Submissions by Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Poet. Dreamer. Hopeless Romantic. Music Lover. Avid Reader. Writer. Mother. Storyteller. Neurotic.
UPBEAT INSPIRATIONAL POEM
Published
11th Feb 2014 3:19am
11th Feb 2014 3:19am
More Than Love
It's been two years since the first time.
His witch hazel eyes iron and green saw deep into my soul.
But still when he looks at me.
My knees grow weak.
His love is the only thing I see.
Some say that because we're young we'll eventually fall.
But there love is not like ours.
If we fall, we fall together.
Like the many famous lovers before us.
Romeo and Juliet-- Love at first sight and died together,forever to the end.
Penelope, waiting for Odysseus to return from sea, not looking or wanting any other man.
Poe stayed by his Annabel Lee's...
His witch hazel eyes iron and green saw deep into my soul.
But still when he looks at me.
My knees grow weak.
His love is the only thing I see.
Some say that because we're young we'll eventually fall.
But there love is not like ours.
If we fall, we fall together.
Like the many famous lovers before us.
Romeo and Juliet-- Love at first sight and died together,forever to the end.
Penelope, waiting for Odysseus to return from sea, not looking or wanting any other man.
Poe stayed by his Annabel Lee's...
1247 reads
4 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
10th Feb 2014 00:40am
10th Feb 2014 00:40am
The Day My Heart Stopped Beating
Today my heart stopped beating.
Because I blinked my eyes and for a single moment.
My son was able to fall out of his crib.
He hit the floor after flipping over the bars.
There was a thud, a crash-- And everything stopped.
Then he started crying.
Screaming, and he had a bruise on his head.
Andrew was up and we picked Gaige up together.
And Andrew held him against him.
My mom came into the room next.
We all freaked out.
Andrew handed me our son.
I laid down on the bed next to him and held him against me.
Trying to...
Because I blinked my eyes and for a single moment.
My son was able to fall out of his crib.
He hit the floor after flipping over the bars.
There was a thud, a crash-- And everything stopped.
Then he started crying.
Screaming, and he had a bruise on his head.
Andrew was up and we picked Gaige up together.
And Andrew held him against him.
My mom came into the room next.
We all freaked out.
Andrew handed me our son.
I laid down on the bed next to him and held him against me.
Trying to...
754 reads
2 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
8th Feb 2014 6:21am
8th Feb 2014 6:21am
Invisible Bruise
The bruise is invisible.
But I know it's there.
I don't care.
I know I deserved it.
I pushed you to a limit.
Jekyll & Hyde came out to play.
And your fist connected with my tender skin.
I deserved it.
Even if (maybe) I didn't.
I don't care.
I know what I did.
I purposedly pushed you to a limit.
So now I have an invisible bruise to mark my mistake.
I will not cry a tear.
I will not rub my arm of it's pain.
I will not mention that it hurts.
I will let it pass.
And then I will forgive &...
But I know it's there.
I don't care.
I know I deserved it.
I pushed you to a limit.
Jekyll & Hyde came out to play.
And your fist connected with my tender skin.
I deserved it.
Even if (maybe) I didn't.
I don't care.
I know what I did.
I purposedly pushed you to a limit.
So now I have an invisible bruise to mark my mistake.
I will not cry a tear.
I will not rub my arm of it's pain.
I will not mention that it hurts.
I will let it pass.
And then I will forgive &...
738 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Feb 2014 9:10pm
3rd Feb 2014 9:10pm
What is Poetry?
Poetry should be--
like breathing, simple and easy.
Poetry should be--
like dreaming, calmly and at peace.
Poetry should be--
emotions escaped on a page.
Poetry should be--
a heart opened for the world to read.
Poetry should be--
tasting the forbidden fruit that (I’ve heard) tastes (oh-so) sweet.
From the tree of Knowledge, if it so pleases.
But poetry is not always sweetness and sugar.
There are sour and bitter parts, words, and speech.
That slip inside of the sweet concoction--
Of smiles, whispers, tears...
like breathing, simple and easy.
