Stop, look in the mirror. Take a good long look, Do you see her? In the good old days she was clearer. Where there were no more worries, Damn I miss her. When there were no more photos for the gram Or a boy to hold your hand, Somehow I don't understand how I got here. When I had no more second thoughts And my beauty wasn't bought, When I didn't feel so flawed like I do now. But I'm turning it around, My feet are on the ground. My roots are weak but my will is strong. I'm finding my beauty from the inside out.
Next to my shadow I see yours, for a second. We were here, this beach, just one year ago. Feels like yesterday.
You are still here.
I can hear your laugh as gulls screech above. You always hated the way your laugh sounded.
I can hear your voice, calling for me, in the cold spray throwing itself onto the sand.
I can hear you whisper carried in the wind that whipped our hair into tangles and left salty spray on our dry lips.
I can feel you next to me, huddled, snug in each other's arms, like we were when the sun was just about to go down, just barely heating our bare, freckled shoulders and covering the earth with a soft orange-pink glow.
And as the waves draw back, pulling soft sand out from under my bare feet, battered from hours of play we'd have here when we refused to wear shoes, I can feel you slip away.
I had just sat down in my seat for literature when I saw her. 70 walked through the door, her long curly hair bouncing slightly as she walked. Everyone called her 70, for 70 degrees because the perfect, pretty weather matches her. My pulse quickened a bit as she traveled through the rows of desks. Many eyes stayed attached to her as she passed by. Her sunny smile gleamed. I was shocked when she plopped her things down on the desk next to me. She smiled and said, “Hi!” in a cheerful tone. “Er, h-hello,” I mumbled back. “What’s your name?” she asked kindly. “I know you’re in seventh grade, but I don’t know your name.” “James,” I answered. “James.” She seemed to be tasting my name on her tongue like a new food. She smiled again. “I’m Fahrenheit,” she told me joyfully. “Please, though, call me Francesca. On second thought, France! It’s the place I want to travel to most.” Her beautiful, unusual dark brown eyes had blue and gray flecks in them, like the sky.
It's easy to know when you're alone. It's easy to know when you're truly alone, not alone as in nobody's watching. But alone as in truly alone. As in nobody there to care, as in nobody there to remind you you're human. Nobody to lend you an ear, nobody to love you and nobody to hear. It's easy to know when you're alone. You can feel it deep inside every bone. You can feel the chasm inside, yet it's still so easy to hide away. But no, don't turn around. No, don't trade your smile for a frown because someone is waiting for you. Someone who'll always be true. Someone is waiting and someone is hoping to meet you. So please still be you.
Your words make the sun shine brighter And make the stars fall to earth in petals. Your words mean nothing to you But everything to others. Please stay a little longer So you can speak your mind For as many hours as need be And I will always be here Listening to the honey of your words.
You've come to read my story. Well. You know what? I'M TIRED OF IT! I'm tired of being read and read and read! Maybe I want a break for once! You expect me to just deal with people putting their dirty hands on my book without permission? That's rude! I have no idea where their hands have been! I'm tired of reliving this one story one story! I want new adventures and new endings and new outcomes! That's it! I want to be a Choose Your Own Story book! I want to live through different events each time someone reads my book! That would be so fun! I'm going on strike. If you want to be able to read my story then make my book a Choose Your Own Story book.
Driving through the woodlands with a blizzard, a blizzard I say, coming my way. On route to town, down the road I go, but instead I might just go home. I very much just may. Make way I say, make way, for I have to go home I say! For a blizzard, a blizzard may just be heading our way. I rush home, passing the speed limit. Until I start to slip and slide down the windy Vermont road until my car crashes. I get out, out! And start to run, I scream “A blizzard is coming, a blizzard is coming!” Then the snow starts to fall once more, for it is not a blizzard, nor a storm, it is a peaceful Vermont snowfall. At that very moment, I realize that winter can be a beautiful season, but at the same time: catastrophic.
