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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by reshmameister in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I spend a lot of time examining the things that hang on my walls. The pieces of art, the old play programs, and movie posters keep me company most days. 

I go to college with thousands of other students but leave without a friend beyond the classroom. I enjoy my classmates. We get along great and I value our conversations, but I can never bring myself to push beyond that peer-to-peer relationship. Instead, I retreat to my bedroom to be away from the buzz . My Fight Club poster doesn't ask any personal questions and my coat rack never fakes a smile. 

 Though, the safety of my room can be suffocating at times. My flannel sheets are a little too warm, and the creaking of my wooden floor boards cannot replace conversation. 

There are days when I want to deface these surroundings. Tear them apart. The peace and solitude become crippling. The buzz of my heater is excruciating and I am left alone by my own accord.  

Although I enjoy being alone, there are days when it is not what I need. What I need is an awkward bathroom conversation or for someone to ask me an inappropriate question about my personal life. I need a nosy stranger to question what my ethnicity is so I can remember my family and why I look the way I do. I need someone to bump into me on the staircase at school and then apologetically touch my shoulder before rushing to class. I need a transaction at 7-Eleven. I need the cashier to tell me how fucked up gas prices are and how the Packers are doing. I need those people. Without them, my life is reduced to objects and small talk with my calendar.

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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by reshmameister in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I spend a lot of time examining the things that hang on my walls. The pieces of art, the old play programs, and movie posters keep me company most days. 

I go to college with thousands of other students but leave without a friend beyond the classroom. I enjoy my classmates. We get along great and I value our conversations, but I can never bring myself to push beyond that peer-to-peer relationship. Instead, I retreat to my bedroom to be away from the buzz . My Fight Club poster doesn't ask any personal questions and my coat rack never fakes a smile. 

 Though, the safety of my room can be suffocating at times. My flannel sheets are a little too warm, and the creaking of my wooden floor boards cannot replace conversation. 
There are days when I want to deface these surroundings. Tear them apart. The peace and solitude become crippling. The buzz of my heater is excruciating and I am left alone by my own accord.  

Although I enjoy being alone, there are days when it is not what I need. What I need is an awkward bathroom conversation or for someone to ask me an inappropriate question about my personal life. I need a nosy stranger to question what my ethnicity is so I can remember my family and why I look the way I do. I need someone to bump into me on the staircase at school and then apologetically touch my shoulder before rushing to class. I need a transaction at 7-Eleven. I need the cashier to tell me how fucked up gas prices are and how the Packers are doing. I need those people. Without them, my life is reduced to objects and small talk with my calendar.

2
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Juice
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Define what these words mean to you: "to be fucked" Prose only. 300 coins to the most candid write.
Written by reshmameister

"To be fucked" takes me to the bedroom rather than on the side of the freeway with a flat tire. I am not frustrated or being shorted, I'm being loved so hard. "To be fucked" involves me on bottom and him on top. I don't care if my curiosity takes my gaze down south, causing my second chin to morph into existence. It's mesmerizing. My head rolls back and my mind is not worried about decision- making or trying to come up with a meaning for my life. "To be fucked" is to be present. "To be fucked" is to let someone else take the lead. "To be fucked" is to let go. 

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Define what these words mean to you: "to be fucked" Prose only. 300 coins to the most candid write.
Written by reshmameister
"To be fucked" takes me to the bedroom rather than on the side of the freeway with a flat tire. I am not frustrated or being shorted, I'm being loved so hard. "To be fucked" involves me on bottom and him on top. I don't care if my curiosity takes my gaze down south, causing my second chin to morph into existence. It's mesmerizing. My head rolls back and my mind is not worried about decision- making or trying to come up with a meaning for my life. "To be fucked" is to be present. "To be fucked" is to let someone else take the lead. "To be fucked" is to let go. 
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Written by reshmameister

I want to pitch a hammock in between your two front teeth;

becoming an accessory to your smile.

I want to lay there and listen to you mumble lyrics to songs I've never heard;

Taste the Parliaments that funnel smoke into your paper lantern lungs.

I want to pluck the splinters from your grimy hands only to envy their closeness to you,

Kayak through the valleys of your tender palms,

Drink wine from your wrinkled wrists,

Run marathons along the ridge of your spine, and

Climb to the top of your widow's peak; pausing only to admire the view.

And as I tire. . .

I want to fall beneath the sheets of your bed and become friends with the dust bunnies;

Tell them about the beauty they could witness if only they made their way to the surface.

And in the small of your back I will lay my head and dream of your crooked smile.

I'll hold you close and breath in your silence,

Fog your glasses with my Bacardi breath, shielding you from the shit of this world.

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Juice
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Written by reshmameister
I want to pitch a hammock in between your two front teeth;
becoming an accessory to your smile.
I want to lay there and listen to you mumble lyrics to songs I've never heard;
Taste the Parliaments that funnel smoke into your paper lantern lungs.

I want to pluck the splinters from your grimy hands only to envy their closeness to you,
Kayak through the valleys of your tender palms,
Drink wine from your wrinkled wrists,
Run marathons along the ridge of your spine, and
Climb to the top of your widow's peak; pausing only to admire the view.

And as I tire. . .

I want to fall beneath the sheets of your bed and become friends with the dust bunnies;
Tell them about the beauty they could witness if only they made their way to the surface.
And in the small of your back I will lay my head and dream of your crooked smile.
I'll hold you close and breath in your silence,
Fog your glasses with my Bacardi breath, shielding you from the shit of this world.

0
0
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Juice
12 reads
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