Poetry should be--
like dreaming, calmly and at peace.
Poetry should be--
emotions escaped on a page.
Poetry should be--
a heart opened for the world to read.
Poetry should be--
tasting the forbidden fruit that (I’ve heard) tastes (oh-so) sweet.
From the tree of Knowledge, if it so pleases.
But poetry is not always sweetness and sugar.
There are sour and bitter parts, words, and speech.
That slip inside of the sweet concoction--
Of smiles, whispers, tears...
568 reads
0 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
3rd Feb 2014 5:12pm
3rd Feb 2014 5:12pm
Chicopee
I'm from Chicopee."
"Where's that?"
"It's um-- In Massachusetts."
"Near Boston?"
"No. . ."
Why do I even bother?
I wonder this to myself.
Another person that has no idea where I'm from.
Not that's it's much anyway.
It's a town in the "Pinoneer Valley"--
If that makes any more sense to anyone who doesn't know,
That Boston is not the only city in the Bay State area.
It's in Western Mass, does that make sense?
Near Springfield, wait there's a million of those.
No it's not near Salem-- Yes...
"Where's that?"
"It's um-- In Massachusetts."
"Near Boston?"
"No. . ."
Why do I even bother?
I wonder this to myself.
Another person that has no idea where I'm from.
Not that's it's much anyway.
It's a town in the "Pinoneer Valley"--
If that makes any more sense to anyone who doesn't know,
That Boston is not the only city in the Bay State area.
It's in Western Mass, does that make sense?
Near Springfield, wait there's a million of those.
No it's not near Salem-- Yes...
937 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
31st Jan 2014 11:03pm
31st Jan 2014 11:03pm
Talking Pictures
A word is worth a thousand pictures." - Ransom Riggs
I have no word to offer for my lost photographs.
Locked in a cedar chest that was taken when my home was foreclosed two years ago.
Those pictures are lost forever.
Hopefully will be found by someone as kind hearted as the author of the Peculiar Children stories,
And the books of talking photographs.
If pictures could talk.
Mine would be crying out.
Lots of them lost from moves.
From horrible people destroying my lives.
Lost in dissarry and broken from time.
Those memories,...
I have no word to offer for my lost photographs.
Locked in a cedar chest that was taken when my home was foreclosed two years ago.
Those pictures are lost forever.
Hopefully will be found by someone as kind hearted as the author of the Peculiar Children stories,
And the books of talking photographs.
If pictures could talk.
Mine would be crying out.
Lots of them lost from moves.
From horrible people destroying my lives.
Lost in dissarry and broken from time.
Those memories,...
804 reads
6 Comments
ANGER POEM
Published
31st Jan 2014 7:09pm
31st Jan 2014 7:09pm
Fiction Is Dying
. .There are thousands of novels published in English every year. Thousands. Lately the world needs books like fastfood: stuff you read that has no affect and is forgotten about a week later. It's the scum on literature's back. Fiction is dying, or just swamped in shit. I mean, how does your contribution fair in it all?
Then tell me--
Please enlighten me--
If fiction is dying?
Than what is there to say. . .
For this website.
Our point?
What is there to say for the reasons,
that we put pen to paper and write?
If fiction is dying? ...
Then tell me--
Please enlighten me--
If fiction is dying?
Than what is there to say. . .
For this website.
Our point?
What is there to say for the reasons,
that we put pen to paper and write?
If fiction is dying? ...
681 reads
0 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
31st Jan 2014 12:07pm
31st Jan 2014 12:07pm
The Scorpion's Curse
Don't let the Scorpion prick you.
He is the guardian of this domain.
And if he pricks you
And allows the poison to run throughout your veins.
You will become one of his prisoners.
Trapped inside of this dark and horrible place.
That is the Scorpion's curse.
To strip you of your rights.
Your Life,
Your happiness,
Your power to choose.
He will take it all away.
And you, he will use.
So do not let the Scorpion stab you.
Not with his poisoned filled tip.
Do not allow him to take you, as one of his.
Do...
He is the guardian of this domain.
