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The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.

"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."

I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.

"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."

The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."

"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.

She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.

Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.

She never felt quite at home. She worried about
Passionate IndifferenceTo say that I have loved
Would imply that I feel
Something more than
Passionate Indifference.
Handle With CareSomething broke today.

Something small and precious, a glass flower, a snowflake, a heart. Something untouchable for its fragility, something broken much to easily, never to be healed again. It made no sound, no dying screams or pitiful whimpers, its passing was slow and barely noticed, noted only by outsiders with jaded eyes. It's gone now, spirited away and never to be seen again. Earlier and earlier it breaks, shatters, and falls away spreading itself across the floor and cutting the feet of everyone who walks upon it, unaware of the blood pouring from their bodies, slicking the shards and staining pure white red.

Something broke today.
Oh Dear.He is an Oscar Wilde inspired man-poet
Whose subjects are as real as glass.

He is a silly chorus boy
Spending far too much time in the music room.

He is a reader,
A dreamer
Who hums to himself while his eyes float across the page.

He is real-
But I don't even know his name.

And I am already infatuated.
The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.

I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.

Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hai
Come What MayI like grass.

Simple statement, I know. I'm not usually one for keeping things simple, but when I'm here, and you might be, I feel speaking my mind is a little less cluttered.

It's not like anyone hears me, anyway; muttering away to myself under the trees, bathed in the scent of the new daffodils and the low thrum of the bees. You could call it cliché, but a summer for someone who rarely sees sunlight is a commodity as rare as love – almost just as cherished.

A summer with a sprinkle of love, however, is gold. We can eat that peppered steak on the crumbling bench, share a vanilla float in the dusk heat or count the different type
Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.

Please don't leave me.

She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.

He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leave
Goodbyei. He looked at me over the tops of his glasses
It was the first time I had truly seen his eyes
                             And the last

ii. I looked at the coffee stain on his shirt
I didn't want him to see the tears in my eyes
But I know he saw them fall to my feet

iii. I stuffed my hands back in my pockets
I was afraid to look back as I walked out the door
He the one going,
But I felt that I was leaving him
An Incomplete UniverseHere lie her highest highs
And her lowest lows.
Sometimes a freight train rumbles by
And messes it all up.
She lies in the grass
Tracing her finger over her lip
With her brow wrinkled
In frustration.
She is holding her head in her hands
Not physically though.
She calls him a leech,
But in the end,
She knows it's her fault.
Lies of TruthDear You,

   I'm you. Your me. I'm that voice that is always with you. I'm that voice that will always be with you. You want to get rid of me but you never will. I'm with you forever. Silencing me is impossible. I'm that devil inside of you. The one that will always bring you down, bring you doubt, bring you lower. I love my work. It's horrible, but wonderful. Don't try to argue with me. You know I speak truth. I'll lie to you forever. You know it's true though.

You are ugly.
You have no one.
You will never be accepted.
You will never be happy.
The one you care about... They'd be crazy to look at you.
You aren't wort
May the lion lay down beside the lamb.Like the lamb hiding from the lion, I speak carefully not to disturb you. Tip toe around the gates of your feelings, I want you to understand the nature of my words. Like the lion to the lamb, you're so quick to lash out. Much too concerned with your own perseverance and needs to consider mine. This love took me through the clouds of depression and left me sitting among the stars, reveling in the view of the beauty you brought into my life. How is it that the thread I was hanging by so tightly could have snapped so suddenly? No sign of fibers splitting, no sign of our love receding. A lamb as frail as I couldn't dream of rebuilding a bond so
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.

It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.

Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.

You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and becam
The MonsterSome call him The Night Monster
Others, The Thief of Dreams
Or even The Sleep Demon

But "The Monster"
Is his most common title

The Monster . . .
What an evil creature

He takes away
The ability to escape reality
And enter the land of dreams

Those restless nights of torture
Are a part of his craft

He makes sure that closed eyes
Do not slip away . . .

Watching others suffer this way
Is a hobby to him

The more desperate his victims are
The more amused he becomes

Tossing and turning
Frustration and agony
Hopelessness and sorrow

It's all because of him
Every second of it

And there's no fighting it because

No one can see hi
Browse More Like This

More from ~xthe-eleanorx

JanuaryI. When my brother was expelled from school, I cried for a week. I lay in bed thinking about the poor boy he bullied so relentlessly that he couldn’t escape, even when home. I thought about the relief he must feel, now that he is gone.

