s these times fear has me stranded, filled with doubt.
Playing worst case scenarios on repeat,
all my fears come forth, tempting me to retreat.
Remembering courage comes when you face your fear,
I ease my mind and let it clear.
It’s times like these that remind me I will defeat,
so I replace fear with courage and move my feet.
-Submitted by magshaw
Memories hit me like a wave,
each of them my heart has engraved.
Appreciating this moment with my entire being,
the past creeps up to help with freeing.
I’ve got a heart filled with love and joy,
but I remember times it was handled like a toy.
I’ve come so far and I keep moving on,
yet I remember different times and the people that are gone.
With every step, I’m becoming more aware,
but the past still lingers and I wish the same people were there.
While I embrace life and everything new,
the past is guiding me to remember my purpose and what to do.
A constant work in progress, walking further in the light,
I stand with one foot in the darkness, using the past to make things right.
As I shed more layers of conventional thought,
I look at the past to remember what its taught.
-Submitted by magshaw
If you were a face
Soon you will be faded
Fuzzy and gradually blank
In my head. Your voice
Will be muffled
After echoing through the distance of
our years;
Your colours
Will eventually dissolve in a slighted patch
On this kaleidoscope of velvets;
The backdrop of my life.
-Submitted by subtlyunspoken
Let not the truth of time become my eyes
for then my eyes of such devotion plague
the innocence of knowledge that the skies
have taught my youth and mind until this day.
And stop the test of time that is my life
from crashing inwards on itself, for it
can only hold so much devotion and strife
that nothing else, no love or pain, will fit.
But see and hear just what I need to be:
a man whose life has meaning and a dove
that flies until an olive branch, a tree,
is found and I can rest with thee, my love.
And this my hope for all my years to pass:
the breath of life does live in you, my lass.
-Submitted by josephyoyulpaek
