art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Floors
From here I can only see 9 floors. Cristiana lives in the fifth. My chest feels heavy. It always feels like I have an anchor inside it, pulling it down and making it beg for air. Well, not always, just in those times. I walk, I talk, I am and from time to time I need
By Tânia Miranda de Carvalho8 years ago in Poets
The Tale of Time
There once was a place where all things stood still. Everyone knew the end.. Oh, how the sun still rises and falls, the Earth still spins, and your heart beats, beats, beats, beats. You held the hearth in your hand and you said to the sky, “when will the stillness subside?”
By Autumn Star8 years ago in Poets
I'd Drink Cold Coffee for You
The following is a list of the things I hate the most: I've spent every day for the last nine months drinking terrible, cold coffee in your mother's diner at the off chance that you might be my waitress. Only some days you are, yet I still feel the need to continue to sit and drink my cold coffee because if I'm there even when you're not, it arises less of a suspicion that I'm in love with you. On the off chance that I do order food, which is almost never, I order toast and it's almost as burnt as the coffee. I've asked you out about 40 times and you keep saying no, but I just keep coming back. That I'm always sat at the far right booth which the seat is slightly broken in. The table sits semi-unhinged from the floor so that if I hit it a little too hard it lifts from the floor on one side. The floors and tables are almost inevitably sticky. The dim light causes a glare over my phone that makes it difficult to pretend to be far more interested in it than you. That I have to pretend to be more interested in anything than you. This diner always smells like if you were to leave cookies out for a few days and allowed them to collect just the slightest amount of mold. The air conditioner lays right next to the seat of my booth which leaves one half my body far colder than the other. That I would spend every day for the next 20 years sitting in my booth with the broken seat, half of my body a frozen tundra, eating burnt toast with my feet stuck properly to these sticky floors. I'd sit here every day and roll my eyes as the table tips on one end as I try to focus in on my cell phone instead of allowing you to catch me staring again. I'll override my senses with the smell of mold laden cookies, and sit in my seat all day still as some girl who is not you serves me. I'd drink cold coffee for you.
By brandee youngclaus8 years ago in Poets
