Frost
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To say you don't matter, the words
Pour from the mouth, lips frozen in a
Cold front of all things unkind.
Each syllable slides like ice,
Piercing,
While the memories unbearable are
The Experience of Self
By Andrea Spencer
Silver fingers
brushing soft pine’s needles
-whose frost scrapes
and burns this season-
into her human hands.
I remain here.
I'm frozen in place,
No one is here to warm me.
No one is here to wipe my tears.
No one is here to hear my screams.
No one is here to chase away my fears
He is winter.
He is the excitement that takes over.
His eyes are snowflakes, drifting in the wind, carpeting the land in a cloak of white.
His lips are the colors only shown by the setting sun, colors of pink.
I'm that weird girl that sits in the back
The quieter you are the less attention you attract
Though I'm not the only one who would rather it dark
At times I find those with that same unique heart
frostbitten cheeks and a red nose,
adorning each child's gleaming face
the first snow fall of winter
Snow people blew in today,
They bit my nose,
munched phalanges,
left my spinal collum frozen on the ground cold,
dead eyes fixed
Numb, so numb
My heart breaking into so many
tiny pieces would not
affect me in the slightest.
so numb
a paper cut is less than a scratch.
num, absolutely so.
Poetry I just cannot seem to quit.
Is their another form that I could do?
Dickinson's poetry is not worth shit,
And there is nothing that can beat haiku.
It sure seems that Robert Frost knows his stuff,
Staring at the piece of paperWithout the faintest ideaOf what to write, I sitIn my chair, pencil not movingMadness gaining another step
