Mandy S...

This sounds so cliché
I can’t stand all the rhymes,
But why write something thoughtful?
So you can take more of my time? …
...

Eleven days and counting,
I’ve forgotten the sound of your voice,
all my feeling have gone stale.
...

Baby I'd do anything for you to see,
just how much you mean to me.
So, you can take my heart if you like the beat,
and you can have my lungs if its hard to breathe
...

I wrote this about someone close to me many years ago. It's very sing-songy, but gets my point across.


Destroyed and alone, desperate for narration,
...

The wire hanger of life is twisted and turned
into an indefinite shape,
while the corset of my unusual thoughts
restrain my most desired wants.
...

Back, back again to that room,
I've been many times before.
The sensation has substantially changed.
Scoping this colorless pasty space
...

As I listen in on the deep inhalations of tired bodies
the victorious sound of sharp footwork rebounds through my ears.
A bite-sized taste of passion and skill
fused into one simple element of inspiration.
...

The scent of musky cologne and alcohol
making me cringe.
The bass screams through the woofers
as nauseating vocals pulse in and out of my system.
...

I am watching life through a kaleidoscope
with swirling colors and foreign displays.
The still life reveals dripping ink down sincere faces.
Beneath a superficial lens
...

This isn't meant to move anyone. There is an underlying joke behind this whole poem.


Feeling like a corkboard,
...

((This was part of a class I took. It doesn't make much sense because it's not supposed to) .

A message written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror
pieced back my memory like popping dents out of a tin can.
...

((A day I wish to forget))

A warm carpet to soothe me,
I am numb to all senses.
...

Sitting, wishing, dreaming
life was just a game.
I played the day,
slept through the night,
...

Riffling through list of expectations
papers, letters, and my future are tossed in mid-air.
A single note lies upon the ground
as a beam of setting sunlight creeps slowly across my wooden floor.
...

((A metaphor, more than a poem)) ..

A story of wrong
beginning with the unforgiving fog of full night.
...

Retched enough to dirty the souls of one-thousand lives
a discovery so bold, so un-called for.
He lays on the floor
unconscious without a care.
...