II. My mother kept a calendar from his school on our refrigerator. Stoic faces of boys representing years of prestige hung above words from a God they did not think twice about.

III. When he did not think I was looking, I saw remorse dripping from behind his eyes. When he looked at me, I could not look back without seeing the faces of the kids from elementary school and remembering the crushing weight o
LiminalI woke after thirteen hours of sleep
and when I looked in the mirror,
there were still bruise-purple
crescent moons beneath my eyes.
tired no longer comes from a
lack of sleep—it has reached a state
of permanence, engraving itself
into my bones. When you ask
how I am, I will now answer:
cold and tired.

It was later that night when I
tasted the liquor cabinet
to see what all the fuss was about.
Whiskey burns as it goes down
and settles in the cavity of the heart,
encompassing it with a hug
that a lover will never reach.
I now want to know if I will
ever be able to melt.

I used to close my eyes beneath
the night sky, as everything i
Changes Due"See the way the top of the building blinks?" he asks, pausing to breathe some warmth into his stiff fingers.

"Steady blue, clear view.
Flashing blue, changes due.
Steady red, rain ahead.
Flashing red, snow instead."

We stand beneath Boston's skyline, the February sky spite hard, tiny flakes that don't even feel like snow at us. I begin to wonder if we are trapped inside a snow globe of the city, as if someone bumped the one that I bought for my grandmother when I moved here.

"Changes due, what does that mean?"

He shrugs back at me, "The guy who wrote it probably just needed something to rhyme with blue."

I pull my hands from my coat poc

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I am the Writer

:iconxthe-eleanorx:

I am a protagonist,
An antagonist,
A minor supporting character

I am the investigator,
The liberator,
The prophetic narrator

I am your hero
Your villain,
Your forgotten sidekick

The creator,
The destroyer,
I am the writer

316

26 11 7
:iconxthe-eleanorx:

I am the Writerby ~xthe-eleanorx

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Quite literally just wrote this on the bus. I am almost fond of it--I managed to take a horrible thought that I was having and make it into vague poetry.

Quaestiones:
What do you get from the poem?
Do you understand it?
How does the reversal of the last stanza work?
Thoughts/Comments?
©2012-2013 ~xthe-eleanorx
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Concrete Poetry

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January 2, 2012
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:iconopus-t:
~Opus-T Jan 12, 2012  Student Writer
I really enjoyed this exploration of the roles the writer plays and the responsibilities the writer has toward the universe he or she has created. And I love the second stanza, and the idea of the writer as "liberator," in particular. That line made me think of the Michelangelo quote, "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."
Reply
:iconxthe-eleanorx:
~xthe-eleanorx Jan 12, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you very much, I am glad that you liked it! :heart:
Reply
:iconhetha884:
Mood: Love !hetha884 Jan 11, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
wow! :D i like it... and its sooo true
Reply
:iconxthe-eleanorx:
~xthe-eleanorx Jan 12, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you! :heart:
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Jan 11, 2012
I like that!
Reply
:iconxthe-eleanorx:
~xthe-eleanorx Jan 12, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you very much! :heart:
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Jan 12, 2012
:frail:
Reply
:iconredgaara:
~redgaara Jan 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
If you've ever seen the movie 'Girl, Interrupted', this sparked the scene when Lisa (Angelina Jolie) makes the comment 'I'm playing the villain, just like you wanted me to" or something to that effect. Its a very powerful scene in my mind, and this poem, too, is very powerful and enjoyable. It's almost like the internal struggle that we all really must face when writing, as we must be both our protagonist and antagonist to create believable characters.
I love the reversal. I think its a final punch that just screams 'POW!' sorry...went all gay with that comment. Sometimes it just slips out. Whoopsies.
Again, I love it. Def faving it!
Reply
:iconxthe-eleanorx:
~xthe-eleanorx Jan 10, 2012  Student Writer
I have seen that movie (and rather enjoyed it) though I didn't base the poem off of that scene. I'm glad you liked it! Thanks for the fave! :heart:
Reply
:iconi-rainy-i:
~i-RaiNy-i Jan 7, 2012  Student General Artist
You are the writer, yes? And so you -are- the work, in a sense, since you have put much of yourself into it. The last stanza is perfectly fine. I rather enjoy this, of course.
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