selfies i’ll never post

FoxandTortoise

• 84 reads

Hugs

I often run from hugs not because I detest them but because I’m scared that I won’t be able to let go.

18

8

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Mazzmyrrheyes

• 129 reads

The Grapevine

~

merlot melts

the truth, our bane,

poured from lips

of scarlet stain.

crushing hearts,

vines flow like

veins;

s

p

i

l

i

n

g

secrets, aged in pain.

14

7

13

Okami_Seele

• 52 reads

A Secret

I love to lie.

All the time,

every day

and every night.

I tell myself

"I'm alright"

but allow me

to tell you a secret;

"I'm not okay."

14

6

4

Rlj

• 61 reads

When I Am Alone

My tears rarely flow,

when they do, I note

their warmth on my face,

their salt to my taste,

'how they heal my fate.

14

6

4

Wordlove

• 63 reads

In the kitchen

You know.. I looked at the knife twice. And then I looked back.

Is there anyone in the hallway?

Nah.. Everyone's sleeping..

There isn't much time left... I pick up the shiny steel.

And I press it down...

A smile lingers on my face,

.

I ate the chocolate cake, which wasn't meant for me!

Don't say it to my mom though..

8

2

9

Sherzod

• 58 reads

It’s not a poem that teaches us how to live!!!!

Little secret:

Do you want success?

Want to change the world?

Do you want to see the real miracle?

Do you want to withstand various trials?

Do you want to gain respect, praise and win?

Have you ever considered changing your life for the better?

It may sound strange to me, but the truth is hidden in my this words

Alright then, I'll tell you a wonderful way that's proven worldwide, that is, secret

*************************************************************************************

L I V E L I K E A H U M A N

6

4

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OLynn

• 28 reads

He’s dead to me.

I look at the picture frame. We're smiling. I'm asleep in the baby stroller, my mother's hand stablilizing my tilting head. My sister crouches next me, my borther brother bearing a toothy grin. My father kneels, in the background.

I havn't seen my father in years. His round, squared face, the evenly parted thick shining black hair seem foreign to me. He smiles in the photo, wearing a white short sleeved polo, his skin smooth and pale.

I remember, when I was younger he would come home, smiling, leaving work behind the doorstep. He would lift me, high above his head, and swing me from his arms. I would be a mountain climber, walking sideways along the cabinets, as he held me in place.

I would look out the window in the summer, and watch my father mow the lawn, a mask over his nose to avoid grass blades. In the winter, he would shovel the snow, and watch as I made snow angels and skated on ice puddles.

"You're father's home, honey."

This man is not my father. His face is sallow, his cheeks sunken in. His hair, an ashy gray, a thin layer atop his head. An unsmiling figure, his lip turned down, as though deep in thought. His skin, rough and chapped, like a desert in need of an oasis.

I don't play mountain climber anymore, or make snow angels. I mow the grass now, and shovel the snow.

It's terrifying, what stage three cancer can do to a person.

5

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