Beautiful

Poetry
--
MauraGreen
I Miss YouShe ran up to me and told me
And my lips curled up in a smile
Wanting to laugh off the suggestion
For it couldn’t be but a joke.
When I came to realise she was only smiling
Because she was trying to be strong
I started breaking down
Pleading her to tell me she was lying
Because how could this horrid truth be?
How could you be gone?
I wanted to run from all their hugs
And condolences and questions if I was fine
How could I be fine when my very soul
Was being torn apart and my heart was bleeding?
I never knew the torment of being forced to
Quietly sit in my place all day long
While I was falling apart on the inside
I never knew the pain of restraining the tears
While all I wanted to do was scream.
When I was finally able to cry my heart out
I admit I was evil enough to wish others
Were in your place because it was so unfair
Because I never met someone as full of life as you
Because you deserved to live it to the fullest
Because it was just so wrong.
I wish you knew how angry I was
I never knew the torment of being forced to
Quietly sit in my place all day long
While I was falling apart on the inside
--
AztecTemplar
For The Poet[Personally I think it's my best poem ever. Enjoy!]
For a poet,
The beauty of the rainbow lies not in its colors,
For a poet,
Its beauty lies in the invisible dance between the breeze and light,
Which forms its shape and gives birth to its hues in misty sights.
For a poet,
The city is a jungle of wild, tall structures,
Beasts among smaller suburb rodents,
City windows: the butterflies upon a building's bark,
At night, dancing fireflies light the prairie roads.
A poet sees not the sun and moon,
But the sky's irises;
One golden, the other a silvery hue.
The ocean, for the poet, is not merely water,
But a mirror map for the sky,
Upon which it tracks its flying birds and cotton clouds.
For a poet,
The pen is not a writing utensil, nor is paper just a sheet,
He respects his companions,
Pen, Pencil and ink, inanimate to them, full of life to him,
For they create weaving art upon a fragile parchment map;
Treasures, the meaning of its contents,
Golden, the passion of its thoughts.
For a poet,
...the beauty of a person,
Is not what one sees with the eyes,
But what one has not yet seen without them,
For a blind can see better than an eagle,
And see deeper than the oceans' basins...
--
SomethingOnceSacred
Three Thousand and OneI'm selfish, you know;
Even if you asked me, I wouldn't
Give any of those happy little lies back, and even
If you told me not to
I'd keep all the bits you left behind
In a shoebox under the bed. Because
To remember something from far,
Far away or the bottom of my skull
Is better than remembering nothing at all.
You're freckled with lovely things-
A splattering of a night's stars and one
Million comets- and I'm
Caught in a sea of forget-me-nots between
Two of your ribs. You're too vast
For a ragdoll like me; I had once
Been a candle that knew naught of burning or
Those fires you spoke about so often. And
Now I hate
Myself for not saving any of my wick
For the comet man.
I'll promise I'm not used up, as
If it would make it true again. And you'd
Tell me I'm not wounded anymore
Because your optimism's an illusion
And you don't want me
To out-grow you and all those
Pretty things we said about the horrible sky
And the spaces between our fingers.
But you won't recognize me one day
And I can f
You're freckled with lovely things-
A splattering of a night's stars and one
Million comets- and I'm
Caught in a sea of forget-me-nots between
Two of your ribs.
Phantasmal ExistenceHe bides his time between
Teaching little girls to smile and
Showing the sleepless
What nightmares are.
 
When he was a boy,
He was under the impression
That he had wings;
 
His naivete led him to believe
He could fly.
 
Spending the eternities before sunsets
Gathering imaginary feathers
And weightless syllables
Seems to mend the ageless wounds.
 
He is like a crescendo, the
Very crest of a wave as
The ocean swallows it up.
 
Writing pretty messages
On the inside of his mouth-
I try to tell him that he can't sing
With his tongue in his cheek.
 
There is a music box in his pocket,
To remind him of all the
Nonsense daydreams and
Meaningless lullabies he had once endured,
Over
And over again.
 
My arms and legs are scraped raw
From diving to catch his words
That just needed a push in the
Proper direction
In order to float.
 
I don't mind the aches;
A little blood
Never hurt anyone.
 
