But still, with all the shit going through your head, I bet it's a good poem. Cause going through all that and still being able o piece something together, that's amazeballs.
With me, it's funny...I thought I wouldn't survive, but I did survive, I was able to walk to the next day over and over, but each day is harder
Aye. I lied. There's two I need feedback on. Here's the first. ---- the box part I (a list of things i would not normally talk about) under my bed there is a box. in the box there are things that i would not normally talk about. 1 in the box is a rock, smooth on one side, craggy on the other. The smooth side is easy to touch. cool and unblemished. no one wants to touch the other. to have soft skin catch on the roughness. it’s like the sides of me. no one wants to see that not slick, not polite, not “me” side. I don’t talk about who i might be behind closed doors. 2 in the box, under the rock, there is a note. words are smudged fading to indentations from when your pen ran out of ink. failing to write out “i love you” in chicken scratch. reminding me how tired you sounded the last time you hung up with no “i love you.” i don’t talk about you in the silence of a cold night. 3 in the box under the rock on the note, are words smudged with tears blue words dripping into each other. tears i didn’t know i shed till the words blurred, the last time i cried, i cried for you i don’t talk about choking on tears to the faces of concern. 4 under my bed there is a box. on the box there is a lid US it says in the middle of a tattered, worn white. I don’t talk about the US that became nothing. 5 lying in bed, the box seems to have a pulse. beating like your heart on nights you had snuck over. my room smells of summer. of sweat. of the woods you walked though, the scent clinging to you like i do the thoughts of you. i don’t talk about those nights alone in my room. under my bed, is our box. it’s tattered and worn. tonight, i will take it to the tree. there i will leave it. you won’t find it because the dead don’t move.
I had to write one that rhymes and want to submit it to the journal at the end of May. I don't normally try to rhyme so yea. Finder's keepers, You found my heart on the ground, Dusted it off and put it in your pocket Promised you would make it pound. Loser's weepers, But you're not the one crying Even though you lost me to the world And all I'm doing is trying. Finder's keep And manage not to weep When they lose what they found Once low the ground. Because try as they might, Sometimes that thing isn't worth the fight. So they'll let it stay where they lost it Deep down in the bottom of their pocket. Finders never loose what they find They just hold on till there's nothing left.