*wrings hands*

[allure]

Does this even count as poetry? Lots of it was birthed from STUPID EMOTIONS, as you'll be able to tell. There may be some prose, but I doubt it. I'm not really looking for criticism unless I state otherwise in the post, but you can still tell me what you think if you so desire.




god, i miss you


how is it that i could miss you this much?


it will be months before we see each other again, and even then


fate will choose how closely our days string together


but at least it will be something


to fill this perfect hole in my head, or


to sew it up.


i still think about that night- do you?


you don't, or if you do,


it will be in memory of the concert


not in memory of me and you sitting in an empty hallway


with our hands almost touching.


not in memory of how we talked about nothing for an hour


not in memory of how we traded funny stories for secrets


i'll remember your black shirt, the button down kind with the collar,


how your eyes stayed on mine for that hour, how they are so pretty


and your lips, and your freckles no matter how much you hate them


and i hate thinking about you because it makes me feel like a


clueless little girl who can't get over a crush


like i'm poking at that hole in my head, ripping it wider







a/n: how did i make a crush this dramatic omigod


EDIT: no i did not write this to god i do not have a crush on god

i'm an atheist

like calm down

 

[allure]

Something Pretty, Something Sad


Skyscrapers lost in the veil of a white sky:


Untamed mountaintops lost in the shroud of clouds


The pavement is glassy with rainwater and


Yellow headlights blaze trails of fire on mirror streets


The charm of twilight is marred by a troubling something


Something that has been waiting and is now approaching


Heads hunch into the collars of coats and sluggish steps quicken


A wide berth made around those who loiter


Graffitied walls- “Love doesn’t Last”-


And a gray-haired couple holding wrinkled hands


There are tired observers looking down with smoke drifting from stale mouths


Unmade beds and books open to well-worn pages strewn over cramped spaces


Music floats from old record players and lone waltzers bring a bottle to their lips


Bubbly laughter and bubbly drinks sandwiched between thrumming souls


There are hands that grip cold railings and eyes that wonder


About the people they see


Or how it would feel to fall


Right underneath the empty black sky are late-night dreamers, dedicated readers


Lost escapists and gamblers chasing after impossible fantasies


Hollow shells who continue to seek their temporary dream


What is a city that would turn its occupants into beautiful, fervent hopefuls?




a/n: if there's a title then i actually tried

 


The lights were moving again. Was he making them move?


His flashlight was the only light that did not move,


and he was following it


and why would it bring him to this place where the lights swam down below


and all he could think about was

her

, how she talked about lights


like they were living things.


And he would never see her again, never ever.


All he could think now were those words: never never not ever again.


Did it all happen? Was she a dream and he was just waking up?


All the lights that came out of her mouth


The brilliant lights


The glow on the water


He did this to himself, he knew, but he was still angry.


He didn't know what he wanted to do anymore, all these urges to hit things and to lie down,


to run and sink and search for the moons she hung up on the ceiling


although he knew she had never meant to do so much.


No, these were the things he knew now:


A whale's heart is the size of a Mini Cooper,


and he should be able to fold paper as many times as she wanted him to.


She can't hear him anymore, and the lights are moving.


There are lights he wants to see, and lights he doesn't, and the moons are still out there.




a/n: if you want this to make sense then watch





. in any case, this is on the crappier side of my writing

 

[allure]

Nothing.


I am empty inside


Armed with the trickles of energy salvaged from dispassionate anger


I am expected to fumble along in this void


Life isn't endless


Those who think it ought to be are kids


Or are kidding themselves


Lives are so bright and hot


Rising flames in dry grass


But my candle is dying


The breath sustaining it is shallow, sputtering


No one will warm my fire with their own


I am barely more than smoke and the cold is coming


The cold


I should let the cold embrace me


There is no one else who will


I will be frozen


There is no warmth that can reach me then.




a/n: wow this is kind of depressing

 

[Poe]

More like birthed from great emotions. There's a whole lot of potential here but in terms of form, I suggest you take a peek at this thread. Your ideas, however, really show some brilliant beginnings. There are some lines in here that are really strikingly beautiful like "all he could think about was her, how she talked about lights like they were living things" and "He didn't know what he wanted to do anymore, all these urges to hit things and to lie down, to run and sink and search for the moons she hung up on the ceiling."


One of the biggest obstacles with poetry is learning how to stop sounding like everyone else and start looking at your own unique use of language. I had a poetry professor in college tell me once to stop overusing heavy images and I think that would really help you here. If you're writing about pain, think about what kind of pain it is. Is it the kind that comes all at once in short shooting bursts or a slow, aching pain? Think about the build and start trying to use specific images to control your reader's emotions.


Keep posting!