°∴,*⋅✲ poetry ✲⋅*,∴°

[skydust]

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[ShawFeatherss]

Oh my, your poems are so beautiful! I read your rules, I hope you don't mind me posting my own poem here as I am a poet!

> I am a Glass Bottle

I am a Glass bottle.
A useless husk for your desires.
Peer into me, what do you see?
You didn’t expect me to be full of this
Did you?

I am fragile and brittle.
Too much pressure and I will crack.
Throw me against the floor
Watch my contents spill out.
My fury.

I am broken shards.
Under the pressure I went too far.
My body has been strewn through the room.
You sweep up my skin and mop up my organs.
Broken beauty.

I am pointless.
Thrown away too never be used again.
Perhaps you didn’t like my true contents.
I watch you shut the bin lid on me.
It’s the end.

I remember the beach.
I was sand, there for your joy.
A castle, a shell, the sea’s support
Scooped up and taken.
Melted to transparency.

And now I slit the throats of sea creatures.

“And that” The earwig said to the caterpillar “Is why you never judge a book by its cover. Someone may be something totally different inside to what they are outside. Like you. If you were glass, I’d see your pretty wings inside of you”.
“Wow.” The caterpillar said, “So what is inside of you?” The earwig chuckled at this comment.
“That is a secret, small worm. People don’t like sharing their true contents often” the earwig replied. “Take that praying mantis over there. It is stunning with beauty, yet inside it is red, evil and gooey” He said, as the praying mantis snatched up it’s next meal with it’s swift claws. “Sometimes a person’s true contents only show when they break. And there’s no going back after that. Everyone has seen what you are inside then. Be careful child, do not break so easily.” The earwig stated. He gave a weak smile and then walked away from the caterpillar. The caterpillar watched over the small leaves at each bug, all with different contents.

We are bottles too. People hide themselves behind masks often, and only under pressure will they crack. Some people can hide themselves well, not breaking as a glass bottle would, but rather a plastic bottle. Some people are glass bottles. They can get hurt easily and are fragile. I am a glass bottle, if that wasn’t obvious. I am destined to be a glass bottle. Perhaps us poets are messages in a bottle, with the words tied in us and our mouth the opening to that bottle so you can read our messages. If we float off to sea, will someone read us and discover our poetry? If you break us, will a stream of words ooze from our remains, or will our feelings? Are our poems words, or are they how we feel inside? That’s for your interpretation. I know what my poems mean, but the true meaning will remain in the bottle, along with the rest of my secrets, emotions and memories. If we break, what colour will flow out of us? Would the most seemingly joyous people flow yellow, or may they flow a different colour to how they appear? That we will never know until they crack. I will not know the answer to these questions for a while. One thing I do know, however, is that I am a glass bottle, and I will stay a glass bottle for my life.

[skydust]

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[obscuredbyclouds]

*tw? i'm going thru it right now and wanted to share a little something i wrote up recently that basically sums what i've been experiencing. short and sweet. been wanting to get back into poetry.*

Dark fog dims the bright red light
and fills the room.
The next thing it clouds is my mind,
and now I really can't see.
Blinded by dark thoughts
and tears,
convincing myself there's only one way out.

It has a numbing effect.
I can't feel anything unless I try;
sometimes it hurts to.