i am a magenta february. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
i am a magenta february.
Winter
is still clinging
to my skin,
with Autumn
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
how to
fall,
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
wrapped around
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
reckless disaster
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
at all.
But knuckles,
they never lie-
pressed flowers,
lipstick stained
against my
uprooted spine.
Covered in frost
& silence
I am a magenta
February-
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
between me
& bed sheets.
Does that make me Different? by MikkiMarie, literature
Literature
Does that make me Different?
I wear make up. Does that make me fake?
I cry. Does that make me emo?
I have male friends. Does that make me slutty?
I smile a lot. Does that make me weird?
I laugh loud. Does that make me preppy?
I have anxiety. Does that make me a freak?
I have Bipolar Disorder. Does that make me abnormal?
I respect people. I change for me, and only me. I have a past, but I know I have a future.
Does that make me different?
Maybe.
But at least it makes me
Me.
I want a girl
who thinks
with her eyes closed
(in black and white)
and does not drink chamomile tea.
She does not watch movies
by Nicholas Sparks
and thinks God
really is Morgan Freeman
or someone she has not met
yet.
She reads Goethe, Sartre
and Salinger
and knows Orlando
is more than just
a city.
She wears plain white tees
and jeans so faded
her skin has lost its
color
and her shoes
chew the pavement
with real distinction.
Cold and smooth is the surface of glass, but it doesn't have a color,
and it hides the naked truth unlike any other
You look so innocent in the truth, but it really, truly lies,
'cause the person that it sees right now hardly can comply
The glowing glass holds the image of you, but all it sees is perfection
you like to tease it is the truth, though it is only your reflection
Blinded by beauty is the mirror to only notice features
it compares you to the rest, lower than a creature
It can't see your pain inside, or understand your feelings
and you know as you move on, it's yourself you're slowly killing
You let out a cry of pain as yo