Learn more about other poetry terms

My “fashionable” addiction to cigarettes has given me a few things: One. A metallic flavor coating the inside of my cheeks , paired with a yellow tongue that tastes it.
You tested my patience, my unofficial commitment, you tested my ability to actually love someone, or feel at all.  
To the woman who ties her long, golden hair back with a floral bandana Oh, how your silly little smile and southern impersonations have made me feel
Late nights and stormy skieslock in our heartsour innocenceour soulsdelicate muslin squaresunderneath our vintage teacupsjust outside the Dover castleoverlooking rolling green hills
My soul Is like a polaroid: Something beautiful waiting to happen, But turned dark When exposed to the world
When I look in the mirror I don’t see the same little girl that ran around my mother’s busy office
There is a darkroom behind your eyelids.   Where everything develops.   You bring out the best in me.   There’s a light in you.
You look for new trees and cities, things of which you can call your ownNew places to photograph to not feel aloneThose digital pixels are simply not enoughYou dig up your old film to only find it feeling so rough
Necklines foam with yellowed fabric, acrid antiquations growing lace patinas. Shelves slant and overflow, racks packed tight with fringe and French perfume—expired, broken beading on a flapper’s midnight wear,
The windows to my soul are tinted They say that my soul is vintage I always thought my life was of very little interest I chase shadows in a pitch black room just to smile So much love for things that are so simple
Ils vous ont dit "tu n'es pas assez jolie" Mais ce n'est pas la vérité, chère Judy Ils vous ont dit "toi, tu es trop grosse" Mais leurs allégations étaient fausses Vous étiez talentueuse--pas prétentieuse
Subscribe to vintage