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A thread of poetry !

V

valentLne

New member
Pronoun
they/them
Hi! So I've been writing poetry since I started high school, and even now that I've finished, I still write semi-often. So I felt like it wouldn't hurt to drop these poems here. A lot of them are about unrequited love, infatuation, basically a lot of things along the line of falling in/out of love. Some things are bit more "in the moment" than others, and I'd like to think I have a unique-ish style of writing poetry that I've become really proud of. I'll drop two here, and remember to update this periodically

Hi this is a poem about prom and literally nothing else :)

How excited I was to see you was beyond words,
the fact I was even going was absurd,
yet there we were,
three dudes in suits sitting in a car
making jokes about being gay,
and enjoying each other's company.
I hadn't really talked to you.
Hell, even calling us "close friends" wouldn't exactly be true.
But, we ended up sticking arm and arm.
We sat together,
talked together,
at times we walked together.
.
This poem is about prom but if I could derail for a moment,
I almost fell in love, maybe.
I'm a bit of a flimsy baby,
and proably a little crazy,
and at this point the night is hazy.
but.
I really, REALLY think we bonded.
Just me? Right.
Back to prom.
.
The night was wonderful, I danced, you watched,
I shuffled, you chuckled
When you laughed, I ended up laughing too.
Infectious, the whole night had that energy,
So, you'll definitely never see this,
but I think we built a synergy,
and I could probably come up with a list,
of reasons not to let me fall for you.
.
How sad I was to leave you was beyond words,
the fact that you're even leaving is absurd.
yet, here we are.
a year removed from something that could've been so much,
but because both of us were too scared to provide even a touch,
and our relationship was that, scared, and we think of it as such.
.
Huh. I guess the poem stopped being about prom a while ago,,, sorry .///.



to my future SO (wherever you are idk)

ok so.
babe.
Call me babe,
I think it's cute.
He called me babe, and it's not because I want you to be him,
it's just.
.
ok, let me try this again.

Call me babe,
I think it's cute,
Not just because he called me babe,
but I think it could mean more with you.
I mean, sure I like qt,
and sure, you'd probably hate pet names,
but babe is kind of cute,
and not really like that,
so.
please?

Ok I kind of lied.
I don't want you to be him,
I'm just scared I will.
So, by having you call me that,
hopefully that part of me will feel fulfilled,
or killed,
either works, maybe it'll be like fireworks.

At first for the thrill,
but soon it'll give chills.

love, a mistake in the making <3​
 
This is a mistake. (This poem is a mistake too)

To say I'm falling in love again wouldn't be..
a stretch, per se
but, jesus christ is it bad,
her laugh makes me smile from ear to ear,
she has my back when I don't,
she looks out for me,
I look out for her,
.
side note,
I don't need people to romanticize my life for me,
I do it myself.
.
But we look out for each other.
She offered me a little guidance,
I offered her a shoulder to lean on and a voice to talk to,
we help in different magnitudes,
hers a 10, mine maybe an 8
every time I ask her 'when',
she tells me 'wait',
she gives me patience when I have none,
I try to give her my time when I have some,
looking for reasons to talk just so I can have fun,
she practically single-handedly helped me out a slump, when i needed it the most
If I could give her back a fraction,
a literal crumb of what she's done for me,
then I think I'd just add to the sea
that I've created for her and me.


As it turns out, my last poem was the opposite of a mistake.

Falling in love was the opposite of a stretch,
it was babe ruth calling his homer,
it was Jordan calling game,
it was nail on head,
sleep on bed,
butter on bread, type of correct.
.
Fuck being down bad,
I'm up amazingly,
maybe this type of optimism is crass,
maybe im talkin' out my ass,
but can I get a pass?
.
I mean, life hasn't dealt me a good hand in this field,
despite the skills i believe i yield,
I was shat on,
again and again,
then I had a beautiful spark, and he was my world,
then it was back to my manure mansion.
All that pent up terrible tantilizing infatuation tension
was thrown out like a bullshit pension.
maybe I'm dreaming and I need a little bit of pinchin'
but now, I can look at someone,
and believe they're my all,
with abusing a bit of squintin'.
.
I love her.
And, probably for the first time,
she loves me back.
(this totally isn't a follow up to my last poem ahahaha)​
 
oh these are so excellent! i love each one of them, love all the story within, please write more when it strikes you to share !!
 
A boy is a boy

A boy is a boy.
and I might love said boy.
If a boy is a boy, let me shower him with all the love and affection I can
I want to exhaust myself of every drop of romantic energy I can muster,
So that we can lay in the sand,
Of some beach I’ll never go to again afterwards because
If a boy, is a boy,
Then maybe I’m not what he’ll want.
Maybe he’ll look the other way because of what he knows
or what he’s been told
or what he’s been preaching to his friends, family, or other.

Because in my experience,
Love is a one way street.
Both of the cars on it are heading towards each other
They know they’ll crash.
They know they’ll die.
So that makes the wonder of it all
The drive.
The time before that all happens,
is the beauty of it all.

A girl is a girl.
and I might love said girl.
If a girl is a girl, let me show her every piece of my heart,
knowing she has no intention of hurting it.
I’ll let her nurse it, and it’ll flourish into something,
and when that something comes around to being a
Well-rounded,
Amazing,
Creation worth celebrating in it’s own right…
Then one of us will lose the love,
The light,
And leave that creation to the other and hope it turns out well, because
If a girl is a girl,
There’s a nonzero chance that I’ll be stuck to repeat history
Follow in the steps of my dad’s dad,
And his dad,
And his dad.

Because in my experience,
Love is a one way street.
Both of the cars on it are heading towards each other
They know they’ll crash.
They know they’ll die.
So what makes it worse is anticipating it the whole time.
Instead of smelling the flowers,
Frollicing through the fields,
You nervously reposition your hands on the wheel,
Getting ready to swerve,
But praying that they swerve first.

Because if my love is my love,
It’s a game of chicken,
Where me and my opponent agree to swerve when we get just a little scared.
Because we never wanted to play,
We just wanted the thrill of playing.​
 
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