Short Poetry Outlet

[Zeltron]

The idea for this thread is as the name suggests, it is to be an outlet for short poetry. I consider a paragraph to be short. Maybe two short paragraphs, but no big, long poems, stories, or songs. I shall start it with something I whipped up real fast. Sure it may not be good, but I'm proud of it:

I want to be the one to hold you when you cry. I want to be the one to dry your tears. Even when you hope to die, I will stay with you through the years.

[Sora]

For sale: baby shoes, never worn

[Valcherion]

^ continuation

Look at my body, torn and forlorn.
Thrown aside as an unwanted thorn.
My mother holds back her tears,
as the image of me haunt her as her deepest fears.

[Zeltron]

Tell me, what is love? What does it consist of? Why does it hurt and leve my body inert? Yet it should be understood that it feels so good. Makes me feel ecstatic. Guess you can call me a fanatic.

[Kestrel]

But it's because I am a fanatic that I quit.
It is because I am a fanatic that I'm sick.
I apologise, Rita, Anne, Simone,
I should've waited for an age,
that society could condone.

[tirgesfu]

She moves with grace
That’s out of place
Unfiltered ties
Remove the lies
Yet bodies quake
At a past mistake.


(or ...Yet bodies quake At past mistakes --- can't decide which)

[FlowerGirl]

A glance, a jolt
A vision occult
A blink, a turn
A second forlorn

[Philosopher]

O flower of purity gracing my lips,
My head tucked away just below my love’s hips.
I adore her sweetness it excites and arouses me,
I quench for it like water I gasp for more pleadingly.

She teases and tempts to test my strength of will,
But by this point, for her, I’d be willing to kill.
My darling whispers sweet nothings into my ear,
And now my anxiety has grown too severe.

(I'm writing this drunk lolz)

[Flames]

Feelings of apathy instigate some insecurity in me as my thoughts turn to dust.
Turning to me, expressing a feeling of disgust at the mistrust of a responsibility thrust onto me.
See the deed that turned effete as obsolete effort greets the concrete.
In my seat, I meet the heat, like the elite look down at the deplete.
This fleeting feeling I despise, akin to ecstasy, not euphoric, rises hastily.
No disguise to hide my meteoric tries causes strides taken to strike a divide.
Blasphemy and lies do not subside as my senses desensitize to a horrid prize.
With no time to revise, one hears no reprise in the words of my demise.
Here, my ease is euthanized.