I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. No one has ever gotten the chance to get too close because it is never romantic to fuck the girl who makes love to her own sadness every single night. My sister compares her body to a junkyard and I find bits of scrap metal beneath her bed from boys who bury promises in her belly.
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Maybe love ruins you a little bit. We are so young to hate everything so much. He never meant a single word of any of it. He is just a boy, remember? Only a boy, do you remember? I imagine they looked the same when you were convinced of your own brokenness.
21 Heart-Punching Quotes That Will Make You Fall In Love With Poetry
Every unspoken part of you sang symphonies when we touched and I found myself wanting to be a musician all over again. Our love is hitchhiking across the California desert and no one is slowing down. Is a lie still a lie if you say it pretty?
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This is all to say I think I knew you before I knew my own name. I never wanted to hide my body from him. If I could have I would have given it all away with the rest of me. I did not know it was possible to save some things for myself. She gave me pterodactyls.
Your laugh is that one song they play way too much on the radio, but for some reason, I still love it. Your smile is the only thing that makes me hate mornings a little less. And my arm always falls asleep when you do because I just want to be able to hold you even in your dreams. You have become a benchmark in my life.
Poetry By Heart | The Rights of Woman
The familiar thing I hope to catch in my rearview mirror when I am driving at night. Georgia Douglas Johnson was born in Atlanta, Georgia, in the late nineteenth century.
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A member of the Harlem Renaissance, her poetry collections include Bronze: A Book of Verses B. She died in Again I thread the mazy past, Back where the mounds are scattered fast— Oh!
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Leave this field blank. The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.
The heart of a woman falls back with the night, And enters some alien cage in its plight, And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. This poem is in the public domain. The Dreams of the Dreamer. You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.