He has a way of
Leaving pieces behind,
Mindlessly lodging the
There is a music box in his pocket,
To remind him of all the
Nonsense daydreams...
--
Anna-Viktoria
AliveThey pointed and laughed at her,
Because she smiled between each second,
Because she laughed between each page,
Because she danced between each step.
They laughed, and they stared,
Because they didn’t understand
The jokes she heard in the birds’ songs,
She happiness she found in every note.
They didn’t hear the lullaby
That the wind sang with each breeze,
Or the stories the trees told
With every rustling leave.
The relief at having survived
Yet another night, another day.
The joy at being outside
Of the hospital’s gloomy walls.
They didn’t know the fear
And the sorrow she had suffered,
When her parents had prayed for her,
Prayed for what seemed impossible.
How could they understand?
The spoilt eye turns blind towards
The beauty of the daylight,
And the stillness of each night.
And yet she wondered how they could miss
The warmth within each heartbeat,
The joy between each breath,
The bliss of being alive.
They didn't hear the lullaby
That the wind sang with each breeze,
Or the stories the trees told
With every rustling leave.
--
InkStainedPens
Locked away.Something here is beautifully imbalanced and unpredictable,
working it's way into the core of my being,
sinking its ivory teeth
into the flesh of my evanescent soul.
My bruised limbs ache with desire
and my silken bones bend with the winds.
A voice that cracks and breaks in the breeze
weaves itself into otherwise habitual sounds
of the waking morning.
The essence of the sound reverberates off of the marble
and cries against the walls.
I am intoxicated by the voice,
unaware that the sound I am so searching for
is slipping between my own cracked lips.
The silver and stone are worn smooth from years
of wear.
Phantom fingertips claw at the cage in which I am held.
Their fearful screams echo with my own suffered voice.
Trapped now like so many others,
I sit now, waist deep in submission to circumstance.
What is left now in this hopeless place?
Nothing but the beauty in darkness.
The harmony in dissonance.
What is left now, but sorrow?
A voice that cracks and breaks in the breeze
weaves itself into otherwise habitual sounds
of the waking morning.
--
Prose
--
PhoenixMist
Suicide Note    I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. Tears ran down my face as I quickly scrawled a message to my friends. I had six. They were the only things that had kept me going for so long. After I was finished writing, I put the piece of paper into an envelope and wrote their names on the front. Underneath their names, I wrote not to open the box until the letter had been read. Then I put the small velvet box next to the envelope and put them on the corner of my desk. They were the only things there, they would get noticed instantly.
    I snuck into my parents bedroom. Neither of them were home, so no one would notice. But I was careful anyway, taking the gun out of my Dad's sock drawer. I went back to my room, made sure it was loaded, and sat down on my bed. A million things ran through my mind, and more tears came to my eyes.
    Sam and I bickering over stupid things. Percy, Sadie, and I playing in the kids park, even though w
Chelsea opened the envelope. Then she handed it and the small box to me. I reached out to take it, realizing my hand was shaking I was crying so hard.
--
Peghan
The Soul Catcher And The GreyI saw your eyes on the horizon tonight, staring at me in a perfect grey picture. They were beautiful. I saw your soul dance and breathe in the green sea today. In that moment I was reminded of your purple converses and wilful smile. In that moment I knew that nature was mourning you too.
         Behind me a man with a camera took a picture, I don't know why, maybe he saw you standing, gazing, over my shoulder. You see, my friend, if I had a camera and I saw your twisted curls and sculpted face... well, I'd take a picture too.
         Your soul was everything. It was too whole and too pure for the sin of love to touch. It was as well rounded as a nacreous tear cried at dawn and as fresh as a babe's wailing face at first breath.
          On my skin I felt your kisses as the rain fell on and around me. As I sit here writing this the wind tousles my
The man with the camera asks me whether I'm a writer. I told him I wasn't. I told him that I was a Moment Catcher. I catch perfect moments and pin them down with words.
--
ninjababy
I Call Him CompulsionThree. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six…
Seven. Done.
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factor—it's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon sneaks into my mind again. This time I see fire. It sparks from the dryer, blisters the walls, and rushes tsunami-like towards my son's room. It licks at my daughter's curtains.
I see them lying in their beds, unaware of the destruction. I see walls of flame keeping me from them.
"I have to go to the bathroom," I say. Sam pauses the show. The beast in
The demon points at him, and I follow his bat-like finger: My son lies with his hand against the wall. I know there's an outlet there.

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Hope you enjoy these. I chose my favorite poems of recent and prose and other poetry I remember from years past that left an impression. It was fun to look at stuff I liked and realized how my taste has changed 8D