And if he pricks you
And allows the poison to run throughout your veins.
You will become one of his prisoners.
Trapped inside of this dark and horrible place.
That is the Scorpion's curse.
To strip you of your rights.
Your Life,
Your happiness,
Your power to choose.
He will take it all away.
And you, he will use.
So do not let the Scorpion stab you.
Not with his poisoned filled tip.
Do not allow him to take you, as one of his.
Do...
705 reads
4 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
30th Jan 2014 9:56am
30th Jan 2014 9:56am
Ghosts (Pint-Sized Poem #28)
Sometimes I wonder if the ghosts I see are real.
Of if they're a figment of my imagination.
Or possibly, if anything, maybe--
Just maybe. . .
I've finally gone insane.
Of if they're a figment of my imagination.
Or possibly, if anything, maybe--
Just maybe. . .
I've finally gone insane.
578 reads
2 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
29th Jan 2014 00:12am
29th Jan 2014 00:12am
Persephone's Throne
Death took me young.
Brought me to his cold & forgotten realm--
Deep inside the ground.
There is mostly darkness here.
No sun reaches Hell.
My already pale complexion has become ghastly white.
Like the moon's face in the sky.
My hands are cold to touch.
And my eyes have sunken, dark rings encircle them--
Like picture frames.
But Death waits on me, calls me his queen.
He fashioned me a throne--
"I am not Persephone" I try to tell him.
But he does not listen.
His hair is black like his obsidian eyes.
Or the...
Brought me to his cold & forgotten realm--
Deep inside the ground.
There is mostly darkness here.
No sun reaches Hell.
My already pale complexion has become ghastly white.
Like the moon's face in the sky.
My hands are cold to touch.
And my eyes have sunken, dark rings encircle them--
Like picture frames.
But Death waits on me, calls me his queen.
He fashioned me a throne--
"I am not Persephone" I try to tell him.
But he does not listen.
His hair is black like his obsidian eyes.
Or the...
1047 reads
2 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
27th Jan 2014 8:00pm
27th Jan 2014 8:00pm
Yes - I Want Honest Criticism (Even If It Does Hurt)
". . .A bit lengthy. . ."
". . . You could perhaps say at least the same with a little less."
I can't help it.
The length.
The words.
I get lost.
And can't find my way out.
I know I ask for honest criticism.
But I never thought the length was a problem.
It's one thing-- One thing if it were for a competition.
That asked for a certain length.
A certain word count.
But this is-- This is my own personal poetry.
Did you judge me on that one piece?
Was that my only chance?
Better try better next time?
I...
". . . You could perhaps say at least the same with a little less."
I can't help it.
The length.
The words.
I get lost.
And can't find my way out.
I know I ask for honest criticism.
But I never thought the length was a problem.
It's one thing-- One thing if it were for a competition.
That asked for a certain length.
A certain word count.
But this is-- This is my own personal poetry.
Did you judge me on that one piece?
Was that my only chance?
Better try better next time?
I...
647 reads
4 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
22nd Jan 2014 8:02am
22nd Jan 2014 8:02am
A Soldier Returns
I remember the day as if it were yesterday.
It was only a second.
A moment that flashed by my eye, only because turned my head slightly to the left, rather then the right.
And a saw a man, in army fatigues walking up the driveway of an apartment house.
Carrie Underwood's "Just A Dream" playing somewhere in the back of my mind.
As a mother, sister, wife or daughter answers this door to this man.
And he hands them a letter saying their father, brother, husband, or son has died while in battle.
That he will be remembered.
That he was a good man,...
It was only a second.
A moment that flashed by my eye, only because turned my head slightly to the left, rather then the right.
And a saw a man, in army fatigues walking up the driveway of an apartment house.
Carrie Underwood's "Just A Dream" playing somewhere in the back of my mind.
As a mother, sister, wife or daughter answers this door to this man.
And he hands them a letter saying their father, brother, husband, or son has died while in battle.
That he will be remembered.
That he was a good man,...
646 reads
0 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by Page_Writer (Mad Girl)
