polt's (not so) poetic poetry

poetry.

I- I've never written a triolet before so it's kinda poor buut, poetry!

It's alright, just lay your head down.
The world is a harsh place, I know.
My voice will let your worries drown.
It's alright, just lay your head down.
Without you, how will I be found?
I took you high, you took me low.
It's alright, just lay your head down.
The world is a harsh place, I know.

not formatted but i still liked it

they say good girls die young
so why am i still breathing
for i am young, and my hands are
still unstained
from the cruel nature of humanity
and i would like to think that i am good
but i guess i'm not
for air still makes its way through my lungs
without my consent
and my heart continues to beat
without asking if that's what i want

Pol, actually writing something that rhymes, oh no, what has the world come to.

it's the apocalypse now
our world's falling apart
you're saying it's time to drown
but baby, it's a brand new start

we'll be dancing from dusk til dawn
with your head on my shoulder
the day will go on and on and on
but dear, we're not getting any older

so smile at me as our sky falls
and the ground crumbles
just don't look at those white walls
keep your eyes on me, no time for stumbles

sticks and stones are miracles
that we'll build an empire out of
whatever we want, no longer theoretical
we'll be self-proclaimed gods, high above

sticks and stones are miracles
that we'll build an empire out of

i love this twist so much !!
would love to hear that last one as a song >.>

melted feathers and
broken bones, the sun holds him
as he falls to sea

food for the thread.

monterey jack and
savory goat cheese with herbs
oh, how i love cheese.

this is no place
for people with
two feet in the afterlife
and a death wish.

(what are you
still doing here?)

it is of vital importance
that you remember your organs
left buried under the oak tree
two blocks down mulberry street.

and of course
make sure not to forget your medications
lest you leave your femur
outside my house again.

your ribcage is on thirty-second and o
courtesy of your mother's fit of rage
and your father's reckless driving of
trendy sports cars in the fast lanes.

the rest of your skeleton is
buried beneath a mountain of clothes
in the bottom of my closet
but your eyes are hidden in my drawer.

why must others dictate my emotions
pushing and shoving me into situations,
shoving and pushing into relationships
i never wanted to be in the first place.

"you hang out with him,
therefore you must like him"
as if a girl cannot be friends with a boy
without there being feelings involved.

they mold us together
until we are one,
indistinguishable from another
yet miserable all the same.

"#relationshipgoals" they say
as if they did not shape us
like malleable clay
and mash us together in a fit of rage.

CW: suicide, violence

ash knows a lot.

“he knows what it’s like to be impaled upon a sword, oozing blood and guts with each gasping breath.”
the scars on his torso whispers.

“he knows what it was like to laugh through lava flooding his throat, as it scorches him from the inside out, laughing up at the man responsible for it all.”
the permanent raspiness of his voice says.

“he knows what it feels like to have an axe cleave his skull into halves, to live while it happens only to be slain by a misplaced bowshot.”
the thin white scar on his scalp proclaims, the puncture mark over his heart agreeing softly.

“he knows what grief is, holding a dying lover in his arms, watching as blood drips out of their mouth and stains his hands crimson, but doing nothing. that was his fault. it was always his fault.”
the tear stains on his cheeks murmur in the dead of night, silvery in moonlight.

“he knows the taste of a dying star, crisp ozone and crackling lightning.”
his teeth mumble, pointed and feral in glittering starlight.

“he knows the harshness of constantly gripping a sword handle,”
the calluses on his palms and fingers cry,
“knows the pain of explosions wracking through his body,”
the shakiness of his hands says.

“he’s known sorrow and guilt and anger and pleasure and betrayal,”
the memories behind his purple gaze plead for forgetfulness, for forgiveness.

redd hears none of that; he sees only biting anger in the man’s eyes, feet scuffing against the edge of the cliff.

he hears only proclamations of hate and declarations of rage; rocks tumbling down a cliffside as ashswag sways, hands spreading in a mocking gesture of nonchalance.

(he finally sees it.

but only after ash falls.)

tiredness collects in my bones
like cobwebs in the eaves of my house

shrivelled spiders lie askew
behind my ribcage in place of my heart.

silk thread makes up my veins,
tangled together like legs in white bedspreads.

my eyes are fluttering moths
trapped in spider's predatory fangs

and my hands are claws tearing myself apart
once the web runs dry.

star tears drip out of
moonshine eyes and collect in
the curves of cherry pie smiles.