Tag Archives: poetry

Feeling in: Blue

Deep, dark, mysterious blue.

It haunts us, even as we dream,

in a cycle of routine sadness that

somehow still hurts, even after

the hundredth time.

It is the last color you see before

the sky turns black.

Blue is the ocean.

It is roughly seventy-one percent

of our world, yet it 

still terrifies us.

Blue is our eternal struggle

for happiness personified.

Blue is an eye-color mutation.

Some find it vastly superior,

but it’s still a mutation,

not meant to be.

Not meant to be. 

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Feeling in: Green

Green is the color of life.

It is the leaves in the early

summer,

singing lazy lullabies as the

breeze gently kisses them.

 

Green is gentle, the grass, once

covered by the oppressive snow,

yet it rises up still.

It is soft between your toes as

the sun tickles your skin.

Green is what it feels like to 

be alive.

 However.

Green is murky.

It hides the corruption of

greed that sticks to the bottom

of our shoes and never seems to come

off.

Green is indifferent. It

is the witness paid off,

a secret kept with bribes.

It doesn’t care who is hurt, it

just wants its payoff.

Green is natural, and slimy,

like a pond filled with algae.

We don’t want part of green,

but with one comes the other.

It’s a package deal,

no returns.

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Please Pardon This Interruption

Yes, I know, I am supposed to be doing a color series right now, but I have never been one to be consistent, and when inspiration comes, you don’t pass it up. So I bring to you today, “Eyelashes.” Please do enjoy. :)

I had stopped to think of

the injustice that is the

obscene length of your eyelashes

before, but I

never really regarded them

as I should have.

So when you obstructed my view

of the food on tv as my stomach

growled like something feral,

and all I could see were your eyelashes,

so beautifully outlined in the warm

living room light,

I counted each one,

a delicate wish.

Minutes pass and you are

completely oblivious to my

blatant staring,

completely oblivious to your

own complex beauty.

When you turn to look at me,

you ask if everything is okay.

Honestly, I say yes.

I just can’t believe how

easy it is to be oblivious.

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Feeling in: Yellow

Yellow is bright.

It is the sun caressing your skin

after a long winter.

It is warm,

an inviting hug after a long

day.

Yellow is happy.

It symbolizes peaceful times,

where love is unconditional.

It is never harsh lines, but fuzzy streaks,

lacking definition.

Yellow is soft.

It is light.

Yellow doesn’t weigh

you down, but lifts you up.

Yellow whispers soft morning

melodies in your ear.

Yellow is syrup-sweet,

sticky.

Yellow is messy.

It is easily faked, and 

taken for granted in it’s 

genuine state. 

But it is not vengeful. 

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Feeling in: Red

Red is the feeling you get when you 

want to make a change.

You can no longer stand to be

idle.

There is a fire under you,

but you love the pressure to do

something good.

Red is when you do something

without thinking, it is spontaneity,

and there is no consequence you

could possibly regret. Because this

is what feels right,

deep in your soul.

It is never wrong.

Red it hot rage.

Your whole body is on fire.

You only hear blood rushing in

your ears, whispering for you to

do something rash.

But oh,  how it feels so sweet.

But yet, it has such a bitter after-taste.

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Feeling in Colors

Hi friends! So, I am going to shake it up a little bit. Normally, I just write and post whatever I am feeling at that time, but I want to do something a bit different. Instead, I am going to do a segment, or series of sorts, based around colors. It sounds boring, but I am hoping you’ll all love it! So here is the first one, which is more of an intro.

Enjoy!

~Josephine

I am mourning for humanity,

and how we have allowed ourselves

to forget what it is to feel in

colors.

We are taught to suppress our

envy, because it is wrong, and

rude, but why is it wrong to want something,

and to work to get it?

We hide our sadness, because

they say it is weakness, and we mustn’t

allow ourselves to be tender.

“Other people have it much worse,”

although true, does not cure a broken

heart.

We restrain ourselves from

spontaneity, because we are afraid

we will do it wrong.

But we forget there is no right or

wrong in passion.

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Wicked Witch

I didn’t ask to be
a cliche.
A teenage poet,
struck with {enter mental disorder of
your choice},
when an unlikely boy comes to
pull her up and
teach her how to be
human again.

I never wished to be the
damsel in distress
in this twisted fairy tale,
where women are helpless
and men fight their battles for
them and are the ones to give
them purpose.

I want to rewrite my story.
I want to use my faults
as weapons.
I want to be the dragon,
or the evil stepmother of
this story,
knowing exactly what I
want and spilling blood and
casting spells to get it.

One day a man will
love me for my bloody
hands and
my stubborn love and
the fierceness in my heart.
I will not be told who to be.
I will not allow myself to be
tamed.
I will be the wicked witch of
this story.
Try and stop me.

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“Life is poetry.”

“Life is poetry,” she said,

“Our senses are the imagery,
painting to world for us,
yet each person sees it
differently.
That is beauty.
That one thing can be a thousand
just because we make
so.

Our emotions make up
metaphors.
We compare our love, pain,
desperation, and joy to the tragically
beautiful things we surround ourselves
with, because they make us feel less,
feel put together, less
broken.

Our bodies make up the
rhythms.
Our hearts pound, our blood
races, our bodies sway.
Our bodies,
they are the rhythms, always
in motion, never resting because
resting is to surrender and these words
must
be
heard.

Life is poetry.”

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Sacred Nights

That day my instructor told me

to make art with my mouth.

He said to think of something sacred,

such as a candlelit service.

But I was not thinking of

religion.

I thought of the chaos surrounding me,

an endless storm, full of debris and

collateral damage.

I was thinking of those nights I

sobbed silently, gasping for breath and

tearing at my hair in the dark.

I was my own downfall,

a nightmare,

and I was my own savior.

I taught myself to breathe again

and forced myself to

acknowledge the pain, because

it was the realest, most piercing

thing I’d ever felt.

I found peace in knowing I could

fight back, even though all I wanted

to do was run, or sleep, anything but

feel.

I finally fell asleep on those sacred

nights.

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Safe

You promised me you

would hold me at my

worst,

swore you would cradle 

me until I learned how 

to breathe again.

And you did.

I never wanted you to see me

like that,

but we both knew it was

inevitable, and the time had

come.

As I struggled to control

my breathing and swallow down

my panic he held me close.

He told me I was safe,

it was okay to be scared.

I believed him.

I believed you.

He held me until it

was time to leave.

You held me so tight.

I was safe.

I am safe.

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