She pauses, and puts a hand on her chin thoughtfully, Wishing that the fire crackling in the woodstove Would swollow up her thoughts And create a picture for her to watch Because it would be less painful If it wasn't inside her head. The colors swirl And let her eyes inside the thought But never let them out As they fall like snow And melt like snow And dissapear like snow But it is not snow It is the fallen ash of her cloud Of her thought As bright as winter As cold as summer For her hands will not rest Until all of the thoughts are thrown D O W N Onto the ground. Maybe it's snow after all.
getting better what even is that? what is better? how are you supposed to know when you're better? is it a feeling? an unconscious drift in the mind? the body? honestly, i have no freaking idea how to know when you get better but i'm still getting better every day, even the bad ones, i am getting closer to "better"
performance poetry is hard to write but easy to think of at least for me i've always liked performing, whether it's by myself or with others but doing anything by yourself is scarier than doing it with others i write when i'm feeling things and i'm almost always feeling thing except when i'm not but couldn't any piece of writing be performance poetry? i mean if it's being performed it's a performance right? i could perform this if i wanted to but that would be lame, i think yeah that would be so lame
When your footsteps fall heavy Like shadows, Echoing behind you Attached to your feet. You can’t breathe, You can’t speak despite Oh, despite how your tongue And teeth and mouth urge you to. When your breathe comes fast and rapid Closing the space it exits behind it, And the chill of words settle over your bones. Your hair standing on edge with unpleasantries, Head screaming and banging. Thoughts sinking towards your soul, Questions float to the top of your brain Like oil on water. When your eyes hurt, Your fists are sore, Your skin cramps, Your imagination begins to become vivid With a fantasy that will never ensue. A dream of anger, lust, sadness, Dread. Emotions. You believe, No person should have to comfront That is when you know, your heart has been broken.
You are wrong when you say "feminists cannot make change."
You are wrong when you say I cannot be part of that change, and contribute to something that the world has never seen before.
You are wrong when you say that I do things like a girl, with that teasing tone, when I am a girl, and you struggled to keep up, you struggled to go the distance.
You are wrong when you say I'm not strong enough I'm not brave enough I'm not "man" enough, when I know that I am brave and strong. You want me to prove it?
You are wrong when you say I did absolutely nothing when my group just created something incredible, changed something once considered unchangable, conquered something that nobody has ever conquered before. What have you done?
I know I am right when I say I don't have to prove anything. I don't owe you anything.
I am no one I sit alone in my room Writing words that no one has read Yet I dream The stars call me Tell me what I could have But they're not going to give it to me I learn Hours Sweat and exaustion and yes, tears But someone told me it would all be worth it Someone handed me the world and said THIS IS YOUR DREAM No one is going to give it to you Dream it Earn it Live it I am empowered I hold the power to create my own future No one can take that power away
a smoky haze it's coming from his lips drinks are orders "this one's on me" a spotlight on the stage sequins on the floor it's dark but darker outside kinky hair yellow and purple satin mouths too close to microphones psychedelic light smoke in the air stars in their eyes Lucy clings to her diamonds adrift in the sky the stage is slick with sweat it's too loud
fabric flys twirls in humid air drinks are in hand sticky table laughing whispers holding hands, pulling away from the crowd to be alone a soloist takes his turn on the keys the dancing never stops after it's over, cheers a slower song love, in pairs, floats on the floor
When I was eight years old, my mind began to find loopholes to obsess over in everyday life. Some things would randomly freak me out, and some things would bore me to death. One night, as I was lying in bed, I was obsessing over the image of a pool ball rolling on the green carpet in my mind. I fell asleep eventually, and when I did, the image of the ball rolling was still in my mind, but it was rolling closer and getting larger and larger, but it never seemed to reach me, and sometimes it would get small again and start its journey closer towards me all over again. The green carpet turned into grass that was getting torn up by the ball. When the ball was at its smallest, it was so quiet that the silence was almost deafening, taking over every corner of my mind. As it got larger and larger, quick tapping sounds would grow louder until it was shattering me from the inside...